'Tis Magic That Hath Ravaged Me (ASOIAF Celestial Grimoire Peggy Sue) (2024)

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Prelude to the End

25 ALN (

It's horrifying, I thought, turning my head towards the evening sky, how a single change could wreak such havoc.

Some would disagree, would say that I have accomplished more than any could dream. I climbed the ladder of chaos all the way to the top. King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm:

Bran the Broken. What a jape the gods have played upon me.

Such titles usually have a power to them, respect is afforded to them. But for me, they just weighed my head down, not as the weight of duty, but as leaden bells upon a jester's cap.

I did my best, of course. For five-and-twenty years I had done my best, as Three-Eyed Crow and King both. Though my court whispered of my witchiness and wolfsblood in broad daylight, and my position as King often rendered greensight more difficult to act upon, I had

Yet still, the realm

The thud of trebuchet and catapult shots against castle walls thundered out from what remained of that damned city, burned and burning. I busied myself looking upon the constellations still visible through the smoke rising from the capital, rolling my wheeled chair down the godswood's paths. I didn't need to see the way to know it.

I

It's the way of kings in this land, at this time. Aerys the Mad, Robert the Usurper, Joffrey the Illborn, Daenerys the Mother of Dragons, Stannis Kin-Slayer, Renly, the

Things only got worse after the end of the Long Night and the return of magic. Some saw the return of dragons as being essential, but the dragons were gone for good now; the magic remained. I understood this was to be the crux of my duties as Crow, keeping Westeros safe from magical dangers from near and abroad. My elevation to King made that job more difficult, for in those early days the realm had seen enough of war, and I could not act with impunity.

It's not as though I were King legitimately, after all. Even during the coronation, I knew I was simply the best of a slew of impossible options.

So, the practitioners of magic grew in power and in numbers. Many of the high lords have some magic backing them; it's begun to reshape the game board, and it will be felt for centuries to come. Some have even trusted their vassals with access to magic, now; only the most loyal, of course, and usually the least ambitious. None had forgotten the fate of Renly.

The Red Priests grew more powerful, finding allies with the pyromancers and alchemists at home, creeping into the holes the Sparrows blew in the Faith. No one knew what happened to the Iron Islands, only that sea travel was even less safe than before and the only survivors of the reavers wished they hadn't. The Warlocks of Qarth were making moves hidden even to my sight, the Faceless Men acted with greater and greater impunity, and the Yellow Emperor had begun total war with Yi-Ti under the auspice of strange stars.

Closer to home, hedge mages made menace of themselves, plunging into secrets of warging and greensight without any heed to the dangers. Most of them, luckily, tend to take themselves out by escaping fully into the form of birds, dogs, cats, and other creatures; or alternately falling too deep in the sight and leaving their shells behind.

Those that gained some mastery of their powers, however, became boons or threats to local lords, court magicians or bandit lords. Would that I could've taken them under my wing! But even with the Faith broken by Sparrows, there was no way for a King to manage that, nor time to do so properly.

I distantly noted my arrival at my destination; I began preparing to dismount my transport and shuffle along to the correct place. I had the time.

Were I a better man, I might lament this state of affairs. I might wish I had taken another path, one which had a guarantee of securing peace, power, and safety for magicians after the war. All I had to do was follow the steps of prophecy, as my teacher taught me. I just had to let her die.

Even as I thought such, I scoffed at myself. Such a future would not,

The past cannot be changed, he had said. He knew from experience, my teacher. The same had been true of prophecy. All those who had heard prophecy and tried to change their fates had spelled their own doom in so doing. Whether on the road taken to meet it or to avoid it, fate always caught up to you.

But, wondered I, did any of those who have attempted such have a greenseer's perspective? Is fate so indelible, or is it a matter of will and knowledge combined?

And so, I, after coming into my power and taking the role of Three-Eyed Crow, performed a test. A slight act of defiance, a little change meant only to avert the death of family.

I gave Arya that blade, the same Valyrian dagger that tried to take my life. The catspaw's dagger which spelled tragedy for our family and, ultimately, the realm. Without it, Arya would've met her end at Petyr's hand, and he in hers. With the dagger, I knew she would come out ahead and live to see us again.

And then she

A single act of defiance, as Aunt Lyanna had done before me and ended about as terribly. Jon: exiled, the Targaryens: dead for good, the dragons: gone with them. Sansa ruled the North on her own, and worst of all, I was made King.

One change. A

For that, the truth of prophecy revealed itself, ethereal as morning mist; it never mattered at all, except for how dearly it did. I freed us all from fate and condemned us to a far worse one than any could imagine. Rather than a united Targaryen dynasty, blessed by dragons three and ready to welcome magic back into the world, a crippled, crow-brained

What had been done could not be undone. Or could it?

Wisdom had failed once already, after all. What's one more audacity, one more act of defiance, one more

That thought led me here, to the weirwood tree I had brought to the King's Landing godswood. It would be undignified were anyone to see me practically crawling into the roots of the tree, but all who would care stood at the gates, prepared to die for their undeserving King.

The Faith cried bloody murder about the whole affair, of course; but between the Red Priesthood, the hedge magi, and the fall of the Great Sept they had more on their collection plates to deal with than a tree. I'm not convinced they weren't simply trying to sour Northern relations further, in any case. The expense was prohibitive, but the magic I could wield through it made it worthwhile; to see the whispers of things yet to come, and the echoes of things long past.

If Brynden was wrong about prophecy, he may yet have been wrong about history. Still, the only way I would even attempt such an act as this was if everything was truly broken beyond repair. Judging by the sound of collapsing walls, I'd say that time is nigh. One more foolishness, for old times' sake.

Sansa, Queen of Winter, my dearest sister, had offered her aid in the civil war, but I refused her. The lords already believed me a puppet of hers, there was no need to inflame that further and bring ruin upon our people with war. The Northmen were my people, still; I had more care for them than the Andals in truth.

Perhaps the lords had a point, I mused.

It wouldn't have saved me either way, and by how quickly she stood down, I think she knew so as well. She did make it clear how unhappy she was with the situation, and offered all sorts of underhanded ways to get me free from things, up to and including hiring Arya as an 'assassin' to sneak me out of King's Landing.

'I'll die a witch, a fool, and a cripple,' I had responded. 'But I refuse to die a coward.' A little lie, for I would gladly die a coward to live amongst my extended family for some decades to come; but I knew I was undeserving, after all that had happened. One way or another, I would face my death.

Whether she could tell such or not, she understood, or claimed to, and offered to take my people instead. She's made a fine Queen, these past years. One of the happier outcomes of my fateful folly.

Smoke was clearing from the sky slightly, the wind was on my side; the moon shone graciously over the godswood this eve, full and clear and bright. The stars twinkled pleasantly over an unpleasant horizon, dyed red by fire and blood. The hour had nearly come.

I twirled the knife between my fingers. The same knife Arya slew her enemies with, mortal and otherwise. This dagger carved a bloody ruin across these kingdoms. Sighing, I relaxed into the weak roots of the weirwood, the Northern plant trying to make a home in Crownlands soil, and not finding it to his liking.

They might have come expecting me in the throne room, ready to face usurpation and execution as a story-book king might. Or perhaps they do expect me here, praying to heathen gods and cursing their people, like some story-book witch.

I've always been more of a witch than a king, but they still will not find me here. Not in any way that matters, gods willing. Gods unwilling as well, frankly; I hold to them, but I care little of their opinions here.

If I'm right, nothing that has transpired over the past thirty-odd years will have come to pass, gods' grace or no.

And If I'm wrong, I mused upon my warped reflection in the rippling blade, at least none of it will be my problem anymore.

In the distance, I could hear the clamor of battle. My loyalists, few as they were, refused my demand to flee into my sister's welcoming arms. They'd face death before such dishonor, and so they die fools' deaths. Foolish men dying foolish deaths for a foolish King in a foolish war that should never have happened. At least Tyrion was wise enough to shelter in the North. He knew the way of kings, and saw my time had come. Tears were shed, but he parted all the same.

A kinder man would commit their names to memory, but in such kindness is beyond me. Kings and witches alike must have hard hearts.

In another time, we'll see. My grin reflected itself at me from the gleaming blade.

I'd died once already, in the cave of the three-eyed crow, at my own hand and my teacher's instruction. So that I would be able to do what must be done. Now, I would die again, by my own hand once more.

I sank into the greensight, using the tree at my back as the door it truly was, into the past and present and future. A place where only sunlight, water, and soil are thought of, and the affairs of men passed largely without notice. The trees thought differently from people, they exist across the ages, and their perspective made what I attempted a potentiality in the first place. The fundamental truth of the greensight, perceiving all history as one eternal moment to be seen from many angles.

As I stand at the threshold of dream and wakefulness, I slit my throat open, and let my blood water the soil of the tree. The blade and sacrifice hurt, but no more than any other thing I've had to do over the years. My blood felt warm in the cool night air, and the stars seemed to be laughing kindly. I could feel the weirwood attempting to embrace me in its roots. Fading breath sounded like the rustling of leaves, and the wind began to steal away what warmth I had left.

As life faded, so did this scene of fool and tree and blade. I felt my soul leave my body behind as I traveled fully unto the dreaming, my direction past-wards; into the land of metaphor and allegory that dreams are made of. The path back was gone, swept away like the life from my corpse.

I could feel the Gods calling me, connected by my blood about the roots I could no longer feel, demanding I join my One to their Many deep below the earth, but I refused. I was undeserving of that peace, and hardly desired such in the first place; I still have my duty to perform. I will make things right again, prophecy and fate be damned.

I would only have one attempt at this. I had only managed something similar once before, and I swore I'd never do so again.

I soared now above Winterfell on crow's wings, not as it is but as it was, a happier place shining golden in memory. A wolf greets a stag and his coterie of lions, welcoming them into the den, protecting themselves with oaths of bread and salt. The sounds of merrymaking permeated the dream, there was joy in the wolf and the stag both as they played and tussled in the main hall, ignoring for a moment the she-wolf's pelt that hung over them like a funeral shroud.

The scene in the great hall seems too jolly for the horrors that are to come, ironic only in hindsight. Still a bit too early.

I flew farther along the memory, seeing events play out as I recall, if steeped in allegory and dreamfluff. My time was running short; I could feel my mind and soul straining under the weight of ages absent a vessel.

Suddenly, I saw it, sticking out like a pillar of stone in unbroken water, the event which directed my life's course. A proud lion had bedded his kin in view of a wolf cub, who was mauled for it. Thunder sounded as stone-ancient oaths were broken, but no lightning struck the lions down; the heavens were impotent, frustrated.

I remembered it somewhat differently, of course. Eyes fixed on golden locks and green eyes, frozen in surprise and disgust, a moment captured in endless freefall. Until, of course, it ended.

This was nearly it, my best point of entry. When everything started rolling downhill.

Travel is odd in dream-space, but I knew where I needed to go by heart, for I had seen it many times through dearest Summer's eyes. His death pained me greatly, but I could not show it. Every death pained me so, more so for that they were all done in my name, for my sake. But it could not be shown, first to keep me alive, and then to keep her alive.

A man carrying a wolf accompanied by another wolf and two lizard-lions meet an unfit huntsman dressed all in black, who proceeds to lead them across the impassable barrier of Winter into a harsh and cold land. They meet a cold man with eyes of black death, but who is kinder than his brethren with eyes of ice.

If I allowed myself to show any emotion at all, Meera would have stayed. She was right to say I died then, but neither was I truly dead! But I knew that to stay would mean asking her, too, to one day die for me.

The hobbled wolf comes to greatly enjoy the company of the feminine lizard-lion, as the motley group seeks the three-eyed crow. The other lizard-lion grows weak, as they all begin to starve. The wolves in tandem commit a great sin and eat of the flesh of man together.

I could not countenance that, so I let her think of me as a dead thing lost to that cave, so she would leave me. So she could be safe.

The weakened collective finds a cave guarded by hanging moss through which the dead may not pass. A tree in the shape of a girl greets them and saves them from the wintry kin of the black-eyed man. The living enter the cave and find a three-eyed man, adorned in crow feathers and pierced by deep roots. The man teaches the shattered wolf to fly.

It nearly killed me a second time. She never left Greywater Watch after that, to my knowledge…

A wolf crawls by his front paws to the den of his youth, sans wolf and man and lizard-lion. Wounded within and without, desperate to save the last of his friends, he feigns a heart as empty as winter to drive off the last lizard-lion, his fondest companion. He hates it he hates it he hates it he-

No! I was nearly delirious, how much time had passed? Does time exist anymore? I'm losing the dream, use your memories, dammit! Ah yes, memories. Dreams as well, really, but the memories of the wolf in the dreams of a boy.

Through Summer's eyes, I recall a room, which smelled of little but one boy. My boy slept in the room, who had slept for a good while after his fall. I was curled up at his side, leaving only to hunt. I brought prey back for my boy once, but the parents took it away. Don't they want him to eat, get better?

No, that was me! I am me still!

Yes, yes, that's right, I am the boy, and I am in the wolf. I remember gazing down at myself, small and helpless, whining in pitches no human could hope to hear. The sickroom gain focus, clarity. The vision was solidifying; good, this will do.

The art of skinchanging is subtle and difficult, and extremely dangerous to perform on a human, as poor Hodor discovered. But now I attempted something no sane greenseer had ever tried.

I warged directly into myself, sleeping on the sickbed before me. Two souls, two minds cannot occupy the same body; the dissonance between selves causes massive damage to an overstressed body. There should not be any of the dissonance I felt between myself and Hodor, because

There was great resistance. My soul strained at the edges; the space betwixt vision and reality felt as thin as a hair and unbounded as the sea. If I still possessed a mortal shell else-when, this would not work; I knew this in the memory of my bones.

But I was bodiless now, and my mind was partially absent from the form before me. The conditions could not be better.

As my vision wavered between the room and darkness, I faintly sensed the presence of others entering and leaving. A great tearing sensation ravaged my soul; I felt torn halfway between immortal moments. Gaps were forming in directions that had no name, as I crossed barriers never meant to be crossed. There wasn't much time.

Come on, Bran! I called out to him/myself. Can you not recognize yourself!?

As my consciousness faded into the greendream, moments or days could have passed as I was partway elsewhere where mighty formless things dwell and partway in the dark of deepest slumber. I might've feared attracting attention, had greater concerns not overridden me, and the pain not been so great. It is my strained imagination, surely.

Come on Bran! I continued to try; surely the weight of decades had not changed me so greatly, had it?

People came and went, but Mother seemed to be the most constant presence. If I were less occupied, I would've appreciated that more. Thinnest threads of personality were all that held my soul together.

A clatter and commotion arose and left with a swiftness, leaving Winterfell emptier, lesser. Something of frightening immensity closed in upon my soul. I ignore what must be a figment; nothing so gloriously terrible could possibly exist.

Bran, please! Desperation took hold of me, I laid my spiritual perception directly on my prone form, hoping the imitation of contact might assist me.

Fire-light creeps in crimson through the window, a brother left his mother to see to it. My soul is seared by power immense, rending yet more holes in my being I did not imagine possible. The pain increased a hundredfold, yet I did not break. In fact, my soul felt… more stable? How? No time, finish the magic!

Bran! No! This must work, please!

A shabbier figure snuck into the room.

IT BURNS IT BURN IT BURNS

Bran!! Please!

The figure turned to Mother.

FIRE/BLOOD/LIGHT/HOPE/FEAR/DEATH/LIFE/FAITH

BRAN! I REFUSE!

"You weren't s'posed to be here."

SONGOFCREATIONSBEGINNING/EMBERSOFFINALTWILIGHT/TRAILSOFIMPOSSIBLECOLOURS/WORLDSENSHROUDEDBYRAINBOWMIST/DREAMSANDNIGHTMARESMADEREAL/THEBOOKTHEMANUALTHETOMETAKESSHAPE/BRIGHTANDBOLDANDGLORIOUS/B

BR- This is not the end!

BEAR NOW YOUR TRUE POWER, KING OF FOOLS

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
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And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

-Proverb,

Unattributed

Chapter 1: The Want of a Nail

"-AHHHHHHnnnnggggggghhhhhhhhhh!" I startled awake, disoriented, my heart thundering; going from life to death to life again, across so many forbidden boundaries, I felt in tatters. The sounds of snarling wolves and screaming women echoed in my ears, the smell of blood and terror scrambled my senses.

Lightning lashed behind my eyes and horses trampled my mind. My body and soul felt only vaguely in alignment, like I was wearing a too-tight gambeson. I wondered if having senses was worth all this trouble; momentarily I yearned for the simplicity of the tree-mind.

I wondered briefly at the lack of any sensation below my waist, before the knowledge of my condition returned to me. Strange, since I had lived with it for over thirty years by now.

Perhaps, it occurred to me, deliriously, the soul's memories conflict with the body's? Does the body hold a seat for memory? Where does the line reside?

With trembling arms, I attempted to leave my bed's confines. The body remembers too well for its own good, I thought. However, my foolishness was prevented by a slender pair of arms. I look up at my savior, pained tears blurring my vision, but I could never forget the visage of-

"S-Stoneheart!?" I rasped out. Truthfully, it sounded more like ssshooohaarr, given my throat was dry as Dorne and half as habitable. Between that and my thwarted efforts, my body reminded me of its haggard condition. I could feel my ribs had yet to heal, and though I could not feel them, the shape of my legs beneath the sheets was distinctly unpleasant. I would've been transfixed by the horrid sight, if a more visceral terror hadn't gripped me body and soul.

Intellectually, I knew it must be my dearest mother holding me. In my heart, I still see the figure so devastated by tragedy, even death could not contain her. She held me so tightly I feared I'd never be free again. In her cerulean eyes, wonder, relief, pain, and terror waged frightening battle. I was used to those orbs being far colder; I wondered if she could see a similar war in mine.

Memories, agony, my broken body all mattered little, I realized, in the face of Mother. If I could only stop feeling so scattered, if I could stop seeing her fair skin alight with corpse-pallor and bearing that terrible scar about her neck! I might be able to convince her I am a child in truth, if I could simply convince myself of reality.

The travel was much more harrowing than I expected, blearily tricked through my mind, discoveries are compounding, confounding! Her eyes resolved into a mother's worried gaze, weighing my near-fall more important than anything else; I could not help but flinch back in fear of what similar eyes had done. What I had done, in turn.

"Bran! Please, do not be so careless! You must… recover, first." She spoke in a soft voice, getting softer as she went, before her eyes lit up properly. "But, oh! Oh, you've awoken!" She cast a wondering gaze about the room, across the floor and out the window. "And at such a time, as well!"

She laughed in that hysterical manner one had when too many impossible things happen in quick succession, and the only true options were laughter or madness. She wrung her hands cast in bloody firelight as Summer saved me from my mother's embrace by forcing me back onto the bed and unto his.

Sweet Summer, alive and well! He was no less happy to see me back among the living, though I was less happy at the stench of man-blood on his breath. After a few perfunctory licks to the face, he hopped on my sickbed and curled about my side; eyes pointed firmly at the door as though another assassin might come knocking it down at any moment.

Assassin?

I finally recalled what scene must be playing out before me: The time I had inadvertently saved my own life, my nascent warging ability enough to command Summer to slay the catspaw who would have ended me in my dreams. Early enough to affect things, but too late to catch my father. Damn.

I hadn't woken for a while yet, that first time around, and the memory I had of it was of sharp fear and blood-tinge, seen through the eyes of a loyal direwolf. Mother's laughter trailed off as I looked around.

Recalling where he fell, I could see the would-be assassin's corpse cooling on the ground, mince made of his throat and terror writ in his dull eyes. The sight of death was nothing new to me. I built a wall of apathy about the subject to keep the pain in check long ago. Magic and rulership both are cruel trades.

But now, the sight had stirred some deep revulsion in me, compounding my nausea and headache both. My empty belly threatened to flip itself inside-out at the thought of death done in my name. Robert's Rebellion re-enacted itself in the pounding of my skull, a dull throb that I only just noticed had been plaguing me since I came back. Does a body of seven still have a measure of innocence lacking in the rest of me?

Mother did as a mother does and determined the obvious cause of my distress, reaching out for me again. I was consumed with internal battle, elsewise I might have panicked more at the gesture.

"Bear it no mind, my sweet," Mother said softly to me, unwilling to offer the catspaw the privilege of personhood, "Pray bear it no mind."

It was only distantly I recognized my mother's arms snaked back around me, bearing Summer such little mind as I was shocked to see, given what I recalled of her opinion on our wolves. Summer seemed beside himself as well, trying to strike some balance between guardian and comforter.

He eventually settled on keeping his ears trained on the door while staring mournfully into my soul from my lap. He was a greater boon than he knew; even after so long, I trusted his judgement as well as mine own.

This was real, she was real. Alive. I need not fear Stoneheart, not anymore. Stoneheart is a phantom of what might've been, and now never will be; I would make it so.

I felt yet unmoored, only half-present in this strange, wonderful-yet-terrible moment. My limbs failed me as I could not help but collapse into Mother's arms. If I were still in possession of a body full-grown, I would perhaps hesitate to admit how much I had missed this.

I couldn't tell if the room spun about me or I spun about the room, or perhaps the spinning itself was unattached to any subject. I knew I was hurt in a thousand ways invisible to mortal eyes, trauma from transgressing as I did; yet for one moment with mother, I would bear ten thousand more such wounds.

My head fell back into her arms; the pounding in my head had grown louder than tournament trumpets now, cruel and sharp and thunderous. A dreary fog crawled over my mind, nearly dimming my actual vision. My heavy hands traveled separately; one to cover my mouth to cough, and one to try and dam the pain spiking through my head. As surely as a mother's love affirmed my course, this pain threatened to shake my conviction again.

As that thought wheeled around my mind, I could almost feel myself slipping away, as if the doubt alone was enough to make my position more precarious. My limbs grew felt both leaden and flighty, and as Mother laid me down gently in my sickbed, lying beside me in turn, I felt my eyes turn to lead themselves. I needed to steel myself further.

This was the only way. No paths were left to me, save this. It will be worth it, it must be. This is not the end!

We must have made quite a scene, mother and son and wolf all together on a sickbed, lit by dying light. Her hands stroked my hair gently as she cooed soft nothings in my ear; a comfort long forgotten yet terribly welcome.

I felt a warm liquid dripping down my head, bringing me out of my lulled state. I strained my head upwards to look at her hands; a large gash was visible across her palm, deep enough to nearly see bone, and I knew that it was not only the fire that had cast her in red.

"Mother," I managed, mouth dry as parchment. These words were too important to mangle. "Y-you're bleeding. Y-you n-need… the maester-!" A coughing fit cut me off.

"'Tis a scratch, nothing more, sweetling. Please, rest now. You've awoken once already; I trust you'll do so again. You must." Her voice was soft as moonlight, the bed a cloud beneath me and Summer a warm, fuzzy weight. I knew her words to be lies, I saw her spend days asleep herself dosed with poppy-milk, but I found it hard to care, now.

The agony in my mind was fierce, unyielding; I feared this meant I may not awaken again, that the magic I worked might be too weak, even if I knew not the strength one might truly need to do as I did.

Even so, I fell into slumber's embrace. I swore again that, should I wake, I would prevent the terrible future I had once created. I owed it to all who suffered at my witless hands.

Then, I was gone. Neither boy nor mother nor wolf noticed what had lain upon their bedside table since that first awakening, nor did they notice the fire-red light outside had not truly died.

Earlier, in the library tower

An old grey man in old grey robes in the old grey castle called Winterfell sat by his dim study's observatory window, looking out with old grey eyes on an old grey land. The position suited him quite well, he thought. He felt wonderful about delivering the Stark's children into the world, and there was no greater joy to his mind than imparting to them what wisdom he could, so they may grow into fine Lords and Ladies of their own.

Of course, the fact that the Starks are one of the few families in the whole Seven Kingdoms that do not disparage the Higher Mysteries, long gone as it may be, was undoubtedly a benefit. Still, he was an expert in many, more practical matters. Not that the Lady Stark seemed to care much for it right now.

He sighed; He'd come up here to leave behind that unpleasantness in the sickroom, to do something productive besides ruminate on how little there is to be done for the poor lad. It had been nearly a full moon, and his condition still had not improved; based on the damage he could ascertain, Luwin was reasonably sure that Bran would never walk again, even should he awake now.

The Mysteries, then. It had been many a year since he had given much true thought to the mysteries, ever since he failed to light the glass candle it seemed magic would forever be beyond his grasp. Just as it has been for most every maester before him. But still, certain events tickled his fancy from time to time, and it's a rare maester indeed who spends no time at all trying to observe signs and portents in the world around them, if only to try and predict the next winter.

Luckily, he'd been keeping an eye on one such portent for some time now. Only a few days ago, a red comet had been sighted crawling across the celestial spheres. Now, he knew intellectually that comets probably hold no real influence over the world, and that their influence on events usually boiled down to men believing it did and acting accordingly. A misattribution of causation, the more tightarsed of his colleagues might say.

In his heart, he thought red was an awfully unusual color for a comet. It hadn't been seen before within any records the maesters had, or at least not in the records he could access. Judging by what few replies had come in for his inquiries, other maester's records were equally lacking in precedent.

He didn't know what the comet might mean, or if it did mean anything at all, but it had become a nightly habit of his to check on its progression and take regular measurements with his Myrish lens. It was yet quite dim, hardly visible even at night, but by all accounts, that might change over the next week or so; the comet was traveling at quite a clip, and it hardly took any time to locate it this night. The new lens was proving to be as great a boon as he expected.

"Let's see, visibility is good, little cloud cover tonight. A welcome change, indeed." He shuffled his notes, preparing to add a new line. "Length is, hmm, about two barleycorns across through the lens. Up half a corn from last night, excellent. Brightness is …" Here he swung about the lens by rote, examining several familiar celestial marks. "Slightly less than the fifth brightest stationary star. Wonderful, no change there."

Turning his attention back towards his new project, he thought to allow his mind some little fancy, for his efforts. Perhaps it's a sign of turning fortunes, he thought. A call to war for some distant land, given its unique coloration. A wave of fire and blood, to wash away the old and leave something new behind.

He shook his head to clear such thoughts away, jostling his delicate lens. He was not a superstitious man; anymore, at least. But even still, thoughts of war and blood bring poor luck, even when done idly. Best to keep his mind from wandering about this comet in future. Looking again through the glass, he frowned.

"No… must have been simply my imagination." For a moment, the comet seemed to pulse most uneasily. Must be a reaction from handling the fareye so cavalierly, the lens was probably just shaking. Still, best to put aside the notes for tonight, and retire to bed. The calculations could wait for morning; he wasn't the young scholar he used to be, drinking wine and stargazing until dawn cruelly broke.

He put away his tools, organized his notes into a little pile once more, extinguished his candles, and left the comet behind for his bedchambers. He would dream of silver memory and stardust, his flight of fancy forgotten entirely. Later, he would be rudely awoken by guards telling him his library was aflame. He was unable to be of assistance before the fire was handled,

He was soundly abed when bright firelight began to creep in through the cracks in the door.

He was fretting about his books when a far redder light began to creep in through the window.

Seeing the bloody light cast on the floor, he turned from a disheveled desk, books in hand.

He gazed out the window.

He dropped the books and began to scream.

Aftermath of the Library Fire

Robb wiped his brow, trying to clear away the soot and sweat. His arm was no cleaner than his brow, alas. Were his mouth less dry, he would've spit to get the taste of smoke and cinders off his tongue. The air of Winterfell at night was bitterly cold, but for Robb and his companions here it was welcome relief from the heat of the flames, now dying embers.

In any other situation, Robb would not have gotten involved, but a fire is dangerous even in a castle of sturdy stone like Winterfell. All hands were needed to ensure the fire was contained and put out, even a lordling's when called for. And a library fire is doubly dangerous, for the maesters of Oldtown are not likely to appreciate even unintentional destruction of knowledge, nor would his family like their ancient tomes to be torched.

Thankfully, the fire never reached the library proper, and Maester Luwin was unharmed. He had been abed when the fire started and given the fire had not come from the library itself, he clearly had not left his candles to burn. This relieved Robb, for it meant the good maester was still in command of all his faculties.

It also deeply upset Robb, because all evidence pointed to arson. Likely, there was someone dangerous now loose in Winterfell, and despite the sloppily hidden traces of sabotage they had no idea where they might be now. His family might be in danger, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Not personally, at least. It just rankled his sense of duty, but one man cannot search a castle, and he needs to protect his family above all else.Delegation was necessary.

"Ser Rodrik," he addressed his master-at-arms. "Pray, work with Hallis and his men and find this saboteur, or saboteurs. They're dangerous, likely armed, and could be anywhere in the keep." He could feel his wolf's blood rising just thinking what could happen if this was not dealt with soon.

"Aye, milord." Robb winced internally at the title. He was no stranger to 'my lord' this and 'milord' that, but without his father in the castle, it sat a little heavier on him. His father was the true Lord here, he was just the heir, and he felt out of his depth. He deeply wished his father could have taught more lessons of rulership to him before he left, though he knew Hand of the King was too prestigious an office to refuse.

Mother had tried, somewhat, but her main concern was Bran and she had no desire to focus on ladies' matters whilst her child was broken and half-dead. In any case, it was hard for anyone here to feel lordly or even particularly knightly with the grime covering them.

"Just as well," Maester Luwin said, no less filthy from his own firefighting. "Even if the flames did not lick at my books, who knows what this scoundrel might have made off with!"

Personally, Robb doubted a man willing to set a library afire had much care for literature, but he knew his maester valued knowledge greatly. Sometimes, he couldn't see that not everyone shared that virtue.

The maester seemed to pick up on Robb's skepticism, and wryly quirked his brow. "I'll have you know some of my tomes are worth a fortune to the right people! I should know, I paid a fortune for some of them." He grumbled something about damned merchants and left for the inside of the tower. It was a poor jape made in good intentions, to lighten the dour mood this mess had cast over them.

Nodding in what he hoped was a decisive manner to the rest, he made his way to the armory, where he would arm and armor himself. He wished he could bathe beforehand, but such would take time unavailable to him. If there were enemies in the castle, he needed to be ready to fight.

Once properly dressed in his boiled leather and had strapped his blade to his side, he ventured back out into the chilled castle grounds. Halfway across the courtyard, a strange not-sound tingled over his skin, and the moonlit land took on an unpleasant reddish tinge. Screaming was echoing from the library.

He looked up to the source in wonder.

He fell to his knees in horror.

On the Border of the Barrowlands

Lord Eddard Stark and his old friend and King of the Realm, Robert Baratheon, were riding together behind the royal families' conveyance, a towering thing two stories tall and wrought of gilded oak. They had been riding along the Kingsroad for a little over a sennight and had traversed the lands of House Cerwyn, who had greeted them briefly as they traveled to King's Landing.

Castle Cerwyn was but a half-day's ride from Winterfell, and the king felt little need to stop so early in the day. Their party gave the necessary courtesies, but no more, and were swiftly on their way. It would be swift riding from then, as swift as the queen would allow at least, as the next great keep on the road was Moat Cailin.

"Damn that woman's bloody wheelhouse. Damned eyesore is what it is."

The king had sought out his soon-to-be-Hand for conversation on the road. Ned figured he was hoping a friend's presence would make the trip less interminable; scarcely a day went by where bitter words went unsaid over the speed of the royal family's wheelhouse. Looking at the massive, garish thing, the lord agreed it would be best served as firewood and replaced with an altogether more practical carriage or ten.

He firmly believed no mode of transportation should require the power of two score horses to pull it. There was enough wealth tied up in the beast that a knightly house could be carried through the winter by it alone. Not counting the horses.

During a lull in the talk between the two men, Ned caught sight of the skyline. The sun was beginning to set over the softly rolling hills that so dominated the Barrowlands, and it was nearing time to make camp.

By the time camp had been fully settled, night had truly fallen, and the whole land was illuminated by gentle moonlight. The king came to find Ned's fire, not having had his fill of conversation for the day. Judging by the smell of hops about him, he'd yet to have his fill of drink yet, either.

"It's a fine land you've got here, Ned. Too bloody cold for my liking, but gods if there's not a beauty to it!" Ned smiled, glad that his foster-brother appreciated the land of his ancestors.

"It has a history as well," He replied. "Do you see those hills yonder?" Ned gestured southwards, where the Kingsroad wound through a dozen or more rolling mounds.

"Aye."

"Not all of them are natural. Many of the features of these lands are the barrows which give it its name."

"Huh," the king replied. "What is a barrow, anyhow?"

"A burial mound, Robert. Some of the ones here predate even the Kings of Winter." Ned doubted Robert would even remember discussing this come the morrow, for he seemed set on running through their ale supplies before they hit Moat Cailin.

"Seems a bit grim," he grimaced, drunkenly, "just riding through a graveyard like that. A poor omen, it is." Ned smiled nostalgically at his old friend, one thing he had missed from his youth was how amusing it could be to speak with Robert deep in his cups like this.

The smile died when he remembered he'd still be like this when sitting the throne properly once more. Still, no reason not to have some fun while he can.

"You made the ride to Winterfell safely enough, did you not? No snark or grumpkin got you then, did they?" Ned gave a little grin. "Or perhaps they were simply waiting for you to be properly seasoned, beforehand? Kind of you, then, to drink enough to pickle yourself."

Robert responded with a wild swipe at Ned's head, missing by a mile as he currently had between three to five to the king's eyes.

"Bah! Shows what you know! I was at least twice as drunk on the ride… up… what… the hell is that!?" A sense of genuine panic had taken Robert's voice, and Ned could not answer for he found himself stricken by the same sight.

The once-kind moonlight had taken on a hideous red hue that summoned forth memories of bloodshed and terror in the long-since blooded men. The sounds of chaos were beginning to break out over the camp, the horses were rioting and the wolves howling with the dogs.

Everywhere, men were scrambling to either control the animals or simply to run from what they saw overhead. In unison, the two noblemen searched the sky for the moon that had fled them.

They found only nightmares.

Chapter 2: Dreamer of Dreams

The forest burned, faces weeping bloody sap were screaming in agony. The stags, the wolves, the krakens and the vipers, all creatures of the realm lay slain, burned, mutilated.

Castles fell like wooden blocks; the sun and moon devoured each other.

The past was clouded, the future uncertain, and terrible power wound its way through the realm of men and gods alike.

The Seven appeared shattered, while the Old Gods damned all with their silence.

Dark things swept through the oceans as fire the color of blood rose into a fearsome visage, domineering all in its path.

Beasts did battle with winter storms and strange stars loomed over distant skies.

A crow bearing three terrible, burning eyes looked upon me, one eye full of wretched knowledge and all three brimming with anger and hatred. It cried out, even as its beak descended with intent to tear my flesh asunder. I tried to raise my arms in defense, but they were like leaden clubs at my side.

The mist shrouding my head had grown even heavier, made more literal within the dreaming, with the crow casting a demonic visage wreathed in pea-soup fog; The pain in my head was like a piercing arrow.

He seized me in his talons and took us both into the air. Soon it was just the two of us, in an unwelcoming cocoon of mist. He brought his head up to mine, eyes glowing with red-hot rage and madness.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?

The cry echoed across the dead world, drowning even my own thoughts. My head felt rent in twain from the sound of it, dripping with ageless agony. The crow pecked out my eyes, one after the other, screaming all the while.

It came upon my forehead and tore through the flesh there too; not to open a new eye, but to ensure all stay closed forever. He plucked my third eye as he did the others, calling out his own agony all the while.

ALL IS LOST! ALL IS DUST! HERE, THERE, THEN AND SOON!

The crow began to feast upon the rest of me, stripping my senses with wretched glee, sharing decades of suffering with every bite.

This was not the Brynden I remembered, bloodied but unbowed by time's cruelty.

This was a maddened, broken

You've gone mad, teacher, please come to your senses! I tried to reason with the ancient through my torture. I owed the memory of Brynden this much, at least.

I!? MY SENSES!? YOU'VE KILLED US ALL BY YOUR IMPERTINENCE, BOY! ANCIENT LAWS LAY BROKEN, THE WALLS TORN ASUNDER! YOU LACK THE ABILTY TO COMPREHEND THE DEVASTATION YOU"VE WROUGHT!

I'm sorry, teacher! Truly I am! But there was nothing left, and only audacity could correct audacity, to my mind! Unforeseen magic to counter unexpected development!

FOOL, He cried, FOOL TWICE OVER, THEN! NOTHING IS AS IT SHOULD BE! PROPHECY, UPENDED! HISTORY, UNRAVELLED! IF I AM MAD, IT IS YOUR DOING! YOURS ALONE!

He cackled a dry crow's cackle, blood and viscera staining his head red as his eyes.

YOURS ALONE, YOURS ALONE!

With a final slash from his beak and claws, he let me go, impossibly high over the world. I fell, alone in the dark fog.

I remembered this; fly or die, wasn't it? I tried to move my arms into wings as I had as a boy, but my leaden body would not respond.

I tried to recall the feeling of flight on raven's wings, but the fog drowned out the thought of it.

I hurtled towards the earth, faster than I thought possible, glowing red-hot with blood and fire.

The fog parted somewhat, revealing the realm below me, first all Westeros, then the North alone, Wintertown, Winterfell…

I braced myself as best I could as I closed in on my own prone form, and-!

"Ah!" I gasped awake, sweating like the fires of hell were burning my backside. Quickly, I ran my hands over my form, to confirm I was still physically intact and among the living. A hand to my chin reassured me of my youth, and by extent my travails.

In my panic, the details of my dream faded into the morning mist, leaving only the memory of pain and a feeling of deep loss.

If I haven't been cast out yet, I assumed, 'Tis likely that I shan't be in future. His- My body must have accepted my soul. The nightmare was likely a side effect of what I did to myself; The usual sort of dream, full of sound and fury and signifying nothing.

Even assuring myself thus, my pain had not dwindled; though, thankfully it was no worse than yesterday. My mind still seemed to split at the seam 'twixt boy and man, the gap clouding my mind and encouraging wandering thoughts.

Cradling my head in my hands, I slowly sat up, dislodging a startled Summer from my chest in the process. He quickly readjusted, laying his head back in my lap, staring at me with gimlet eyes.

The cloud in my brain was less obfuscating than yesterday, but it still shifted in a manner most discomforting as I rose. Still, my thinking seemed relatively unimpeded.

Thank the gods for small miracles.

To ascertain the time, I glanced out the window.I was not well placed to see out the window, but the light incoming was faintly red, and dim, so it must be just past dawn. Gazing about my sickroom, I saw Mother had departed while I slept.

Hopefully she'd gone to get Luwin to see to her hand, though 'tis more likely she went to fetch him for me for when I awoke and Luwin is seeing to her wound regardless.

A warm smile found my lips as I imagined the scene: Luwin fussing over her while she insisted he hurry things up, worried for me above all. Until I remembered the depth of her wound, that is- If I recall correctly, she spent some half a sennight abed, sedated by poppy's milk. I only rested easy knowing she managed the first time around with no complications.

It would not have done to lose her again, not so soon. I never appreciated such things as our mother did on our behalf nearly as much when I was truly only seven name-days. By the time I was wise enough to understand my mother's actions, it was far too late for us.

Lady Catelyn Stark was no more: Lady Stoneheart rose from her ashes, a cold new dawn.

Only magic could truly defeat magic. Putting her down after that…

"The days of future passed are no longer any concern of mine," I determined. I would swear to do better by Lady Stark in this world, but I would put aside what guilt I felt for what will never be.

Things will be better, this time.

My head throbbed at this line of thought, hands tightening around my temple in pain. It felt acutely like someone striking my forehead dead center with a flaming pickaxe. I shook my head to disperse it, but I only traded acute agony for disorientation; it felt like my head was filled with water, sloshing about with every movement.

No, not quite like water; the same fog of earlier, it was… fixed, somewhat, in a strange… orientation, perhaps?

Oh, what fresh hell is this?

I gave my aching head a few exploratory twists; Sure enough, with each movement the cloudiness in my mind shifted exactly as much as I moved. It shifted in a manner not unlike one's hearing does, when attempting to pin down the source of a sound.

Some remnant of my travails, perhaps? A newfound sense for… something?

If a new sense it was, I knew not what phenomenon it was detecting; only that it was present in all directions. As if the walls and floors were saturated in paint, or each stone was ringing a low note…

Old magic was laid into the stones of Winterfell, to safekeep the Kings of Winter against the Others. Is that what I sense? The Builder's magic?

It was an unnerving sense, if so; it sat like a weightless mass in my skull, alien to my mind.

Before I could speculate further, there came a knock at the door. The one at the door, however, seemed to have done so only out of habit, for they wasted no time in entering through the portal and firmly closing the door behind them; by the grey about the head and drab dress, I swiftly pegged my visitor as Maester Luwin.

Odd, since I remember Robb being the first to greet me before. Though I have awoken fairly early, perhaps he was busier now?

"Good morning… maester." I greeted him, voice hoarse and throat parched. He whirled about, panic writ across his face and nearly spilling the jug he'd been carrying. "Are you… here to… check on me?"

"Oh! Bran! You're awake!"

How long had I been slumbering, I wondered? I expected Lady Catelyn to inform him of my awakening before being treated. Still, I was far more focused on the ambrosia he's been carrying.

He swiftly understood my plight, and hurried over to share his collected nectar with me. Summer was not happy being displaced again, but I had not the space for both him and the jug. He stayed by my side, regardless.

Herbal honey-water it may be, but for how dry I felt it was sweeter than any Dornish Red I'd ever tasted. The gods themselves could not separate me from the jug until I'd drained its contents by a full third and fully slaked my thirst. Even still, the good maester had a severe air of unease about him.

"Thank you muchly, maester. I believe I awoke sometime yesterday." I was far from top form, but I could handle conversation now. "Though I have slept in the interim, and I know not the current time, truly." Maester Luwin slowly traded his unease for bewilderment, setting the jug down on the nightstand.

"What? I mean, yes of course you've slept since, but…" He gestured towards me, discomfited. "Are you feeling alright, dear boy? Most men who've slept for as long as you have tended to awake… rather less verbose."

Oh, damnation. I'd forgotten I was a child. How was it children speak again? f*ck! I was torn between self-flagellation at my misstep, anger at his presumption that I ought to speak like a simpleton, and a deep concern that my emotions were riding far too high to be normal. Even Summer seemed to have picked up on them, ears perking in my direction.

It was all I could do to keep this conflict of my face, years of kingly experience coming to battle with the powerful emotions of youth, for that is what I figure it must be. Such a simple mistake, and yet I'm nearly as worked up over it as someone truly my age. I have more of my youth in me than it appeared at first.

A thing to watch out for, to be sure; fanciful language and fiery tempers can make for an excellent case for possession.

Hopefully, I can come off more as precocious. I've no desire to taste the flame of a burning stake.

"Perhaps the fall knocked loose some of our lessons, maester!" That sounds like the joke a child would make, yes?

Maester Luwin's countenance denoted no humor, but the mention of my attempted murder sobered him from his erstwhile confusion. Instead, he bore a look of grim resolve, hidden by an almost fatherly compassion. He came over to the bed and sat by my side, trying to look as comforting as possible.

"Yes, your fall." Luwin placed special emphasis on the fall, taking my small hands in his. "Tell me, Bran, do you recall exactly what happened? You've clambered over each and every battlement in Winterfell and never lost your grip. What changed?"

Yes, perfect! This was it, my first chance to change something, to turn the wheel of fate on my own, with far better knowledge of the consequences. Given what I knew and had experienced, I was confident I knew all I needed to guide the Starks and the realm to a happier end.

And the first step on that path would be the absolute castigation of Jaime Lannister.

"I never lost my grip," I spoke with relish, doing my best not to let it show. "I was pushed!"

"Pushed?" The maester's eyes blazed with fury hearing this, but he didn't seem overly confused. Perhaps with the catspaw, he had been expecting such. "You're certain? Who was it, do you recall?"

"Yes, maester!" I was excited about this; I knew it could make a difference. "It was Jaime Lannister, the Kingsguard!" Oh, how often had I seen his face in my nightmares, determined to commit atrocity after atrocity for the sake of what he called 'love'? Too often, I say. I weep not for him, the greatest thing he ever did was break his oath to his king, and even that was tainted by how he threw away his knightly oaths before and after.

A flash of alarm passed over his face. "Jaime Lannister, you say?"

"Yes, maester. He was with- Agh!" Why!? Of all the possible times, why must it happen again now!? I had thought my migraine to be receding, but it appears it was merely awaiting reinforcements. They wasted no time taking hammer and chisel to the innards of my skull, and a familiar fog returned once more, settling about me most strangely, like the lightest of cloaks.

A part of me felt able to hide ever-so-slightly better, confident I could escape the notice of those not actively searching for sneaks. Not much help in hiding a sudden and powerful headache from a now very concerned maester, unfortunately.

"Brandon! Dear child, are you alright!?" The sheer concern in his tone would be more touching if I didn't hurt so much. He began all sorts of little tests to determine my state, holding a hand to my forehead, staring into my pained eyes, and a dozen other things meant to potentially diagnose me.

Not a lick of it would come close to the truth that was beginning to intrude into my thoughts. The crashing of thunder sounded in my ears as I began to understand the scope of my problem.

Once is fortune, twice coincidence. Thrice now had my mind threatened to come apart at the seams and allow entry to some new sensation, and I must begin to fear enemy action. I did not know the full breadth of possibilities allowed by what I had done, it was unprecedented as near as I could tell.

The place I saw between times, the impossibly long moment, that short eternity- I knew not if it was reality or a mere phantom image, but the idea, the faintest chance of such a place having influence over me sent tendrils of lightning terror down my spine. Much less any potential inhabitants.

"Bran? Bran, speak to me, please!" The sudden exclamation startled me from my pained reverie. The poor man looked positively terrified.

"M-M'fine. H-head, h-h-hurts." A far cry from preferable, but all I could manage. I pray this headache will relinquish me soon!

"A headache, hmm? Is it a sharp or dull pain? Have you been having headaches since you awoke, or is this the first? Any other symptoms, a frequent dizziness, or a persistent nausea?" Maester Luwin fired off questions like a practiced longbowman. I shook my head, unable to deal with them all at once. Luwin eventually laid off his assault with a sigh.

"It bears little relevancy, I suppose. I've no doubt it's a symptom of the tumble you took." He shook his head helplessly. "If it has yet to relent after a few days bedrest, I'm afraid it may be something you will simply have to live with." That's a depressing thought. Still, I would weather a thousand such mental assaults for the chance I'd been given.

I could yet undo the wrongs that had been done, steer us fully off the twisted path fate had laid for us. Rather than knocking everything off balance at the last, I would build a new balance myself; overturn the board and damn the players.

Above all, my family would survive.

Focusing on my goal allowed the pain to dwindle somewhat, which Luwin must have taken as a good sign. He pulled back from me and smiled.

"It may yet recede permanently, of course; we live and hope, lad." Maester Luwin straightened up and looked me in the eyes. "Now, we can continue your tale another time, Bran. Now that you're up and recovering, I think perhaps it is time to resume your lessons." His eyes flashed with concern. "Unless, of course, you don't yet feel up to such. I admit, I haven't brought any materials with me today, for I feared you'd sleep until the morrow."

Unwilling to trust my voice yet, I nodded in affirmation. I might go mad if I had to spend too much time alone, recuperating. There was nothing he could teach anymore that I hadn't learned, but the company would be appreciated. The maester's smile grew warmer hearing that, and I couldn't help but manage a shaky smile in turn.

"Very good, young man. A man's mind is as potent a weapon as his sword, you'll find; it pays to whet it often." He patted my knee, and for a second, I pretended I could feel it. Didn't I use to have a fascination with knights, before the war? It would do well to reassure Maester Luwin further, though even this slight intrigue felt unpleasant to my younger side.

"C-Could we, maybe, go over Southron history?" I gave my teacher as wide a smile as I could manage while also managing the pain. "Or maybe go over some Northern knights?"

Smiling indulgently, he responded, "If all you want are war stories, I'm sure I can convince Ser Cassel-" He faltered mid word, his countenance suddenly unreadable. "On the other hand, perhaps not. He shall be rather busy in the coming days." His eyes slowly grew unfocused, seeing something I couldn't in the wall over my head. He made as if to say more but stopped.

"Maester?" I prompted. I don't think there was this much fuss about the assassin before. That was the only reasonable thing that might keep our master-at-arms too busy for war stories. Maybe he's planning on acting on the Lannister information I'm to provide sooner rather than later? But then, wouldn't Ser Cassel be there regardless?

Something felt changed, in a way I wasn't expecting, and I misliked it greatly. The maester roused himself from his reverie. "Oh, my apologies, Bran. Pray, forgive an old man his little hiccups; you wanted to get started in on Southron history, correct?" I nodded, not comfortable enough to press further into this new mystery. "Well, in honor of your mother's bravery the other day, let's begin with a review of House Tully. Now, House Tully was founded in…"

I settled in to hear a story I knew by heart, Summer by my side to keep me company. It was in this manner, stories and lectures and occasional quizzes, that we whiled away the hours. From Southron history and houses to our Northern bannermen; Summer fought valiantly, but sleep claimed him eventually. He's still a bit young to be the stalwart defender I remember.

Eventually, during one particularly dry chapter of Frey history I was not fond of as a child and simply loathe now, I began to drift off once again. I was somewhat surprised I saw nothing of Bloodraven last night, given he awakened my gift the first time around.

Mayhap tonight will be different.

Maester Luwin gazed softly down at the boy, slumbering soundly. He'd only come here to feed the boy if he was still abed, as he had done for the past score of days, but he never turned down an opportunity to educate his charges.

He was glad Lady Stark had the right of it as she allowed him to put her to sleep, and had not merely succumbed to the stress of the night. Now that the lad was on the path to recovery, maybe she would take up the duties of Lady Stark properly. He could only hope.

The lesson today was mostly a review to make certain that Bran's faculties had not diminished, and he was most pleased by the results therein. He'd never cared much for the histories of his father's bannermen, though he had made pains to learn them as a dutiful son should, but the moment the Freys came up a terribly sour look crossed his face. The maester figured the poor reputation Old Walder had cultivated had trickled down to even the children, almost certainly through some careless servants' gossiping.

He'd hoped that they'd have the circ*mspection to avoid being such whisperers near the children, but perhaps Bran had picked up on something in his long sleep. He knew it was possible from what few records there were of people who shared Bran's experience. Most died before ever waking, but those who had sometimes reported hearing or seeing things that happened around them as they slept.

It was a fascinating crossing between his interests in medicine and the higher mysteries; clearly there must have been some aspect of divination about it, but what causes it and why does this happen in only some of the afflicted? In the end, he had found no answers, then or now. And such an obscure bit of lore, there was no doubt the servants thought Bran dead to the world entirely.

"Oh, dear Bran. How unfair to invite you back into a world so cruel." He gently brushed the boy's hair away from his eyes, sorrow creeping into his expression. Bran was still far too pale and far too thin for health, it was a miracle he was capable of this much activity. It was a miracle he lived at all, for the odds were far from his favor.

Suspects had been turning over in his head since the day Bran fell, but to hear of Jaime Lannister being the fiend? It near set his heart to boiling, a Kingsguard breaking guest right? It seemed a poor parody of life, yet he trusted the boy knew what he saw. He was a sharp lad, if too reckless for anyone's good.

Thoughts of such led to thoughts of the other day's tragedy; Lady Stark was delirious from joy and blood loss, and nearly refused to leave the boy's side to be treated; it took Rob exercising some of his power as heir to Winterfell to convince her.

Tended by various poultices and a healthy dose of milk of the poppy, the lady would likely be abed for several days. It would take several sennights for her to fully recover the use of her hand, and such a deep wound may leave lasting pains for years to come.

The thought of wounds brought back… complicated feelings. Luwin gazed out through the open, ominously red window. On one hand, his Valyrian steel link had surely been vindicated beyond all belief; on the other, he had no doubt the world was forever changed, possibly doomed. There simply was no precedent for this, he doubted even the fabled Hammer of the Waters was so terrible to behold.

Perhaps Jaime's actions were too much for the gods to bear, one broken oath too far? 'Twas as good an explanation as any, he imagined. Doubtless the maesters still at Oldtown were tearing their hair out, running about like panicked chickens. A small, vindictive smile nestled in his expression then; most maesters hold some scorn for those who pursued the higher mysteries in any capacity, be they fellow maesters or simple woods-witches.

That smile couldn't last, sadly. If Winterfell were any better, he'd feel much better about the Citadel's situation. Sighing, the maester rose to his feet, knees cracking and feeling too much like the old man he was. He shuffled over to the window and closed the shutters. Bran shouldn't have to worry about these things, the young thing he is. 'Twas a minor miracle he noticed nothing during the lesson, but Luwin was good at keeping his charge's attention.

He would have to press Old Nan into caring for the boy more regularly, now that he's awake. Any servant was fine when he was unconscious, but doubtless Bran would be more comfortable with the familiar matronly figure getting him used to his new needs. He seemed to be unshaken by his ordeal but doubtless he is yet unaware of his predicament. The world was already cruel enough to steal his future away, if this new curse is to stay, did it have to take his legs as well?

Making his way back over to the bed's nightstand, to return the jug he borrowed to the kitchens, his eyes caught on something beneath it. The table seemed too large for the usual bedside accompaniments in the North. Setting the jug aside, the maester examined the 'tabletop'.

It was a book, and a remarkable example of its kind, at that. A veritable tome, of size more fit for a septon's lectern than a library, and strangest of all, wholly unfamiliar to Luwin. From the golden leather covering the wooden slats and binding to the brass corners embedded to keep the leather safe, he was certain he had never laid his eyes on this tome before.

But that was impossible, surely? The only reading material in all of Winterfell was in his library, and he was sure of every article within it. Perhaps his mind is simply starting to go, as horrifying as that thought is for a man of learning. Far more reasonable than a book like this materializing from thin air.

Then, things had hardly been reasonable lately. Either way it was coming back with him. He grasped the book with both hands and heaved.

"By the Seven!" He exclaimed under his breath. His nameless wolf snorted but did not wake. The thing was every bit as heavy as it looked, and it looked like it required two septons to carry it. He let it fall the bare half-inch he'd managed to lift it; he would call for one of the guards to move the book to the library anon, two to be safe. In place of the mystery prize, he took the jug again.

Long habit had him go over his next moves in his head: he would return the jug, instruct a guard on the way to retrieve the book, and take a circuitous route back to his study so he could give Old Nan her instructions. Afterwards, back to the study for more fruitless research into the horrid phenomena that plagued them. Agenda set, he hurried out the door, leaving behind book, boy, and wolf.

A stagnant blink

itching at the crust of sleep

fog in the head as traffic builds.

Cars rush all around me in the middle

holding me back in the smog waist deep,

it claws at my hips to suffocate

vitality wanes fast fading away.

I can see the outline crumbling

as the sunsets sooner each wasted day.

-Trouble on the Wind,

Valerie Clark

Chapter 3: Trouble on the Wind

"Please tell me we have something." Robb pleaded. Ser Rodrik nodded solemnly, as did guard captain Hallis. They were meeting together with Maester Luwin and the recently awoken Lady Stark. The lady was still abed, of course, though feeling much recovered from the mad grief that had possessed her. They met in her chambers while the Maester tended to her bandages. All capable were dressed for battle, just in case.

"Not much, milord. We have Bran saying Jaime tried to kill him for witnessing the crime of incest," the boy's testimony, once he could give it without his headache's plaguing him, seemed ludicrous. Yet, all present were inclined to agree with Maester Luwin's perspective: he was too sharp to mistake anyone for the Queen, and too good a climber to simply slip. "Jaime did miss the hunt that day, and there is little better time for a sordid affair for a Queen than when the King is out hunting." Robb nodded impatiently.

"And that settles the original crime, yes, we determined that with Bran's story yesterday, and the Lannisters will pay their debt. But what of the assassin?" This was Robb's second largest concern about the whole situation. If one man could sneak behind Winterfell's walls and get within arm's reach of one of his brothers, who is to say what else might happen? What other holes in their defenses might want for patching? What if the next attempt succeeds?

Robb had wanted to join the search for answers, but once the… once Bran had awoken, he had more important things to handle himself. Once he had met up with Bran and assured himself of his relative health, he started pressing his brother for answers. The story given was ludicrous, and Bran seemed rather less shocked about his situation than he expected. Robb doubted he could muster the same composure if he had been crippled, himself. He was proud of and sad for his brother in equal measure.

The search had only recently concluded to both the captain's and the arms-master's satisfaction, and he would hear the details.

"He ain't a Winterfell man, to be sure m'lord." Hallis spoke up here. "Been sighted a few times 'round the keep, but none knew him proper. Only recently, mind, past few weeks, if that. No name for the face, I'm afraid."

"I've examined the blade closely, for it struck me as too fine for a fiend like him. Valyrian steel, with a dragonbone hilt." A lordly weapon, in the hands of a lowborn murderer. When had life become a mummer's play? "We also found his 'residence' in the stables. The stink of horse was all over his corpse."

"Likely he took up staying down there when the lord took his horses south, and hid easier once we sent Benjen back on his way." Captain Hallis mentioned. "Alas, with stables our size and so few horses, 'tweren't no great trick to hide from the stableboys." He hung his head in shame while Rodrik continued.

"Seems he'd been camping out since even before the King left. We found a goodly sum of silver under the hay where he was sleeping; ninety pieces."

"A hired blade, then? But such a blade couldn't have been his," said Robb. He was far too shabby to be anything but a common criminal, yet he wielded Valyrian steel? Rodrik nodded, and made to continue.

"So it must have been the Lannisters, as well!" Lady Catelyn Stark exclaimed instead. Maester Luwin had finished wrapping her hand and was now standing to the side of her bed. Both Ser Rodrik and Hal disagreed.

"If anything, it's evidence for some unknown player, my lady." Ser Rodrik explained. "You can say much and worse about House Lannister, but one should never imply they are incompetent. They wouldn't be so blatant in their skulduggery."

"Unless they wanted to send a message, Ser! They are arrogant, immoral, and clearly murderous!" She chewed at her lip in anxiety before fixing each of them in turn with a stern gaze. "What I am about to say does not leave this room, understood?" After getting a confused, if properly solemn nod from everyone, she continued.

"My sister, Lady Arryn, has written to me of late. She suspects her husband did not die naturally." This wasn't the largest shock for Robb, though it was unexpected. Jon Arryn had been an older man in the stressful position of Hand of the King, a natural death was somewhat expected. But in that snake-pit… Robb had heard enough stories from his father's mouth.

"That could well be the case," Robb supplied, "But how is this related."

"What relates them is the murderer. She named the Queen as the culprit. Maester Luwin can attest, he delivered the message." All present were shocked, though not all showed it. The accusation and the implications thereof, they were nearly unthinkable.

Robb turned to Luwin, who sat grim-faced and uneased, as he had been. Being ill at ease seemed to be his natural state, of late.. He returned Robb's gaze and nodded. He felt himself turning green at the thought of all this; His father's stories did the south a kindness, it seemed.

"'Tis true, my lord, I delivered a coded message to the Lord and Lady left by some unseen courier, in the coded hand of Lysa Arryn herself." He bowed his head solemnly, "The Lord thought her mad with grief, but recent events do shed some doubt on that. 'Twas the reason he decided to go south in the first place, for he would gladly have refused the position of Hand if he were not loath to send his foster-brother back into that adder's nest alone." Robb can hardly blame his father for his judgment there; he'd have thought the same himself.

"But what message do they hope to send by making so blatant a proclamation?" Robb continued. "This was clearly no thief, his goal was murder alone, and bearing such a fine weapon, what do they say with this?"

"'Stay away', mayhaps?" Was Rodrik's contribution. "Lord Stark is known far and wide as one of the most honorable lords in the realm; if the Lannisters have been up to all this for years, no doubt they fear the wrath of the Quiet Wolf."

"Then why come here at all? Why allow the king to make the offer to father in the first place, surely they could have swayed him to another candidate easily enough? He's wed to Cersei-" Even as he says this, he knows it for a poor argument. If Cersei was truly involved with her brother, sickening as the thought is, doubtless relations between her and the king were strained at best.

The Baratheons were once called the Storm Kings for good reason; almost certainly was he unknowing. The news would mean war, should the king discover it. An insult like this could not go unpunished, and Tywin would bring the Rains of Castamere upon the king in turn.

"Forgive me, my lord, my lady, my friends," said Maester Luwin once more. "But does any of this truly matter?" Robb tensed up immediately; this was not ground he was comfortable retreading. "Are there not far greater concerns, at the moment?"

Lady Stark seemed ready to cut the maester down there and then, had she the tools, before seeing the unpleasant countenances of her other companions. She became concerned, nearly scandalized. "You must be joking, maester! What could be more pressing than that assassin, this horrid conspiracy!?"

"Were this any other situation, my lady, I would agree. But something terrible has happened, and I fear it may demand all our attentions-,"

"Will it, maester?" Robb cut in, sharply. "Really, will it?" The maester stammered something, but he kept on. "Because I don't see much use in talking about it. I doubt it was any act of man that caused it, and certainly nothing we can do will change things." The two armsmen present were surprised at his outburst, but neither disagreed with the sentiment.

Robb was surprised as well; he knew he'd crossed a line, patience snapped at the hilt. The recent strangeness had weighed heavy on everyone, and the only one interested in investigating was the maester, who simply couldn't understand why no one else desired to. Robb had had enough.

"Even so-,"

"Even so, we still have these assassins and conspiracies, as mother said!" Robb's voice cracked, dark emotions overcoming his noble bearing. "We are but men, maester, and these are affairs men can handle. Let the gods handle whatever nightmare they have wrought!" He snarled. He stared the maester straight in the eyes, finally noticing the old man looking almost… frightened.

Of him. Damnit.

Robb slumped over, terribly tired and sorrowful, yet not as apologetic as he felt he ought to be. Still…

"Maester, please, observe its activity, study it if you will, but don't-," Robb sighed, "don't drag us into it. Please. You- you've studied the higher mysteries, leave us with our… lower tragedies."

"Robb, darling," Spoke Lady Stark, concerned. "What are you saying? What has happened as I've slept?"

Robb grimaced, looking at the maester. Maester Luwin gave a hesitant nod and gestured for Robb to open the shuttered window across from their lady. Robb squared his shoulders and fixed the portal with a glare.

Robb stalked over to it, and flung the shutters wide, shattering one of the slats and letting the bloody light in. As the lady looked outside, her face was one of puzzlement. Her eyes opened wide, first with curiosity and then with horror.

"No," She said.

"Yes," Robb replied.

"No, it can't be. T-That's just-,"

"Not possible? I know, mother. Gods, I know." He tried to comfort her, but her gaze was transfixed by the sight beyond the window, as horrified as Robb himself had been, at first.

The green upon Lady Stark's face merged with the dim red light from outside, casting her countenance an unpleasant burgundy color. She fell back into her bed, as if fainted. Her moaning put paid to that idea.

"No, no, no! This is just a nightmare, surely!" She pressed her head back into her pillow, eyes screwed shut. "A bad batch of poppy-milk, this is, nothing more!"

"I wish it could be so, mother, but it's been this way ever since…" He trailed off, finally drawing his mother's attention.

"Since?" She pressed. Robb fidgeted, he truly did not want to be the one to deliver this news.

"The sky has been so since the evening Bran awoke, my lady." Maester Luwin said, stepping in the path of the arrow Robb had unleashed on himself. He felt a little worse about his outburst; perhaps he ought to do something nice for him soon?

Lady Stark took this all about as well as Robb expected.

"You cannot be serious!" The lady proclaimed. "You can't honestly believe a child of seven namedays, my son at that, has anything to do with-" She could only gesture beyond the window.

"My lady," the maester explained, patient as can be, "I would never think the lad could be the cause of this madness, to be certain. However," he stressed, "There are some few oddities about it all, his awakening and his… behavior since."

"Speak carefully, maester." said the lady, coldly. "I will bear no slander towards my child."

"And slander him I shall not! I merely wish to draw attention to what I have noticed."

"And what, exactly, have you noticed of my brother?" Robb quickly asked, casting a nervous glance at his mother. He feared she may not be well enough for this conversation, but needs must.

"His headaches, for one." Maester Luwin replied just as swiftly. "In any other circ*mstance, I would say it is merely a lasting symptom of his ordeal, but… " He sighed. "'Tis hard to describe, precisely. He seems so nervous whenever he feels one coming, and is not fully settled for minutes after it passes.

"And he acts strangely during our lessons. He sometimes speaks with the bearing of a man thrice his age, and again I might normally attribute this to having undergone such a trial as his, if it were consistent." He shook his head in exasperation. "I swear he can tell his behavior is odd, and actively tries to mimic himself, the boy he was." Robb was growing concerned; he had only spoken with Bran the once after the fall, and while he could draw no conclusions himself, his experience did rhyme with the maester's words.

"You make him sound possessed, maester." He said, worry casting his voice low.

"I would be a liar if I said the thought had not crossed my mind, all things considered." Lady Stark's eyes were blazing at this admission, so he quickly continued. "However, I have had cause to discard that theory. While he is certainly odder than before, he is still very much Bran Stark, son of Winterfell." Both Robb and his mother settled themselves with the reassurance that their kin was still themselves.

"Maester, I know you would not bring Bran into things if his attitude alone carried your suspicions." Robb said. "What else have you seen?" Maester Luwin grimaced.

"Indeed, my lord, but this next thing I've noticed has only happened twice, and it will be as hard for me to explain as I imagine it shall be for you to believe." He turned to the guard captain. "Captain Hallis, do you recall when I asked for your men's assistance in retrieving something from Bran's room?"

"Aye," he replied, "Some bloody heavy book, weren't it? The lads I sent came complaining the whole walk back, saying books like that ought to be left in their septries."

"The very same, Captain, thank you." He grinned. "They complained much the same while carrying it, though I made a show of not hearing them. I tried the book myself, I knew its weight well enough."

Robb felt confused. He did not recall so massive a tome in Bran's sickroom the night of the fire. He asked the maester where this book had come from.

"It is curious, isn't it?" he replied. "At first, I thought it might be one of mine that the assassin had actually taken," Robb and the armsmen both rolled their eyes at that, which did not escape the maester's notice. "But its sheer mass discredited that idea from out the gate.

"I hate to say it, but absent any other explanation, I cannot help but assume it simply appeared there," he quirked his lips, "as if by magic." Robb could only stare at the maester.

"You cannot be serious." He said, unintentionally echoing his mother from earlier.

"I wish I wasn't, my lord." his face settled into a neutral mask. "But 'twas what happened later that startled me sore, and makes it so difficult to reject the prospect of magic being involved."

Maester Luwin frowned down at the expansive tome that now filled his desk. In the candlelight, he could now say for certain he had never before laid eyes on it, nor any quite like it.

It was clearly of fine make, yet went wholly unmarked. There was no author, nor title, and all that was written within was a few scattered pages of text. Unhelpful, as the hand was unnaturally even in its writing, and the language was utterly unknown to him. He had not specialized in the study of tongues, but he knew some of most languages academic texts were written in, and this bore none of them.

Some passages even seemed to be in

No answers were forthcoming from the book itself, and he knew there was no reference work in his library that could help. The ravens refused to fly with the sky in such disarray, and so he could contact no other maesters for assistance either. Doubtless they had greater worries to hand than his mysterious tome in any case.

It was only after his next lesson with Bran was cut short by another migraine that he returned to the tome again. And what he saw therein set his heart to quivering.

For a new passage had inscribed itself upon the pages of the book, and new images just as unfathomable as the others; they seemed to be instructions, but there was no knowing what for.

In yet another language this time, almost but not quite entirely unlike the language of distant Yi Ti. It was a small passage, barely a page in length, but he knew it had not been there before. He thought it a mightily odd coincidence, for coincidence it must surely be!

The idea felt hollow even as he tried to convince himself of it.

The next blow to his reality came the next day, when the sky trembled once more. It was not an uncommon occurrence, lately, though it seemed a harmless phenomenon compared to its cause. By now he had become as used to it as he could be, and swiftly turned his attention from the window back to the book that had captured his imagination.

What he saw had him stand up straight immediately, toppling his chair in abject shock and horror.

He saw the tome, flipping itself madly in an unseen wind, and landing upon a blank page. Golden light shone out from it, seeming to burn words directly into the scripture as if the gods themselves were dictating to an invisible scribe. Pictures flashed into being upon the appropriate page, drawn by unseen artists with impossible swiftness.

The process was over in moments, as was the sky's tremors. This new passage was written in something that could pass for the Common Tongue if it was invented by a drunken sailor from Sothoryos. The images were unhelpful and horrifying, depicting a man in vibrant clothing about whom shadows danced unnaturally.

There could be no doubt that this was not a simple book, but a

He made his way to Bran's room, unsettled but determined to solve this mystery. The boy, naturally, was still right where he'd lain for nearly a month now, and his appearance did nothing to calm the old man: He was looking pained and almost as unsettled as the maester himself, evidence that he had had another attack. Still, he felt the need to ask the lad directly.

His reply confirmed the fears Luwin held in his heart. The boy had just been thinking of how much he'd like to be able to wander the castle when the pain overtook him once more. The maester had come in just as the pain was starting to settle.

He expressed his sorrow for the lad's predicament, and swore to find a method to allow Bran a measure of freedom once more, before making quick his escape. Hopefully the child would simply be happy to be out of lessons for the day, for Luwin could not bear the idea at the moment; fear and uncertainty gripped him wholly. What had been a distant, if nightmarish disaster had become something terribly personal.

Something of horrible power had gotten its hands on his charge, whether he knew it or not.

When the maester had finished his tale, all present were silent; even the shadows on the wall seemed to still eerily. Robb was dumbfounded; the tale was somehow even more ludicrous than Bran's spun yarn of the Lannisters! Yet he knew the maester was no fool, nor prone to flights of fancy. Always, when he and his siblings had discussed the old magics of tales and legends, the maester was among the first to deny their reality.

Perhaps it once was real, he would say. But it certainly isn't about anymore, or the presence of it would be clear as day!

Robb had a feeling the day had cleared up significantly, and he was not best pleased by it. Judging by their countenances, no one else was either. Outside, the sky began trembling once more, just as it had every day since Bran awoke.

Honestly, the timing unsettled him; this was at least the second time today he had seen, and potentially the third, as he had not spent much time outside nor observing the thing. His mother was pale and shaking by the end of the sky-quake, wide-eyed and fearful.

"You-you're lying! You must be, or you're mad as a hare!" she shrieked, disbelieving yet unwilling to turn away from the window. The maester seemed to commiserate with her, not taking the insults to heart. It settled on Robb like a lead weight: the maester would much prefer to be mad than to be so sane in a world gone mad.

Robb can't say he didn't understand.

"Were life such, my lady," he said, "I would not mind. But this is what we have been dealt; something has taken an interest in little Bran, something inhuman."

"What?" Robb said, nearly unwilling to give the question a voice. "What could possibly do this, and why?" His voice cracked, the boy shining through the lordly mask. "Why!? Why him, why us!?" The maester could only look upon him with sorrow.

"My lord…" he sighed. "I do not know."

"Enough!" the Lady Stark exclaimed. "Enough of this- this poppyco*ck! My boy is innocent, no demons have touched him!"

"My lady, I am not saying-"

"Enough, I said! Begone, all of you!" She glared hatefully at Maester Luwin. "And breathe not a word of this to Bran, do you hear!" She sniffed. "I would not have his head filled with this nonsense while he is resting. Additionally, he is not to be allowed outside, or to witness the terror that has befallen us." Even Robb felt his mother was being ridiculous. As the others filed out of the room, Robb stayed to try and sway her.

"Mother-"

"No!" she snapped. "You will be lord someday, Robb, but you are yet my child, and you will heed my words! Not a breath to Bran, understand!?" Robb saw there would be no arguing with her today, her eyes were near as mad again as they were before the fire, with rage replacing grief. Not trusting his mouth not to say something he would regret, he simply tilted his head, before leaving.

He followed the others out of the room. Catching sight of the maester heading back towards his study, Robb rushed to catch up to him. He waited until they were both safely out of earshot of his mother's room before calling out to him.

"Maester, wait!" Maester Luwin turned around at the call, facing the young lord-to-be.

"Yes, Robb?"

"We need to talk to Bran."

The maester gazed knowingly at him.

"Your mother says-"

"Hang what my mother says!" said Robb, heatedly. "She is not thinking straight! Bran needs to know, he has a right to know, whether or not you are right about this connection!"

"Your mother would be most wroth with us both if she knew."

"Let her be wroth! I do not care, he deserves to know!"

"That will not be necessary, I've heard everything."

A familiar voice called out from behind them in the corridor. Lordling and maester turned about in shock, and spoke in unison:

"Bran!?"

A celestial grimoire that's NOT a SI?! Yes please!

Looking forward to what shenanigans Bran will come up to.

The first angel sounded his trumpet,

and there came hail and fire-

mixed with blood,

and it was hurled down on the earth.

A third of the earth was burned up,

a third of the trees were burned up,

and all the green grass was burned up.

-Book of Revelations 8:7,

Chapter 4: Revelation

Mother was due to awaken today, if all else is equal. I am now certain that it is not.

Everything has been severely odd since I've awoken, and I had not slept easy my entire time in the past, waking every morn sweating and gasping for breath. I could never recall what phantoms plagued me in the night, only the fear of falling. Perhaps another residual memory of my body, finding expression through a more developed mind? I could not say.

The strangeness has not been limited to me, however, and that was what worried me the most. Even Old Nan had been uncharacteristically subdued, and hadn't told a story I hadn't prodded out of her once. And yet, not a soul dared to acknowledge it, a pall of fear draped across them all like a funeral shroud.

Maester Luwin was ever more agitated with each passing day, no matter how I tried to calm him. I've no doubt I've failed to convince him I am the same as I was before my fall, but I have no clear idea of what his conclusions might be, if any. Though I know he's identified one thing: my headaches are unnatural.

I have absolutely no clue how he's managed to deduce that, as I'd never experimented with what abilities I'd been granted where I might be seen; much easier to manage with Academy training.

I shuddered; one of the least pleasant side effects of my venture has been the intrusion of memories. Very foreign memories. Slices and skills, fragmentary and bone-deep all the same. Were these other people, from other places and times, who have merged with my own experiences somehow? Or could they be reflections of myself, seen through a broken Myrish eye?

So far, only one separate life has manifested itself in my mind, two days ago, but I fear how easily that could change. Would I become less myself in the process of becoming more? I could not know. But I kept a wary eye on myself nonetheless; I fear possession as only one who was once capable of it may fear.

And wasn't that another harsh blow to my soul? To lose the very abilities that let me transfer myself back in the first place? The warm embrace of Summer's form could no longer be my shelter, and no more could the weirwood speak to me, nor would I hear the Bloodraven's cry. Perhaps that was part and parcel of what I accomplished: a dark trade of power for power.

'Twas only yesterday when the truth of it had properly sunk in, and the pain revisited me during my… hysterics. There the fifth gift had been bestowed upon me, or perhaps the seventh? After receiving my memories of the Academy, and the actual physical items that accompanied it, I was left unsure of how to count them.

In any case, it was as I was lamenting my lack of knowledge that I was once more… touched? By whatever something might have taken an interest in me, and delivered unto me perhaps the most unsettling means of knowledge gathering I could imagine. I sat up and pulled on the invisible cords that I knew would call my new friends forth.

All about my sickroom, the shadows writhed. The power to conjure and command living shadows, as immaterial as an evening breeze yet extremely useful nonetheless. 'Twas a strain to summon the handful I had called to me, but hardly insurmountable. I knew there were greater things I could call upon, but I had not the power for it.

Summer had not been pleased with the intruders the first time I had called them, last evening, but he remained still at my side this morning, grudgingly accepting of their existence for now.

I had instructed the few lesser shadows I could call upon to find out what had befallen Winterfell since my return. They could make no sound themselves, yet I could understand them as if they spoke common Westerosi. I was eager to hear what they had found, for by their undulations it was something quite significant.

"Report, my shadows. What news?"

The stars burn, said the shadowy corner.

"What?"

The sky bleeds, said the space 'neath my bed.

"How!?"

The world is wounded,

"Show me!"

The shadows were only tangentially substantial, barely there enough to move a few coins, but they could at least open the window.

They did.

And.

I.

Saw.

It.

The thing defied all reasonable explanation, its form not quite consistent, but I should try to describe it nonetheless, if only to preserve my own sanity. Distantly, I heard Summer howling at it himself, his own expression of horror.

A great tear stretched across the sky, red as blood. Out from it shone light unlike any before seen by man, for never was there a glass so stained as to turn the light to blood. Like the shadows said, it could be described as little else but a wound, as though some old god took a blade to the very firmament.

Or something passed through it, in a manner it shouldn't have, and tore the veil asunder.

The bed spun beneath me, my mind reeled at the tortuous sight. Here I had been, fuming at my memory of the Kingslayer, when I had inadvertently brought so much worse into the world! I could not even pretend at a silver lining to this mess; surely none who looked upon the sky could see aught but ruin.

What else could there be, when one read the future from the stars of a shattered celestial sphere?

This was my doing, of that there could be no doubt. All else was set in stone, save me. I had thought the future and past to be one and the same, and if prophecy might be unraveled then so too might our wretched past. Clearly, my knowledge was still lacking. Future, past, present, could I never escape the fate of being that simple boy, fumbling with power too great to comprehend?

I am a monster!

These words echoed like a death sentence in my mind, as I gazed, transfixed, at the abomination my actions had wrought upon the world. Even as another 'gift' wound its agonizing way into my mind and soul, I felt the pain only what I deserved for my crime. The wretched hole to somewhere beyond pulsed and writhed unnaturally, seeming to shake the sky with its undulations.

Even as it refused to stop, and spread its way into my bones, my flesh and skin I did not cry, nor shout, nor scream. This was just, I thought. Even as my bones were dug hollow by intangible spades, as my skin was perforated by a thousand thousand needles, as the skin of my arms stretched unnaturally and my frame shifted to match I made not a sound.

Lines of fire like lightning racked my form, and much like before unnatural knowledge was poured into me like wine into a goblet. Language, and religion, and knowledge of true divinities were forced upon me. Unfamiliar names, Zeus, Hera, Apollo and others rang like bells between my ears and I knew to invoke them would be to draw their attention.

One name stood out amongst all the others, not for their power in comparison but their domain: The Goddess of Sorcery, Lady Hecate. Keeper of Crossroads and Lady of the Mist, I felt some aspect of her domain settle about my form and I knew it to be Mist. It would hide my inhuman form from the eyes of men, save those with a sight uncanny.

The only saving grace of that ordeal, once the fire had gone cold and my shape settled, was that no new true memories had been delivered to me. I would have accepted them, I think, if it meant even slightly more distance from the one who brought such calamity to my home. I lifted what once was my right arm, to see the extent of the change inflicted upon me.

Where once skin showed, dark feathers sprouted from my appendage, my fingers stretched into long segments and connected by feathered skin; a great black wing had replaced my arm wholesale. Looking closer, I saw my wing-limb terminate in a hand scaled and knotted like a bird's talons. They reminded me of nothing so much as crow's feet.

Feeling my chest, I winced as I could tell my ribs were yet sore and unhealed.

I looked down upon my new legs through my covering blankets, and felt a measure of hysterical amusem*nt: though certainly changed, the crow's feet that my legs had become were still exactly as shattered as they had been, and still no sensation was felt from below my waist. A boon, perhaps! I doubt my tail-feathers are terribly comfortable right now.

Black jests aside, the latest gift, or perhaps punishment, had enacted a strange calm upon me. I may be a monster inside and out now, but I felt I had a path forward. An uncertain path, but a path nonetheless.

"My shadows," I spoke, my voice resembling more a crow's cackling than a boy's tenor, "Find me bread, and fetch me wine. Gather crow's feathers from the broken tower, and a candle from the study. Above all, get me a blade." I could not trust myself with power, not if every step I take leads to catastrophe.

Instead, I shall entreat a higher power.

Your will be done, said my intangible minions. The shadows of my room receded a touch, taking on more natural shapes in the unnatural light of my foolish actions. Summer, who had ceased his howling, laid his head upon my misshaped lap, concerned for my health despite my changes. Gods, I had missed him. I rewarded him with a few gentle pats and scritches, before turning my attention back to the gruesome sight beyond the sky.

Though I wish it could go unacknowledged, so obvious a feature required a suitable name, a name that would ring out through the ages and in the annals of history. I glared balefully up into its red, bleeding edge.

"I name you, Trauma." A word from my new language, the language of the Greeks and their gods on high Olympus. A name from an alien land, brought here by inscrutable means and delivered most irresponsibly. A name meaning 'wound', with implications of irreparable harm.

It seemed suitable.

I reached underneath my pillow to retrieve the fourth 'gift', which accompanied the fractaled memories of the Academy: A small but well-made box with a latch. It came to me as I was lamenting the loss of any decent method of keeping notes. As King none would question my need for paper and parchment; as a boy of seven, this was less true.

Within were three things: first and second were the endless supply of high-quality paper and ink, a sharp divergence from the little tricks the phenomenon had given me so far. I knew them to be endless because every time I removed the full stack of paper, upon reopening the pouch it would still have a full stack. I had five sheafs of good paper by the time I was satisfied it was truly endless.

Third was the small headband that I knew was proof of my graduation from the Academy. Though, I noticed that the forehead protector of it was not emblazoned with the sigil of the village my double was raised in, whatever it may have been, but a stylized version of the Stark direwolf sigil.

I grimaced; I knew I ought to address my alternate memories, but they still taste bitter to me. I can't help but feel a similar tragedy had befallen the originator of these experiences, a familiar foreign ache hitting me whenever I glance upon my legs. I wish I had more to draw on than Academy knowledge, since in my crippled state I had little use for Academy taijutsu, nor could the usual three ninjutsu be much help from my sickbed.

But the paper, oh the paper was very useful! I had already written reams of notes of speculation on my new abilities. That was not the original purpose of this paper, of course, but I had little knowledge of this fuinjutsu that it was designed for.

I quickly updated my pile of notes with what I had learned that day. A minor headache came and went without much fanfare; I had gotten better at dealing with the pain from the brief touches that do not leave anything behind. It was awkward to write using a brush rather than a quill pen, but needs must when devils drive.

I had nearly finished compiling everything by the time Summer's growling brought my attention to my little shadows coming back with what I requested. I could feel their coming from a little distance away, so I put my notes and implements back under my pillow.

The one charged with bringing me wine had only managed a small wooden mug, but it would hopefully suffice. I also received half a crusted loaf from the kitchens, a small bundle of black feathers, a small white candle, and a good iron whittling knife. I had them leave their offerings by the open window.

"Very good, my friends. You are dismissed." It wasn't good to keep the shadows around for too long. While they seemed happy enough to serve for short periods of time, presumably for the novelty of existing alongside us mortal beings for a while, I had a feeling they wouldn't take kindly to a longer binding.

Obligingly, the shadows withdrew to their own realm once more. Summer allowed himself to relax fully, now that the shadows were behaving normally again. I pet him as he gave me his best wolfish grin; I hoped he would be able to handle what I intended to ask of him.

"Summer, boy." He tilted his head at being addressed. "I need you to go stand over by the window for a bit, alright." I wasn't concerned about the complexity of the task, I knew how fiercely intelligent the direwolves we bonded to could be. As skinchanging affects the man, so too does it affect the animal. Where a man becomes more bestial in manner, the beasts gain a measure of higher reasoning.

I could skinchange no longer, but my true younger self had spent the better part of the last moon in Summer's body. Sure enough, while he did not seem to understand why I made my request, he did as he was bid like a loyal pup should.

"Perfect, Summer, just like that." I raised my hands up slightly and brought them together. "I'm sorry if this feels a little odd." Forming the proper hand-seals, I pushed my inner energy, what my memories insist is called chakra, into the configuration required for the Body Replacement Jutsu.

With my body half-broken, it was far too slow to be useful in combat like I had trained for, but simply switching the positions of me and Summer was a simple matter. With a yelp he fell back onto the bed, as I stumbled limply onto the floor, catching myself with my wings and making my ribs creak in pain.

Free of my blanket, I could look upon my monstrous form in full. My breeches were torn, unable to handle the thick tail feathers that sprouted from below my spine, and my shirt was in rags. I looked every bit the monster I felt. Good. Perhaps it will help with entreating these foreign gods.

I bid Summer to come back, and I braced myself against him to face the window. I gathered my shadow-brought trinkets about me. Using the knife, the stone walls, and Academy survival training I lit the candle, and used the blade again to cut a small amount of fur from Summer. A wolf was not a dog, but hopefully Lady Hecate would look kindly upon my hound regardless.

For it was Lady Hecate who I felt best suited to aid me, if she even deigns to hear me. I knew myself to be a harpy, one of Zeus' hounds who bring the storm winds. I personally had no connection to this god-king, and I hope the Goddess of Sorcery will recognise that. I arrange the crow's feathers around me in a disorganized circle; they were mostly to keep my mind focused on magic, crows brought comfort to me.

I burnt the wolf's fur in the small candle flame, and began my attempts to reach the goddess.

"O great Lady Hecate," I intone in the tongue of the Greeks, "I burn this hair of dog in your name, Mist-Weaver, Keeper of Crossroads, Greatest of the Sorceresses." I feed some small crumbs of bread to the candle-fire, wishing I had a proper brazier. "I offer unto you this bread, in hopes you will be a guest of mine in this keep." I poured the mug of wine onto the stones before me. "I offer these pitiable libations in your honor, in hopes you might hear my plea." Finished with my half-baked ritual and prayer, I simply folded my wings and bowed my head.

"I ask your aid, what must I do to atone? To fix the wrongs I have wrought upon my home? How do I undo the damage I have done? I beg your assistance, Great Lady Hecate."

As the final words passed my lips, for a fleeting instant I could almost feel the misty touch of another, before the Trauma came to sweep my mind away into the painful realm of power acquisition once more.

I had thought I knew what levels of agony I could expect from these Traumatic episodes; I thought wrong. The pain that washed over my mind was an order of magnitude greater than anything I had experienced in either life. I could feel every moment of it, as my mind bent and twisted into shapes it was never meant to assume, and I was once again cursed with knowledge of a life not my own. The pain was so great, I could not even scream it to the world, my face frozen in agonized rictus.

The memories were vague, and fragmented, but I remembered the basics. I- he- the alternate was in some kind of hidden training area for those with supernatural abilities. The newest part of me insisted they were psychic abilities, another foreign word that I knew had something to do with the mind. I remember getting the Basic Brain- Basic Training, and I knew I knew enough to not get myself hurt with my new powers.

Some memories were far clearer than others: I remember a dark-skinned woman with a vibrant fashion inside and out, who took to the air like a fish to water. She trained me in the power of Levitation, to glide over the ground by thought alone, and taught me how to create solid platforms of pure mental energy. Her smile was as bright as sunshine, I recall.

The pain faded slowly, and eventually I fell limply upon the ground. I had no idea if the Goddess I had petitioned had triggered that episode, or empowered it, or simply ignored me entirely, but I knew I had something very powerful now.

I could move freely about the castle, once more! I just needed one thing first.

"Summer, old friend?" He eyed me warily from the bed. "Could you please stand over near that chair for a second?" He whined at me.

After a small amount of finagling, bargaining, and a second application of the Body Replacement Technique, I was sat astride my new steed, a humble wooden chair. It was as simple as a chair could be and not be called a stool, four legs and a solid back. My memories of levitation involved having legs that worked, so this was an untested technique I was about to use, though I recall having seen it at least once.

Straining my mind, I realized a large thought bubble beneath the seat of my chair, lifting it slightly off the ground. The bubble of mental energy glowed a vibrant green hue, bringing to mind spring growth. I don't quite recall what color it used to be, but I could change it at a whim, if I so desired. I decided to leave the green, it was pleasing enough to look at.

Wobbling slightly, balancing in a chair was harder than doing so on my feet, I made my way over to the door and prepared to leave. I was nervous; I hadn't seen Winterfell properly in over five-and-twenty years. Steeling myself, I opened the door and was faced with-

A corridor. Hmm. Hopefully, I can remember the way outside. In my youth, I knew each and every nook and cranny of this castle like I had built it personally. But time and age had worn away at my memory, leaving only a golden scene of nostalgia. Still, hopefully I could remember well enough for this.

Keeping one clawed hand on Summer, to stay steady, I made my way down the path before me. I wanted to reach my mother's room before she awoke, if only to do the favor of being there when she does. It would make for a pleasant surprise, I thought, to hopefully dampen the shock of what the world has apparently become.

I knew her sickroom should be in the same section of Winterfell as mine, it was easier for the maester to keep track of his patients that way. Alas, I found myself in the adjoining courtyard before I could find her door. Wandering the perimeter of the smaller building I had been housed in, I was startled by the window before being opened quite violently. I heard a cracking, one of the window slats must have broken. I ventured closer, to investigate.

"No," came a voice. Mother's voice, I realized.

"Yes." came another, young and masculine. Robb, I thought. She must have awoken already, and a meeting is underway to bring her attention to recent events.

"No, it can't be. T-that's just-," it seemed she was not taking the existence of the Trauma very well, I doubt anyone was, to be fair.

Their conversation continued in that vein for a while, and I was resolving to make my presence known before-

"The sky has been so since the evening Bran awoke, my lady." The voice of the maester sounded, and I halted in my tracks.

It was hardly the honorable thing to do, eavesdropping, but I hadn't been trained as a Genin for nothing. I was deeply curious to know what the other's about me had discovered about my condition.

They did not think I was the source of the Trauma, which was heartening and saddening in equal measure. I was glad to know they still thought highly of me, despite my strangeness of late, and I was frustrated that they were so terribly wrong.

Neither does anyone think me possessed, which was a concern I had. Shame my ninja training hadn't come sooner, or I might have kept the maester from noticing anything. But it was the mention of this book that truly shook me to the core.

Something had come back, with me? I was not familiar with this tome, but there was little other explanation that could fit. Something from beyond attached itself to me, possibly what allowed me to come back in the first place, and it was real. Present, in this world.

My suspicions were confirmed as Maester Luwin told his story of writings he could not decipher and strange lights emanating from the pages; he had no way of knowing, but by his descriptions I knew exactly what was written in that grimoire.

At the end, when he described how he came to his conclusions about my connection to it all, I was honestly astonished. Years of kingship had ruined me to the idea of anyone but me and my Hand being in any way competent. Having another put the pieces together so adroitly, it was uncanny to hear.

So thrown was I that I nearly failed to notice the Trauma bearing down upon me once more.

Nearly. But the pain soon came and reminded me of my new place in the world. Unlike before, while I could tell something had changed, I knew nothing new, nor had any new sense been unveiled to me. My first gift, the magic-sense, had all but vanished into the background of my perception, for it added little to my life save the knowledge that Winterfell had magic woven into its very bones. Any student of history could say that much.

I knew not what had changed, but the pain that visited me was not small, so something must have come through. By the time I had regained my senses, it seemed the meeting was drawing to a close. Mother was in hysterics, and it did hurt to hear her commands.

I knew she cared, but to try and keep me ignorant of matters so pressing? With such an obvious connection present? It baffled me that she could even think such a course was wise. Robb fought valiantly, but retreated swiftly; he was wise in matters of battle, and knew this was not one he could win.

Robb and the maester met up halfway through the courtyard. They hadn't yet seen me, near to the wall as I was. As I approached, I was deeply gladdened by their words.

"We need to talk to Bran."

"Your mother says-"

"Hang what my mother says! She is not thinking straight! Bran needs to know, he has a right to know, whether or not you are right about this connection!"

"Your mother would be most wroth with us both if she knew."

"Let her be wroth! I do not care, he deserves to know!"

"That will not be necessary, I've heard everything." I spoke out when I had come close enough. No doubt I made a strange sight, despite what covering the Mist might grant me; I sat astride a normal chair held aloft by a glowing orb, one hand on the back of Summer and one raised in greeting. The two of them turned about, shock writ plain on their faces.

"Bran!?"

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul

-Invictus,

​

Chapter 5: Invictus

"How- Wha- Why- What the-"

To say the pair of them were surprised by my presence would be an understatement. They were positively baffled by my sudden appearance, and it took a minute for them to regain their composure. Their first questions differed slightly, however.

"How on earth are you doing that!?" Was Maester Luwin's concern, gesturing to the green orb my chair was innocently hovering over. Robb, however…

"What in the world are you wearing?" Ah, my clothes were still ragged from my transformation. Seems the Mist clouds their eyes just enough to-

"I know for a fact none of us have clothes so…" Robb seemed at a loss for words, which I found odd. Shabby dress is odd for lordlings, but not so much they could not be spoken of, Confused I look down to my ragged tunic and-

What in the world am I wearing?

My taloned feet were clad in the most normal-looking garment I'd been unwittingly dressed in, they were a simple pair of sandals, though rather brightly colored in a blinding green and lacking most of the securing straps, leaving the sole to flop about my claws by the two loops about them. Memories of psychic training brought up a name for these, but I refused to acknowledge it.

Going from the bottom up, my legs were clad in strange pants that only traveled down to my knees. It was startlingly bland among the riot of colors the rest of my outfit presented, being only slightly darker than skin, but containing enough pockets to make a rogue out of me. 'Cargo shorts' my memories said, and I admit the name is apropos.

My tunic was especially strange, short for a tunic but not quite a shirt, covering half the length of the shirts. It was not nearly as well fitted as tailored clothes, but it fit well enough, and was the dark green of forest undergrowth. The true strangeness of it was the fact that someone had mistaken my garments for canvases and had painted a scene across the breath of my chest. The moon centered prominently, looking down upon a misty forest vale. A weirwood stands below the moon, nearly a caricature of reality, surrounded by a wolf, hound, and a very large crow.

These 'T-shirts' come from a very strange land indeed, for people to wear paintings as clothes. Absentmindedly adjusting the collar, my hands brushed upon a very plush fabric. Feeling around, I grabbed the thing which had been around my neck and brought it around to look at.

It was a wolf, or a child's stuffed wolf toy. The paws had been wrapped about me in the manner of a wolf-skin mantle. The sight of it brought a comfort from the newest part of myself. I considered throwing it away for that alone, but something in me ached so at the thought, I simply placed it back on my lap. The 'plushie' could stay, but I will not disgrace myself with such a childish display.

Robb was looking even more bewildered seeing me examine myself. I doubt he would believe they simply appeared without warning, save that they absolutely did..

"I'm not quite sure myself, frankly." I told him, honestly. To the maester, I was a bit more flippant. "And I'm floating by the power of my mind, I learned how to do so half a bell ago."

These answers did not satisfy them, but before they could demand more, I raised my hand to stop them.

"I know, I know, things are quite strange, but as I said, I heard everything. And it's cleared a few things up significantly, I think." The Trauma glanced off my mind this time, eliciting a twinge of easily ignored discomfort.

I leveled my gaze at Luwin, as serious as I could be in this mummer's garb. "I should like to see this grimoire for myself, maester."

"Your mother won't be happy." he said.

"She seemed plenty unhappy already, what's one more thing?" I replied. "Besides, I am a witch now; I'm fairly certain her faith conflicts with my general existence now, I'm fairly certain that will take precedence." Robb frowned, but said nothing. Her earlier display was still ringing clearly in both our ears.

"Speaking of," The maester said, a boundless curiosity dancing in his eyes. "How are you doing that, truly?"

"Take me to this mysterious tome," I smiled, "And I believe these twisted mysteries shall begin to untangle themselves." His eyes grew wide, understanding dawning.

"Well, let's be off then, shall we!?" He scurried along at his fastest pace westward, towards his turret study. Robb, Summer, and I followed behind.

"Bran, I…" Robb started, then sighed. "I'm not sure what all this is, or why it's happening. You are my brother, and I will always stand by you, no matter how strangely you move about. But… I am worried for you. This is too much for a lad your age to deal with, and-" I snorted. There's not much point anymore to keeping up the illusion of youth.

"I am hardly as young as I appear, brother. And," I said, noticing his worried face, "I am most certainly not possessed , if that's what you were thinking." Probably.

He just looked more confused. "What could you possibly mean, then? I've known you all seven years you've lived!"

"The first seven, aye," I nodded, "But you're missing some several-odd decades of context, unfortunately." He boggled at me.

"What?"

"I mean what I say, Robb: That I have lived a great deal longer than what my body shows, and know a fair bit of what is to come. Or, what was to come, at any rate." I glared up at the throbbing Trauma grimacing across the sky. "That's certainly new."

"You mean to say, you've come from the future!?" I nodded, and Robb leveled an incredulous gaze at me. "How is that possible!? Is the future not unwritten!?"

"Becalm yourself, Robb. The future is ever undetermined, as I discovered at great personal cost. Yet I am glad for it all the same, for the cost of treading the path laid for me was… too high to bear." His eyes softened, hearing the bleakness in my tone.

"What happened, or what will happen?" He shook his head, "Rather, what was… going to happen?" He sighed and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

I smiled weakly at him. "It's been a rough time and no mistake, but I'm as sound as I've ever been. Do not worry overmuch on my behalf, Robb. Just…" My eyes hardened at the memory of a tragic wedding. "Do not trust the Freys."

"Come, come, we've arrived!" The maester called before Robb could respond. He was gesturing us to follow through the door leading to his turret study; without significantly exerting myself I hadn't even realized we'd reached the western wall.

An idea crossed my mind, and the eyes of a kind woman from another life, and I thought of a way to try and alleviate the dreariness of that conversation, if only slightly. I looked up at where his window, some hundred and fifty feet off the ground, was secured only by shutters, and grinned. A child had the right to act slightly childish, no?

"No thanks, maester, I'll take the swifter path." I turned to Robb. "Watch this!"

Using half-recalled instincts, I pressurized the thought bubble beneath me, launched myself and my chair through the air. I soared up the tower, but the height of my arc could only reach 25 feet on a good day. Before I could start to fall, I created a solid mental platform beneath me, as vibrant green as the ball was.

"BRAN! WHAT IN THE HELLS ARE YOU DOING!?" Robb shouted from the ground, looking much smaller than before from this height. Summer simply padded his way into the maester's turret, unconcerned. He was used to my love of heights. I gave a jaunty wave and grin in return, and leaped from the platform I had made, dissolving it in the process. I had missed the feeling of being so high up! By the way Robb raced into the maester's tower, I assume he figured my plan out.

In this manner I leaped my way up the side of the tower, racing against the maester and my brother. Upon reaching the maester's window, I found his shutters latched tight. I took a moment to simply observe Winterfell from this perch, the sight near bringing me to tears. Gods, how long had it been since I could do this?

"No matter," I said to myself, there was business to attend to, and called forth a little shadow. "Unlatch the window for me, if you please."

Yessir, burbled unsettlingly from my own shadow, before stretching beneath the window lattice and unlatching it for me. Entering into the study, careful not to muss up the maester's desk as I rolled over it, I dismissed the shadow once more. His room was exactly as messy as I remembered it, there was no need to add to it.

I settled myself down, dismissing my levitation as well. It wasn't another half-minute or so before Robb came bursting in through the door, red-faced and breathing heavy. He stomped over to me, terrified fury written on his face.

"Do not. Do that. Again." He panted at me, pointing directly at my face. I grinned back.

"I promise to only do it while you're not looking."

He clutched my shoulders in his hands, hard enough to twinge my still aching ribs. Robb brought our foreheads together, and stared me right in the eyes, before breaking into laughter, as boisterously as his young frame could. I would've followed, had the Trauma not glanced off my mind again. It was a nice change of pace from the repeated migraines and strange powers that characterized this day so far, but it had been unusually active today, and I had no clear idea why.

"Gods, Bran. I don't know whether to strangle you or hug you until both arms fall off."

"Yours, or mine?" His laughter started anew, and I did follow this time, and we stood there until Summer decided he wanted a hug and broke us up. The maester followed not far behind, not breathing nearly as hard; it seems he had more faith in my ability than Robb did. Summer satisfied himself resting his large head on my unfeeling knees.

"I saw the platforms," he said, "but I should like to know how you came in through a latched window."

"I had a friend help me." He walked over to his desk, where a truly massive tome rested. It was surrounded, mostly on the floor, by reference works detailing various recorded Higher Mysteries that had been studied by the maesters.

"Hmm. A shady friend, I assume."

"You always were sharp-witted, maester."

"It would be interesting to see one of them, I feel like it may provide great insight into the workings of the Asshain Shadow-Binders."

"Perhaps, but first…" I reignite my thought bubble, and turn towards the grimoire.

No, the Grimoire. It has a presence about it I can feel like a wave crashing against the shoreline, as if all other speelbooks were mere imitations of this prime specimen.

"Incredible." Comes out against my will, a whisper of awe.

"It just seems like a book to me." said Robb, eyes unseeing.

"No," I said, "It's so much more, I can feel it." I reached out towards the Grimoire, and tried to lift it.

"Bran, that book weighs at least two-," whatever measurement Maester Luwin was about to list was cut off, as I lifted the Grimoire with all the ease of picking up a crow's feather. It must have been a strange sight, a boy of seven holding a book built for lecterns in one hand.

The others had run out of confusion for the day, but still allowed me to do what I needed to. I turned the Grimoire to the very first page, where the title ought to be listed. The page was blank, but not for long, as the golden light Luwin spoke of shone out from it. The others turned their heads, apparently blinded by it, but my eyes were fixed on the glowing words that appeared.

The Celestial Grimoire:

A Complete Compendium of Spells,

Magicks, Mentalist Abilities, Items of

Enchanted Nature, Divine Blessings,

Alchemical Workings, Arcane Crafts,

And All Other Such Knowings As Befits

The Respectable Magician

​

"Amazing, are you seeing this?" I asked my companions. "The Celestial Grimoire, indeed!"

"Can you read this!?" Maester Luwin was unnervingly excited.

"I understand why some entries may be unreadable, but surely the title is writ in common Westerosi, no?"

"Can't make heads or tails of it." Robb shook his head. "Barely looks like language, honestly."

"Indeed, though there is clearly a pattern to it." He pointed to one line of the title. "I can make out some old symbols the Pyromancers used to encode their alchemical knowledge, though I know not their meaning."

"Well, the title here reads…" I repeated the title for the benefit of my companions.

"Incredible!" said the maester. "Could this tome truly hold knowledge of all magic in the world?"

"I find it quite plausible, from what I've been experiencing, though there is clearly significantly more to this story." I turned the page over, to where an introduction ought to be. The Grimoire complied, writing in golden light the information we sought. I spoke again the words for the sake of those who could not see.

Within this Grimoire Celestial is held All Known Magicks, Though no more than some few Knowings may be Imparted upon the Holder of the Grimoire at any Time, for the Greater the Knowledge the Greater the Cost upon the Bearer.

The Grimoire shall respond to Will and Need, Providing such Powers as Benefit the Holder at the Appropriate Time. The Current Holder of this Edition is one Brandon Stark, Second Son of Eddard Stark Lord of Winterfell, of Westeros, upon the Surface of an Earth beneath the Light of Seven Celestial Spheres, within a Most Ancient Realm in the Wider Celestium.

The Grimoire came into the Possession of Brandon after a Most Foolish Attempt to Rewrite the Scroll of History after Fouling the Wheels of Destiny, Leading to a Great Tear in the Firmament of the Earth. The Grimoire Favors the Foolish, however, for only Those Few with the Will and Drive to Shatter the Laws that Bind Us are Worthy of Its Power.

In Time, when Wisdom may Temper the Folly, This Grimoire shall mold Its Bearer into a Most Powerful Sorcerer, Warlock, Wizard, Witch, or other preferred Worker of Wonders. The Grimoire is an Artifact of Great and Terrible Power, and will not Suffer other Magicks before It, as the Bearer may have Noticed Already.

Such Abilities as once were Held may only be Returned at the Whim of the Grimoire.

​

"Bran…" said Robb. "What exactly happened in the time you came from?"

I sighed. "That… would be a very long story, brother. In short, war. War that took from me our father, all my brothers, and would have taken Arya too had I not intervened and shattered prophecy in so doing."

"We were, all of us, fated to die?" Rabb was shocked, as I expected.

"Death would be preferable to what happened to some of us." Certain memories threatened to rise once more, but I squashed them with another gruesome memory. "I still remember Maester Luwin begging us to end his life after he took a spear through the guts."

"Me!? How did I get involved in any sort of battle!?"

"'Twas no battle, but treachery. One of the sides in the war was the Ironborn, as always." Robb quickly came to the conclusion I had led him to, and shook his head, horrified.

"No! No, I know Theon, and while he's a prick at the best of times, he's no traitor!"

"How far would you go, to make Father proud?"

Before he could respond, I could feel the Trauma, or perhaps the Grimoire through the Trauma, reaching out to me once more. Rather than try and ignore the feeling as I had done before, this time I tried reaching out directly. Will and Need, the Grimoire said. What I need right now is a way to understand this connection between us, this hard link in my mind's depths to this artifact.

The pain came over me, as it had so often before, as bad as when my psychic powers were unlocked. Whatever indignation Robb felt was replaced by terror as he witnessed several things all at once: first, my pained rictus grip keeping the Grimoire close to hand while I tried not to faint from the agony.

Second, the Grimoire began flipping its pages madly, settling on some place very near the beginning. The pages glowed with familiar golden light, inscribing knowledge into the pages as surely as it was inscribed on my mind. Thirdly, the Trauma hanging over us quaked once more, red light rippling down upon the world. This last thing occupied the maester's attention most of all, having grabbed his Myrish eye to make observations.

My mind was rarefied, clarified, with the knowledge of a strange new brand of mental magic. No memories, thankfully, but the name Occlumency drifted through my mind, and some little knowledge of its sister art, Legillimency, that it was primarily designed to guard against.

The fortress my mind had become, however, had one major weakness. In the very deepest recesses, I could feel it - the Celestial Grimoire. A gaping chasm in my mind, simultaneously massive beyond reason and the width of a hair, woven over by a crystal lattice-work infinitely thin and stronger than the Earth.

I knew nothing would pass by that the Grimoire would not allow, but equally I knew this was not a normal consequence of what I did: the hole felt older, just slightly, than the structures built around it to integrate with my mind. I had damaged myself, severely, by traveling through time, and only by this Grimoire's grace did I survive. It must truly favor fools, if I was chosen by this artifact.

"Stranger's piss!" The unusually vulgar invective slipping from the mouth of Maester Luwin brought me right out of my inner thoughts. I had a significantly refined control over them now, but I'll need practice if I was to better comprehend the way the Grimoire had interfaced with my mind and soul.

"What's the issue, maester?" Robb stared at me, incredulous.

"Bran, you can't be serious. What the hell was that!?"

"The Grimoire, Robb. Magic always has its cost, and I should be grateful the cost so far has been a momentary agony rather than anything truly severe."

"It's getting bigger!"

"Don't you dare tell me that was not severe! You looked like the bloody Stranger had come and ripped your bloody heart out!"

"And then I got better, Robb, it's not an unfamiliar pain."

"This happened more than once!?"

As I thought to respond, it clicked in my head what the maester had said.

"I'm sorry maester, did you say it was getting bigger?"

"Yes! The phenomenon-,"

"The Trauma." I clarified.

"Hmm? I'm not familiar with- never mind that!" He shook his head. "What matters is, I've been making observations since that thing, this Traw-muh, appeared. And it is observably larger since my earliest recordings!" I sucked in a breath through my teeth.

"That's not good news, maester."

"Oh, is it not? I had thought it bloody marvelous news, myself!" He said, darkly. "Why, I'd send a report to the Citadel if any of my ravens would fly!"

"Maester!" Came from Robb. "There's no need for that, Bran is only-,"

"Well over thirty name-days, by my reckoning." I interrupted. "Honestly, Robb, there's no need to leap to my defense. Years as King did much to strengthen me against such verbal blows."

"Wha- You- King!? What the hell happened that let you be King!?"

"Forced me to be King, thank you. Do you think I wanted the job? I'd have been happy enough with my family and the trees in the Godswood." I hadn't thought Robb could get more gobsmacked, yet here we are.

"You're right, Robb. I'm sorry." The maester sighed. "I shouldn't snap like that, it's unproductive at the best of times, and we are far from those. We need… something. A solution, hopefully."

"I wanted to understand the Grimoire more, this last time, and it gave me the tools to defend my own mind from intrusion." I explained. "In so doing, it let me come somewhat to grips with the mechanism by which it connects with me. I cannot say why the Grimoire has been so active today, and it worries me greatly that a trend may be forming."

"When next it connects," the maester said, grimly, "You must try and find an answer to this madness, because even without knowing all the details-" He gestured upwards to the Trauma, "That thing growing large enough to envelop the sky entirely would certainly spell doom of some kind. Am I wrong?"

"No, I think you've summed the situation up nicely." I smiled. "Still, in lieu of anything else to do for the nonce, perhaps we can look through the Grimoire and I can explain some of what I can do, now?"

The maester took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

"I should like that very much, Bran. Come closer, Robb, and let us see what this strange tome has to offer." The maester shuffled closer, before stumbling over some unseen hurdle. Thankfully he caught himself, and turned to look for the offending object.

Sitting innocently on the ground was a case of a make Bran had never before seen, satchel-shaped but oddly solid, yet completely wrapped in fine leather.

"That's odd, I've never seen something the likes of that before." Said Luwin.

"Likely, 'tis my fault once more." I said. "The Grimoire has gifted physical objects to me before, which reminds me I really should collect my notes from my sickbed. Hold on a moment."

I called forth a little shadow and gave it the command to bring my notes and pouch from out my room. It scurried off under the door to fulfill my desire.

"Now then," I turned back to Maester Luwin, who was now holding the not-satchel. "Let's see what mysteries hide in this little thing, yes?"

I took the package from him, and felt it's odd solidity for myself; it was clearly made of some fine leather-wrapped wood, yet I could think of no reason a carrying bag would need such rigidity. Turning it about, I noticed two little clasps holding it together near the handle. Opening the case, my heart nearly leapt with joy at what I saw within.

Quills. Loads and loads of quills. After two days of trying to write with a paintbrush, I was very happy to see my writing tool problem was forever solved. Tearing my eyes away from the beautiful quills, I saw a much smaller and more colorful box nestled off to the side of it, and a lovingly-crafted… stick of some kind. Clearly it was important, because it was strapped in rather securely and had been tenderly carved by the hand of a master woodworker.

It was carved from a weirwood branch, by its coloration. Unstrapping the stick and picking it up-

Magic! I could feel the magic flowing through me! Like soothing rain and summer breezes, it flowed through me and out of me, through the wand, as I now knew it. On a whim, I flicked the wand- my wand- with a small gesture, and from out the tip came a rainbow of brilliant sparks!

I simply luxuriated in the feeling of the magic. Looking out the window, even the Trauma didn't seem half as bad, considering. The world was hardly gone yet, after all, and while the world still lives, there was hope.

I couldn't help it- I started laughing, not as a man my true age should, but fully and completely with the wonder only a child can manage. Even as the sparks dwindled, my giggling continued- all the way until I felt the Trauma reach out to me again.

Despite the absolutely wonderful feeling flooding me, I had not forgotten what was just decided. Focusing my will, and trying to impress the need upon the Grimoire, I asked with all my being for some magic that could alleviate our problem.

It was difficult, and painful- fully several orders of magnitude beyond anything I had ever experienced. My body, my soul, they felt hollowed out; siphoned through and replaced with knowledge, so much knowledge! My vision swam, and eventually faded, though the pain did not leave me.

In the far distance, I heard cries of 'Bran!' and the howling of a wolf, but I could not focus on that. I was the receptacle of ancient magic, Arts and Techniques making themselves known to me. The movement of stars, of beasts, the cycles of nature all resounded in my head, the whirling of the celestial spheres and their impact on mortal magic carved themselves into the recesses of my mind.

Even deeply agonized, I could feel my Occumentic skills sorting and organizing the information nearly as fast as it came through. As the world began to fade, the flow gradually lessened, until it finally stilled and left me blissfully unconscious. In the depths of my mind,as I drifted into healing slumber, one phrase reverberated throughout:

Ars Hermetica​

Robb hardly knew what to do. Bran waved his magic sparking stick, giggled like a madman, seized up into a horrible rictus of agony, and fell unconscious. This was so far beyond what he was expecting today.

And the little information Bran let slip of his future-past life only baffled him more. How did the Starks nearly die out, why was Bran King? All these questions and more took a far lesser precedence than ensuring Bran's health, however.

He lifted his younger brother, for he was still younger for as long as he held that form, and started to carry him out from the maester's study, with Luwin himself not far behind.

Suddenly, the study door flew open. Behind it, Ser Rodrik, sweaty and in a huff.

"My lord," He panted. "There- There's a stranger, out- out by the Broken Tower." He shook his head. "I swear, I've never seen that building there before. He might be some kind of witch!"

He only then noticed what Robb was carrying. "What's the little lord doing here?"

Naturally, 'twas then that Bran's little shadow came back and dropped a small pouch and a ream of good paper by Robb's feet. Rodrik near screamed his own head off at the sight of the living shadow.

Robb looked towards the ceiling, wondering why the gods had cursed him so.

Chapter Six: Hammer and the Anvil

Robb finished tucking his younger brother back into his bed. His proper bed, at that, not a simple sickbed. Mother might be furious when she's well enough to visit, but Bran's unconventional ambulation is undeniably effective. The Great Keep would be no obstacle to him, even now. He'd been taken out of whatever ridiculous mummer's garb he'd somehow got dressed in and placed into decent nightclothes for recovery.

Nevertheless, he still had his little wolf doll clutched in his arms. If his actual direwolf hadn't had plenty of space to rest on his bed, Robb imagined he would get jealous. The shadow that had given the master-at-arms a fright was sitting disconcertingly under the bed, the darkness beneath more noticeable than usual; it was unwilling to be dismissed by any save its caller.

He shook his head, looking at his little brother, so peaceful in sleep. Robb didn't follow much of what had happened after the meeting in mother's sickroom, but he knew Bran would need help getting through it. Whatever future he had seen, for it still rubbed Robb the wrong way that the future could be a place one could come from, it was worth averting.

He didn't care for many of the details Bran had shared.

Thankfully, the Trauma, as Bran had called it, seemed to grow dormant with his brother safely abed. Given what powers Bran had already demonstrated, Robb shuddered to think of what could be so powerful as to render his brother unconscious by its mere existence. Not to mention how much the Trauma had grown with it.

Robb hadn't needed the maester's spyglass to see the hideous growth, that time; a full tenth of its length added onto it once more. If it had kept growing at such a rate, it would soon cross the sun's path. No major celestial wanderer had entered the Trauma's path, as yet, but if it could not be fixed Robb knew it would not be long.

That was not a sight he was keen to see. He dearly hoped Bran had received something useful from that exchange.

A knocking brought him out of his thoughts. "Is he sorted, my lord?" Came the voice of Ser Rodrik. "Because we still have a situation to manage!"

Robb sighed; he had hoped Bran might awaken swiftly, yet if it keeps the sky quiet perhaps it is for the best he slept. Perhaps the rest shall do him well, and his abilities will lead him to a swift resolution of the Trauma.

He snorted. A man can hope.

Another round of knocking set him off towards the door. Opening it, he saw the still somewhat ruddy face of his father's master-at-arms. He seemed relieved that the stranger was receiving the attention he thought it deserved.

"Thank you, my lord. Swiftly, now, we mustn't tarry further." He started off, then stopped, suddenly quite wary. "Er, that- that thing isn;t coming along, right? You sure you trust Bran to it?"

"As sure as if he conjured it forth himself." Robb said, wryly. "On account of that being what happened."

"Don't like it, either way. A sword without a hilt, that magic stuff is." He started off again, and Robb followed after.

"Any weapon is worth the risk in desperate straits, Ser."

"Aye, you've the right of that, lad. Doesn't mean I like it any better."

"Nor I, Ser. All the less so for how it's my brother entangled with it all."

The knight simply nodded, for he too would brave any storm if it was kin that brought it upon them, even incidentally. Northmen knew the value of family.

Exiting the keep, Rodrik set off to the south.

"Ser? Was this stranger not spotted near the Broken Keep, and this odd building?"

"Aye," he replied, not stopping. Robb had no choice but to keep up. "But a man of mine came by, said our man had talked his way 'round into Mikken's territory. They've got the building on watch, so we're off to meet with our guest."

The smithy? Stranger and stranger. Robb could think of one-and–a-hundred reasons for a stranger's sudden appearance in Winterfell, and frankly Mikken would not have crossed into any of them.

"Have you any idea why?"

"Not a one, my lord. We'll just have to ask the man ourselves."

They marched in silence across the grounds to the south wall, where Mikken's smithy stood proudly near the gate. From the building came the usual sounds of a blacksmith, the clash of metal against hot metal, the clanging having a nearly musical pattern to it.

The musicality of it was enhanced by the faint sounds of singing ringing out above it.Robb looked at his companion: Ser Rodrik had little idea what it could be either, by his countenance. As they came closer, words started to form themselves from the noise, making the song known to the visitors.

"I thought to make a horseshoe and asked my hammer thus

He said, 'I'll ask the anvil what you require of us'

The hammer asked the anvil and she at once agreed

That they should work together in the way that I decreed!

And it's sparks a-flying, passion strong!

I am the blacksmith singing

The hammer and the anvil song!

"A work song, mayhap?" mused Ser Rodrik. "It bears a resemblance to a sailor's chant, but for a smithy's trade?"

Entering into the smith's abode, the two were struck by a peculiar sight: Mikken the smith, a wide smile on his face, working in tandem at the anvil with Rodrik's stranger. The both of them were belting out the verses and hammering in time with the melody, striking one after the other in the creation of a broadsword blade.

Mikken's newfound friend was a strange one indeed: stout about his tummy, shorter than Rodrik by a head, gray of temple, thin of hair, with a bulbous nose and a broad beard, much of him was familiar. Yet his ears were strangely pointed, in a manner Robb had never seen on a man or woman in Westeros.

He broke the verse as he caught sight of the two entering the smithy, and Mikken took over the piece smoothly, quitting the song as well.

"Hail, there, lads! Come on the Holder's behalf, have ye?"

"I beg your pardon?" Robb said. There was something undeniably common about the strange smith's manner of speech. Did he not know he was in lordly company?

"You know, the Holder o' the Grimoire?" He squinted at Robb. "You 'ave seen the thing, right? Bloody hard to miss, innit?" Of course this also involved his brother. Seemed every little thing since the world turned upside-down had, in some fashion.

"May I ask how my brother was involved with your… appearance?"

The long-eared man grinned. "Ah, 'is kin, is ye? Very good, indeed. And it was 'im what called me!" Robb frowned.

"I rather think my brother would have mentioned it, if he had."

"Well, like as not it weren't conscious, ye see?" He paused for a moment, watching Mikken quench the blade. "Good lad, good. Anyhow, as 'twas explained to me, sometimes the thing answers to conscious need or want, and sometimes it may well do whatever the hell it wants. Unpredictable, ye see, like so much o' magic is. The Grimoire decided he needed me, so 'ere I be."

"And who are you, exactly?" Cut in Ser Rodrik. The strange smith looked abashed for a bit.

"Ah, Din'ssake, where's me manners?" He futilely attempted to brush off the soot from his hands onto his apron, and held his arm out in greeting. "Ah'm Jorum, Master Smitty. Sworn to the service of the Holder o' the Grimoire, whosoever 'e be." Rodrik clasped the proffered hand warily.

"And what manner of service do you provide?" Robb asked. Jorum looked at Robb like a particularly dull hunting dog.

"Ye deaf, lad? I'm a smitty. I smith things." Robb refused to feel embarrassment here, even as he felt the flush climbing his neck.

"Nearly everything else that damned book has provided has been strange, otherworldly! I do not think your purpose is so simple as 'smithy'." The smith grinned at that.

"Ye'd be right in that, lad. A tack sharper than most, then?" He gestured to his tools. "Ah'm a smitty true, but me expertise lies in enchanted weapons. The mergin' of 'em, bindin' together power to power, a greater 'ole from lesser blades!" His tone was reverent, to a degree beyond what pride most craftsmen take in their skills. "So great was I, in this, that Din Herself chose me for this task!"

"Din?" Was this some foreign deity? Robb hoped he wasn't as itinerant as some of the septons could get.

"Ah, ye wouldn't know the Sisters, would ye?" He grinned again, lines on his face suggesting such was his natural expression. "Ah'd love to engage in a spot o' theology, but ah'm eager to meet the Holder I been called fer!"

"He's… indisposed, at the moment." Jorum's smile shrunk slightly, and he nodded.

"Ah, I see. Bit off a tad more than 'e could chew fer the nonce, did 'e? Must be new to all this." He shook his head. "Bah, I ain't fer the whole 'mentor' business, never were good with the teachin'. Never had an apprentice last the moon under me. Still, needs must."

Turning to where Mikken was set about tempering the blade they'd been working on, Jorum called, "You gon' be alright on yer own, lad?" Mikken snorted.

"I told you once you old codger, I ain't no fresh-faced apprentice! It's my smithing what keeps this castle, Jorum!"

"Show me a blade with an ounce a' magic in her, and I might agree wit' ye!" He grinned.

"We're the same bloody age, ya bastard!" Jorum burst into laughter at this, and Mikken wasn't far behind. Mikken waved his new friend off with a smile. The jolly smith turned back round to Robb and Rodrik.

"Right, then, let me show where 'tis Ah'm settin' up." He started off out of Mikken's forge without so much as a 'by your leave'. The sheer familiarity this smith was assuming was definitely starting to rankle both men, but they set after him regardless. He led the group nothwards, the route Robb recognised as leading to the Broken Tower.

"I'm not sure we've agreed to let you stay, just yet." Ser Rodrik said, a tad harsher than was necessary. Jorum's smile never faltered, however.

"T' be quite honest, wit' ye, milord, yer not the one wit' any say in the matter, not even if ye were Lord o' this 'ole keep."

"I beg your pardon!?" Robb repeated.

"No offense intended, o' course, but yer not the Holder. I serve yer brother, indisposed as 'e is, an' none else."

"I'll have you know," Robb said, steel and ice in his voice, "that my father is, indeed, Lord of Winterfell."

"Is 'e, now?" Jorum mused. "Well, 'tis nice to know the Holder is a noble o' some sort. Makes some things easier, not startin' from the ground up, ye know?"

Robb just glared at him, before Jorum got the intended message.

"Ah, let me rephrase, then. It wouldn't matter if ye were the Gods themselves come down t' tell me t' bugger off, because I ain't leavin' wit'out the say-so o' the Holder." His loyalty would be inspiring if his impudence weren't so irritating.

"I could cut you down, here and now, for those words!" Said Ser Rodrik, his loyalty showing through in his fury. Jorum nodded, happily.

"Aye, ye could. T'wouldn't matter o' course, but ye could." What?

"What do you mean 'it wouldn't matter'? Do you not value your own life?" Robb blurted out, curiosity overpowering his earlier indignation.

"I mean only what I say, milord. T'wouldn't matter. By the Grace o' Din and the Power o' the Grimoire, I serve 'til I ain't needed no more. Cut me down one morn, Ah'd be back wit' the sunrise!" He's a lunatic, Robb decided. Even the magic he'd seen so far couldn't possibly allow for such a circ*mstance.

"You're mad!" barked Rodrik. "Death is final, and has always been thus! Even the Old and New Gods agree on such!" Jorum grinned.

"Well, who said I was alive t' begin wit'?" Seeing the disconcerted looks on their faces, the smith burst out in laughter. "I kid, I kid, o' course Ah'm alive, flesh and blood just the same as ye. But I have died, once already."Rodrik seemed to have his fill of this nonsense, but Robb…

"How?" Jorum smiled a small, somber smile.

"Old age, me lad. I look old now? Last time I looked this good was a full score o' years ago." His eyes grew distant. "But don't feel bad for that, lad. I was old, but happy, surrounded by me children, an' their children, and even me children's children's get! Not everyone gets that much. But after I passed…." He sighed. "Oh, how wondrous 'twas t' meet me patron, the Goddess who'd held me faith me 'ole life, Din Herself!"

"Should you not be resting then? In whatever afterworld she promises?"

Rodrik scoffed. "My lord, you cannot truly be entertaining this farce!"

"Bah! Rest is fer the weak! Told 'er such, meself!" He grinned fondly at that memory. "Din appreciates a man what don't let his fire dim, and she proffered an alternative. To serve in death, as I 'ad in life, in a land far beyond ol' Hyrule. A place even Her Power could not touch."

"Does that not frighten you?" Robb asked, entranced. "To be beyond the reach of your Goddess, should something go awry?" Jorum chuckled softly.

"Lad, 'tis one thing to have faith in a Power far greater than yerself. Having that faith returned?" He sighed. "Oh, 'tis a feeling beyond compare. Din trusts me, lad. Enough to not do 'er any wrong while abroad, to keep 'er faith through thick and thin, and do me duty as Ah'd always done. A grand thing, 'tis, to have the Goddess believin' in ye."

"Grand. A zealous madman. Exactly what your brother needs." Rodrik bit out.

"Ser Rodrik-"

"Ah! We've arrived! Come in, come in, get the grand tour! 'Tain't much, but it's my smitty!"

It was true, they had arrived near the base of the Broken Tower, but something new was there as well. Watched over by a small squad of guardsmen, a small building of peculiar style sat abreast the Tower. A squat thing, with base of cobbled stone and walls of brickwork, and topped by a red tiling of some kind.

Strewn about were the tools of a blacksmith's trade, well worn and well-kept. The guards nodded warily at Jorum as he made his way into his abode. They filed in after Robb and Rodrik.

"So tell me, Jorum, why exactly was your forge planted here?"

"Well, seems t' me that the Holder is gonna set up shop hereabouts."

"How could you possibly know that, when you've never even seen him?" Rodrik demanded. The smith grinned.

"Well, Ah'm 'ere, ain't I?"

"That hardly makes any-" Robb was distracted from the debate by a rather unpleasant noise, that drew him to rush for the window.

"No," he groaned. "In his sleep!?"

Indeed, the Trauma was again quaking. Bran's unconsciousness had brought them only a few hours reprieve, if that. Luckily, it settled quickly. The maester likely recorded the growth from his study, but Robb was more concerned with his brother.

"My lord?" Ser Rodrik called. "Is aught amiss?"

"We need to check on Bran. Now."

"Little Holder might be in a spot o' trouble, is it?" Jorum grimaced, the expression unusual on his jolly. "Best come along then."

"Absolutely not!" Barked the knight.

"Ser, we haven't the time for debate! Bring Jorum, he might be useful!" Robb ran out ahead of them, his course set on the Great Keep.

He could only hope Bran was alright.

The forest burned, faces weeping bloody sap were screaming in agony. The stags, the wolves, the krakens and the vipers, all creatures of the realm lay slain, burned, mutilated.

Castles fell like wooden blocks; the sun and moon devoured each other.

Well, doesn't this look familiar.

The past was clouded, the future uncertain, and terrible power wound its way through the realm of men and gods alike.

The Seven appeared shattered, while the Old Gods damned all with their silence.

What is this, the fifth, sixth night we've done this?

Dark things swept through the oceans as fire the color of blood rose into a fearsome visage, domineering all in its path.

Beasts did battle with winter storms and strange stars loomed over distant skies.

But this time…

A crow bearing three terrible, burning eyes looked upon me, one eye full of wretched knowledge and all three brimming with anger and hatred. It cried out, even as its beak descended with intent to tear my flesh asunder.

I raised my winged arms in defiance, monstrous vitality granting me strength. The crow squawked in outrage, even as it tore at my feathers. I kicked back with my own taloned foot, for he was no longer the only one with claws here. It flapped back, out of reach, aborting its own attack.

HOW!? it cried, HOW ARE YOU SO

I am stronger now, teacher, I said to him. Strong enough to resist you.

YOU WILL NEVER BE STRONG ENOUGH, DEMON-CHILD. Lambasted the crow. NOT FOR WHAT IS COMING.

I have seen Westeros through the Long Night once, I countered. It will be no harder a second time.

FOOL CHILD! MONSTER IN MAN-SKIN! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS COMING, DO YOU!?

Then what, Bloodraven? The Ironborn, or R'hllor's priests? Surely, they will be no match for one who has seen their rise, nor would they match the might of dragons!

A familiar presence was pulsing, demanding entrance. The time was right, yet I could not be distracted from this exchange. I pleaded with the Grimoire for a little more time. I could feel the strain it was putting on my mind, keeping the connection open; I must be swift. I gestured to the world spread out below us, frozen in a metaphorical tableau.

I see no danger upon this earth that cannot be handled, with the power I may bring to bear. The teachings I had gained with the last opening had yet to settle fully, yet I knew their worth: Spells of power that could change the fate of kingdoms.

NOT THE EARTH, DAMNED FOOL. LOOK HIGHER!

I tore my gaze away from the earth to gaze upon the heavens, and gasped. I had seen the Trauma in the waking world, but here… It was even more horrifying. A bloody, gaping wound, such as a barbed arrow might leave through a man's torso, torn across the celestial sphere. Through it, I could see…

I could SEE

i CouLD SeE…

I tore my eyes away from the gate, for I knew it was a gate as much as a wound. There were

YOU SEE NOW!? THE EXTENT OF THE

NOW SIT STILL AND LET ME

DAmn it, the choice was made for me.

Grimoire, please! I reached out to the hole in the world, carefully not looking at it. Grant me the power to stave off mine enemy!

The grotesque thing in the sky pulsed at my words, and light like blood, or perhaps blood like light came streaming out from within. Each droplet exacerbated the damage wrought, and flooded into me.

NO! STOP THIS! YOU WILL DOOM US ALL IF THIS CONTINUES!

I could feel it so much clearer here, beyond the reach of my body's limitations. The pain was still present, yes, but generalized into a full-body burning sensation rather than the crippling headache. Bloodraven dived down towards me, catching me in the torso and pushing us both down towards the earth, before a sudden sensation of breaking glass caught the both of us, and dropped us.

Strange, dark winds buffeted us as we fell, the cries of strange beasts ringing in my ears. Still the crow clawed at me, even as we fell through heavy stoneworks and distorted beasts in what seemed to be an infinite pit. I knew an end must come eventually, so I closed my eyes and awaited the waking world.

When again my eyes opened, I was in the maester's study. Yet I was dreaming still, surely. My legs were functional, once more. In fact, as I thought this, I realized my legs had always worked in the dreaming, else I would not have been able to kick at the crow!

I took a moment to luxuriate in the feeling, before looking about the new dreamscape. Bloodraven seemed absent from this area, but he couldn't be far away.

It was a more solid thing than was usual for the crow-dreams. Usually things were far more malleable, changing at even the slightest thought and steeped in metaphor. Yet if it were not for my ambulatory abilities, I would likely assume I'd awoken.

On closer inspection, while it was recognisably Luwin's study, it was also… strange. The books on the shelves seemed exaggerated in size, and the clutter was significantly worse than the maester would ever truly allow it to get. It's a little like…

Like how I used to imagine the place, in my true youth. If that is the case, the castle should be easy enough to navigate, for I knew it quite well in those days. Leaving the study, I was accosted by a staircase that seemed half a size too big for comfort. I could've just levitated down, but I wasn't going to pass up a chance to stretch my legs while I had them. Striding unsteadily downstairs, I eventually found my way outside.

I could only describe it as 'Winterfell, as rendered by an artist who'd never been North'. The towers were exaggeratedly tall, the walls as well, and the grounds several times larger than they had a right to be. As if someone were illustrating an old Northern tale, but cared not for the accuracy.

I would've pondered more on the strangeness of the locale, had I not then been accosted by monsters. Bulbous, brightly-coloured things the size of a hunting hound, looking like a caricature of a cat and a dog at once. They'd be quite comical, had they not such a menacing aura. Actually, I recognized the feeling coming off them: it was similar to the vague feeling I got from Summer, only made more notable by his absence.

There were five of them, in total. I had no weapons, no defenses, I couldn't feel my shadows, and I was fully unsure of the reality of the situation. Still, I had a good feeling about this fight. As one of the creatures leapt at me, I ducked beneath the thing's stomach, bending backwards in a move only an Academy-trained ninja could pull off.

Departing significantly from the Academy style of taijutsu, as I bent back I stretched forth my clawed hands and grabbed the beast by its hind legs and fell backwards into a handstand, flinging the beast prone in the process. Using the creature's body as a baseboard, I leapt from my hands into an acrobatic flip.

I turned over in the air and came down with both talons onto its head, crushing it to death. Rather than an expected splash of blood and gore, the strange beast simply popped out of existence, leaving a sparking stone jittering on the ground.

I had little time to examine it, unfortunately, as the beast's friends saw I was not planning to die easily and rushed me all at once. Summoning my levitation ball I leapt over them in turn, calling forth a viridian platform in midair to observe them from.

I pushed a once more insistent Trauma away, confident that whatever this new realm was, it held the key to tackling this problem with Brynden. I drop from my perch onto an unsuspecting cat-dog, talons once more crushing it in their grip. By this combination of platforms and levitation ball-bouncing, I took the rest of the beasts out systematically, leaving a small pile of glittering stones.

Examining the pile, I saw them to be closer to crystals in truth, glowing with unnatural vibrancy and occasionally shivering strangely. Two varieties were on display: A bluish-green crystal that nearly hopped into the air every time it shivered, and a yellow-orange crystal that shone with a pleasant light.

An instinct drove me as I collected the crystals, one I knew to be derived from the same place this realm sprung. I brought the crystals together in my claws, and focused on the image of the beasts I had slain. In a flash of light, I saw the crystals dissipate, felt them melting through my hands. They flowed into a glowing mound on the ground, filling it with pure light.

Suddenly, with a burst of energy, a new beast stood before me, kin to those I had slain. Rather than their dark menace, however, this little creature radiated only happiness and loyalty. He bounded up to me joyfully, and gave him a little pat on his head.

He was no Summer, but a companion in this strange realm was welcome indeed.

In ideal circ*mstances, I suspected I could enter and leave this realm as I please, simply by sleeping. Between the distorted surrounds and the odd creatures, this place felt intimately connected to dreams and dreaming. But with Bloodraven about, any attempt to leave would no doubt be blocked until he could ravage my mind and memories once more.

I might hold power, but I recognise he is by far my better in the greensight.

With my new ally by my side, I set off on exploring the twisted Winterfell.