[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 36 - 40

Chapter 36: Wolf Spirit

The throne of the King of Winter was not the end.

They pressed onward, through winding passages long forgotten, past crumbling ruins and across dark subterranean rivers. Through caves where the only sound was the distant drip of water on ancient stone, until at last they glimpsed light ahead.

Bright white sunlight spilled down from a clear northern sky, illuminating a realm of weathered trees that had endured a thousand winters. Their gnarled trunks stood defiant against the elements, patches of snow clinging eternally to the ground beneath their spreading branches.

"The Wolfswood," whispered the old soldier, his weathered face solemn in the cold light.

The oldest and most vast forest in all the North.

No wonder we could still draw breath so deep beneath the crypts, Joffrey thought. The ancient builders had known their craft well.

By the time they emerged through a hidden entrance and reached the gates of Winterfell proper, they had walked a full hour, and the sun had already begun its descent behind the western hills. Lord Eddard Stark rushed toward them, his normally stoic face betraying his concern.

"Where in the seven hells did you disappear to?" he demanded. "Do you have any notion how worried everyone has been?"

The Lord of Winterfell turned to the side. "Vayon, find the men searching the crypts. Tell them the children have been found and to come up at once."

Winterfell's steward, Vayon Poole, bowed his head. "At once, my lord," he said, and hurried away to carry out his master's command.

Arya tugged excitedly at her father's arm, her gray eyes wide with wonder. "Father, the crypt goes on forever and ever! And there's this huge, enormous throne at the end!"

"The throne of the King of Winter," Bran added breathlessly, unable to contain himself. "It must be!"

Lord Stark's expression remained stern. "Never mind thrones. Your mother is half-mad with worry. Inside, all of you, and quickly." He cast a pointed glance toward Joffrey, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Besides, the King of Winter is naught but a tale these days. Winterfell belongs to the North, and the North has no kings anymore."

Joffrey offered an apologetic smile, carefully crafted to appear genuine. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. The fault is mine alone. Don't blame Bran and Arya for this adventure—I fear I put the notion in their heads."

"Upon reflection, I should never have disturbed the rest of Stark ancestors," he added with a convincing show of contrition.

Bran, still too innocent to perceive the undercurrents between the adults, confessed in a small voice, his face flushing red as a Dornish pepper. "Actually, Father, I was the one who insisted on going. Please don't misunderstand His Highness."

"Honesty is a rare and noble virtue," Eddard said, placing a calloused hand on his son's thin shoulder. "I don't blame you, Bran. I'm merely grateful you've returned safely."

Bran and Arya exchanged glances and sighed with relief.

As they made their way back to the main keep, the two young wolves proudly regaled their father with tales of their underground adventure, each trying to outdo the other with descriptions of the wonders they had seen in the ancient crypts.

Joffrey felt Lord Stark's gaze resting upon him, heavy as a shadowcat's. The message was clear enough: the Lord of Winterfell knew full well who had truly instigated this excursion into sacred Stark ground. Presuming to intrude upon the secrets of House Stark, disturbing the hallowed dead, and leading two young wolves into unknown dangers.

Silently, Joffrey imagined the sound of a bell: Ding, system notification, Eddard Stark's favor -1, Winterfell reputation -1.

Fortunately, his status as Crown Prince served as shield enough against open rebuke.

The moment they stepped into the great hall, King Robert's booming laughter washed over them like a wave breaking on the shores of Storm's End. Dinner, it seemed, would not lack for a centerpiece.

A wild aurochs—slain by the King's own hand, as he had no doubt reminded everyone a dozen times already—turned slowly on a massive iron spit above a roaring fire. Bright yellow fat dripped from the beast's flanks onto the hot coals below, igniting small bursts of flame with each sizzling drop.

Never had an aurochs received such loving attention. Each time a layer of meat was properly roasted, servants hurried forward to carve precisely the right amount, then carefully brushed the exposed flesh with marinades spiced to suit the various palates of the noble guests—some fiery, some fragrant, others sweet as summer honey.

Joffrey chose the spicy meat. The flesh was firm between his teeth, with a wild flavor unlike anything raised in a castle pen. Not unpleasant, he decided.

Bran approached, emboldened by their shared adventure. The half-day spent exploring the crypts had, in the boy's mind at least, forged a bond of friendship with the Crown Prince.

"Your Highness," he said eagerly, "I know secret places all around Winterfell—hidden passages and forgotten rooms that no one else remembers. We could explore them together, if you'd like."

Joffrey especially had no desire to visit the Broken Tower. The mere thought of it sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the northern climate.

"I would be most interested, truly," he replied with a regretful smile. "Unfortunately, the Small Council has been sending ravens urging my father to return south with all haste. I fear I cannot remain in Winterfell much longer. Better I spend what time remains with the people of the North."

Smoothly, he changed the subject. "Your father will make an excellent Hand, Bran."

"When we arrive in King's Landing, you'll find much to marvel at in the Red Keep. There are countless secrets hidden within the Dragonpit and beneath the castle's foundations."

"I only hope Lord Eddard does not refuse the King's offer."

Bran's face shone with hope. "How could Father possibly refuse?"

The word "Dragonpit" had caught the boy's imagination, just as Joffrey had intended. Bran's eyes grew distant as he surely pictured the cavernous ruins where the Targaryen dragons had once been housed. How vast must such a place be? Did the dragonriders live there too?

Joffrey could almost see the boy's dreams taking shape—Bran Stark clad in white armor and white cloak, astride a mighty dragon, sworn to protect his king.

Bran's thoughts were clearly full of the legendary knights of the Kingsguard he had learned from Old Nan's stories: Serwyn of the Mirror Shield from centuries past; Ser Ryam Redwyne; Prince Aemon the Dragonknight; the twin brothers Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk, who had lived and died together during the Dance of the Dragons; Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull; Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning; and Ser Barristan the Bold.

"Your Highness," Bran said suddenly, his voice earnest, "when you become king one day, you must—you must allow me to join your Kingsguard."

Bran, you are destined to become the Three-Eyed Raven, Brandon Stark, the future Greenseer, Joffrey thought to himself. But he merely smiled and said, "Most certainly."

Skinchangers, also known as wargs—these rare individuals possessed the uncanny ability to enter the minds of beasts, to see through their eyes and guide their actions. Some legends even claimed they could continue their existence within an animal's body after death had claimed their human form.

It was said that only one person in a thousand might carry the dormant gift of a skinchanger, and only one skinchanger in a thousand could hope to become a true greenseer.

Why, then, did the gift manifest so frequently among the Starks? How did these skinchangers harness their power? And why could Joffrey detect no magical essence around Bran or his siblings?

What had drawn the current Three-Eyed Raven to seek out young Brandon Stark specifically?

When Joffrey had sat upon the throne of the King of Winter, these questions had found their answers in the ancient runes carved into the black stone.

His sight had pierced the veil of time, reaching back to an age when the North was still called Winter. In that distant era, the throne had not been hidden away in lightless crypts. It had stood beneath the open sky, surrounded by ice and snow and blood.

Countless figures approached the throne through the centuries of his vision—some bringing sacrifices, others struggling or despairing before the seat of power.

Long-faced men and women wrapped in heavy furs presided over the blood rituals. Some wielded bronze scythes, swords, and axes, opening the throats of their sacrifices and letting steaming crimson life flow into the snow and toward the throne's base. Others brought down heavy stones to crush flesh and bone to pulp. Some simply placed severed heads around the throne like grisly offerings, sprinkling blood across the dark stone.

Souls exchanged for magic, a currency as old as time itself.

Joffrey observed as the magical essence surrounding the throne grew brighter with each sacrifice, releasing motes of starlight that drifted toward the shadows below.

Not everyone received this blessing. Most who were touched by the floating starlight shared common features—grey eyes like winter mist, hair dark as a moonless night, and long solemn faces.

Stark. Even then, they had been leaders among their people.

The starlight vanished into their bodies, and Joffrey witnessed these chosen few display extraordinary abilities—yet still no magical aura became visible around them to his perception.

As he stepped away from the throne, the visions dissipated like morning mist, leaving only the empty black stone behind.

But Joffrey now understood the secret of the warg.

Three types of runes adorned the throne: one he recognized as a mental rune, while the other two had initially been mysteries. Now he could name them.

One was a flashback rune, allowing him to witness the past through suitable conduits.

The other was a bloodline rune, capable of weaving runic power directly into human lineages—weakened and invisible, perhaps, but persistent enough to be passed down through countless generations.

Was the skinchanger's gift merely a diluted form of the mental rune's power?

Greenseers could observe the past through the heart trees with their carved faces. The flashback rune's effects were remarkably similar, possibly even more potent.

No wonder the Three-Eyed Raven sought Bran Stark. The last greenseer, Brynden Rivers, had chosen his successor well.

But could Bran's fate be altered? Was there truly no way to change his destiny?

Perhaps, Joffrey mused, there might yet be a "Warg" Brandon Stark among his Kingsguard someday.

It was certainly worth trying.

Chapter 37: The Watch of the Nameless

He had been ordered to watch here.

For now, he was naught but a nameless freerider who had followed the King's party north—one of many such men who rode in the wake of lords and kings, pledging no loyalty, serving only for coin and whatever food might be tossed their way.

Such an identity had its advantages and its burdens alike.

He was not bound to attend any particular noble, which granted him freedom of movement and a certain blessed anonymity. Yet this same lack of standing denied him the trust of Winterfell and its household. Many doors remained closed to him—particularly those that would have granted him access to his target.

All he could do was attempt to draw closer each day to Maester Luwin of Winterfell.

Word had reached Lord Tywin's ears that someone sought to sow discord between House Lannister and House Stark through whispered lies. His task was simple enough to understand, if not to execute: prevent any such villain from passing their slander to Maester Luwin, and above all, ensure Lord Stark never heard such poisonous rumors.

Simple orders, yet far from easy to fulfill.

The tower where the maester kept his chambers stood not far from the outer wall, near the bustling Hunter's Gate where men passed in and out at all hours. The bell tower, kitchens, kennels, and stables all stood within shouting distance.

During daylight hours, he could move about without drawing undue attention, as Winterfell swarmed with folk going about their business. But what good was that? No villain worthy of the name would strike in broad daylight. The true battlefield would be found only under cover of darkness.

And what reason could a common freerider have for lingering near the maester's tower after sunset? None that would withstand scrutiny.

He could only conceal himself and wait with a patience born of rigorous training. Fortunately, he knew how to move as silently as a shadow, leaving no trace of his passing to alert man or beast.

The only creatures he could not confidently hide from were those accursed direwolves.

Each time he ventured near the beasts, their eyes found him in the darkness—ancient eyes that seemed to peer straight through flesh and bone to the truth beneath. He had no doubt that had he dared take even one step closer, the wolf pups would have been upon him in an instant, their jaws closing around his throat.

By the grace of the gods, the wolves remained with their Stark masters, even sleeping in the distant Great Keep.

The Seven be praised.

Tonight's watch had begun easily enough.

He had spotted only three guards before scaling the wall to his current perch—a narrow stone ledge outside the window of the two-story building. He knew this lapse in vigilance was due to the Crown Prince's adventure with the Stark children. Lady Catelyn had dispatched a sizable contingent of men to search the crypts for the wayward children, and they were likely still returning to their posts.

He offered silent thanks to Prince Joffrey for this fortuitous distraction.

As the thought crossed his mind, a gust of cold air knifed through his cloak, and he nearly betrayed his position with a cough.

Winterfell's nights were bitter indeed. Born on the summer shores of the Sunset Sea, he had never experienced such merciless cold. The North was as foreign to him as Essos, and decidedly less hospitable.

He stretched his cramped limbs carefully and pressed his back against the stone wall. To his surprise, tendrils of heat seeped through the masonry, a blessed respite from the chill.

Remarkable, he thought.

His mind drifted to the glass gardens he had glimpsed during his first days at Winterfell—an impossibility made real, where fruits and vegetables grew in abundance, and flowers bloomed as though it were the height of summer in the Reach. It was said to be as warm within those glass walls as a Dornish spring.

The North held more wonders than southrons knew.

His target rose suddenly from his desk, and the man flattened himself against the wall, becoming one with the shadows. Maester Luwin selected a tome from his shelves, returned to his seat, and within moments, his head had drooped forward onto his chest.

This did not surprise the watcher. The old maester often worked by candlelight until the small hours, pausing occasionally for brief moments of rest.

Yet frustration gnawed at him nonetheless.

After days of vigilant observation, there had been no sign of the suspected informant. He was beginning to wonder if Lord Tyrion had placed him on a fool's errand while assigning more critical tasks to his companions.

Still, Maester Luwin was undoubtedly one of the few men Lord Stark trusted implicitly. Though the Great Keep was heavily guarded, the likelihood of someone approaching the maester with a message seemed high. And yet, the hours of his watch had yielded nothing.

Gods be good, he thought wearily.

Across the castle grounds, Prince Joffrey was equally helpless.

The prince could not determine whether his expectations were simply too high or if House Lannister's intelligence network was truly inadequate for the task at hand.

More than a month ago, Tyrion had provided him with a dozen names—men deployed by Lord Tywin to prevent anyone from inflaming tensions between the lion and the direwolf. In plain terms, Joffrey still had to contend with the chaos that would surely follow Lady Lysa Tully's secret missive to Winterfell.

He had finally begun to earn the trust of the young wolves, and House Stark was well on its way to becoming a steadfast ally. How could he allow a single letter to unravel all his careful work?

That wretched Littlefinger is the source of all this trouble, he thought bitterly.

Though he knew House Lannister had taken precautions, Joffrey could not set his mind at ease.

Each night, he employed his mental and reconnaissance runes to monitor both Maester Luwin and Lord and Lady Stark, fearing that a moment's inattention might allow the secret message to slip through, undermining all his plans.

His newfound ability to restore his spirit without lengthy periods of sleep was the only thing keeping him from collapse. Even so, the nights stretched interminably.

His sole comfort was observing the targets himself.

Lord and Lady Stark remained as vigilant as ever.

The Lannister agent—whose true name remained unknown even to Joffrey—could maintain his uncomfortable position for hours without movement. A man of rare talent, certainly.

Maester Luwin was the very archetype of his order. The gray-haired, gray-eyed scholar seemed without personal desires or amusements, his days consumed with reading and writing letters, poring over ancient tomes, tending to his ravens, and carrying out the countless tasks required by the lord of Winterfell.

After witnessing Maester Luwin's daily routines, Joffrey could not help but pity the second sons of Westeros's noble houses.

To prevent disputes over inheritance, these spare heirs were typically dispatched to the Citadel to forge their maester's chains, or to septs to take holy vows, or to the Wall to join the Night's Watch. Each path required them to relinquish any claim to marriage, children, lands, or titles.

Even the Kingsguard—which young Bran Stark dreamed of joining, the most revered order of knights in the realm—forbade its members from taking wives or siring children.

Such measures revealed how fiercely the lords of Westeros guarded the undivided inheritance of their family holdings.

Perhaps I should champion the rights of second sons when I take the throne, Joffrey mused. The more divided and weakened the power of the nobility, the more secure the crown.

A figure suddenly entered Joffrey's field of perception.

He snapped to attention, his weariness falling away like a discarded cloak.

At last.

The figure in his "vision" advanced cautiously, glancing about with every few steps taken—clearly no ordinary passerby making their way through the night.

The intruder carried a finely crafted wooden box containing a lens, with a letter concealed in a hidden compartment.

Joffrey watched as the figure approached the maester's tower with deliberate steps.

Has the agent not noticed? he wondered, turning his attention back to the Lannister man.

To his dismay, the agent had succumbed to exhaustion, his head lolling against the stonework.

Seven hells! Joffrey thought. What cursed luck is this?

Above the tower, the ravens in the rookery suddenly took flight, circling silently in the night air.

Something was amiss. Joffrey sensed a presence he had not anticipated.

The Three-Eyed Raven?

With swift concentration, he wove a dream using his information runes, directing it toward the sleeping agent.

The man jolted awake, eyes wide with confusion. I fell asleep? And dreamed such strange dreams?

He knew his training should have prevented such a lapse, but there was no time to dwell on the matter.

A figure had appeared before his target.

The intruder set down a wooden box with practiced silence, then turned to depart.

Maester Luwin's eyes fluttered open.

Seeing this, the figure fled in panic.

The agent waited with the patience of a hunting shadowcat, allowing the courier to pass directly beneath his position.

His dagger gleamed dully in the moonlight as he leapt.

One swift cut across the throat—a perfect strike. Yet somehow, it failed to find its mark.

The agent glanced toward the tower. Maester Luwin had already retrieved the wooden box.

No choice now but to end this cleanly, he thought grimly as he pursued his quarry.

Above, the ravens grew increasingly agitated, their harsh cries cutting through the night air.

Joffrey sensed an unseen adversary.

He turned his mental gaze toward Bran's bedchamber. The boy slept peacefully, yet Joffrey detected a strange force lingering about him like morning mist.

The Three-Eyed Raven!

Joffrey added this eldritch creature to his list of enemies.

First you seek to manipulate young Brandon Stark, he thought with cold fury, then you dare interfere with my agents and threaten to drive a wedge between the lion and the wolf.

You have made a grave mistake.

Chapter 38: Bran's Dream

Am I floating towards the sky, or falling?

Where am I?

Bran felt the world around him, but not with his eyes, nor with his nose, ears, or skin. He sensed it with something more primal—with thought itself.

He drifted in a void, weightless and formless. There was neither color nor feature to give him bearing.

Is this darkness or light?

It seemed to hold nothing, yet paradoxically, it seemed filled with everything that could ever be.

Am I breathing? Can I breathe here?

The sensation was strange beyond telling. In this place, nothing needed doing. Nothing changed. Only thought persisted.

Can I create something?

As soon as the question formed in his mind, the blank canvas before him was suddenly stained with a patch of gray. In less than a heartbeat, it expanded and contracted, filling the entirety of his perception.

The void became a world of gray mist.

Bran gradually understood. This was a dream.

He had no memory of ever dreaming such a dream before, yet the gray mist surrounding him felt oddly familiar.

Stranger still was the fear it stirred within him.

Everything seemed so peaceful. Bran didn't think himself so craven. It was only a dream, after all. What danger could there possibly be?

The gray mist suddenly churned and surged like a storm at sea.

Countless clouds rushed toward him, and he found himself submerged in an even denser fog.

Dizziness overwhelmed him, and then he knew with dreadful certainty.

He was falling, faster and faster, as if there would be no end to his descent...

"Fly."

A voice sounded from somewhere in the void.

"Fly up quickly. You must not fall to the ground."

Below the gray mist, Bran saw a blurry landscape take shape. Though it seemed distant, he could tell it was drawing closer with each passing moment.

What would happen if I fell to the ground?

Panic seized him.

"Who are you?" he called out. "I can't fly!"

"I am here." The voice grew clearer, as if it spoke directly into his ear.

Bran saw it then.

A raven circled around him on ebony wings. He tried to reach for it, but the bird remained just beyond his grasp no matter how he stretched.

"This is just a dream," Bran reassured himself. "I won't fall to the ground."

The raven cawed, a sound filled with annoyance. "No. If you fall, you will die. You must fly up."

The ground rushed closer. Bran heard the roaring wind, felt the gray mist sting his cheeks and fill his lungs until he could scarcely breathe.

The gray mist in his vision had transformed into gray rivers, like streamers flowing past him at terrible speed.

It's so high. So fast.

This was ten thousand times more perilous than jumping from the Broken Tower.

Will I die?

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. "But I can't fly."

With unexpected grace, the raven landed beside his hand. "I'm hungry," it said. "Do you have any corn?"

Bran frantically reached into his pocket, fumbling with desperate hope. He opened his palm, and a handful of golden corn kernels appeared, falling alongside him through the endless gray.

The raven hopped onto his hand and began to peck at the offering.

One bite, two bites, three bites, four.

At last, the raven spoke again. "I have wings, and you have wings too. You cannot see them, but they exist."

"You are too afraid. Fear makes your wings shrivel. Stop binding them. Let them stretch, and the wind will carry you aloft."

Bran listened intently to every word, though their meaning remained just beyond his understanding.

"Look down," the raven commanded.

Bran glanced downward, and an indescribable feeling seized every inch of his flesh.

The distant, blurry ground had transformed into Winterfell!

Even from atop the highest tower, Winterfell had never appeared so small, so vulnerable.

Through the swirling mist, he saw Maester Luwin lying in a pool of blood in the darkness, while a shadowy figure moved silently away.

No!

The scene shifted. Now he beheld the godswood bathed in sunlight.

His father knelt by the black pool, dipping Ice into the still water to wash away crimson stains from its rippled steel. His mother stood nearby, her face etched with sorrow and fear.

His parents departed, and the black water grew still once more, becoming a perfect mirror that reflected the towering, bone-white weirwood.

The red leaves rustled in the cold wind.

In the black water's reflection, Bran saw the carved face of the heart tree open its blood-red eyes and look directly at him.

He hurriedly averted his gaze.

Then he glimpsed the sleeping faces of his brothers and sisters. Deep, dark shadows stood before their beds—one with a terrifying visage, another clad in dazzling golden armor, and a third, a faceless giant, taller and stronger than any man.

Looking northward, he saw the Wall shimmering like blue crystal in the distance.

Beyond the Wall stretched boundless ice and snow, ancient forests, frozen rivers, and desolate plains of white.

His gaze traveled farther north still, until a strange light appeared at the edge of the world. Within that curtain of light, the heart of winter itself stung his eyes, bringing tears that froze upon his cheeks.

"Winter is coming," the raven whispered from its perch on his shoulder. "You have a mission."

"Why me?"

Bran turned toward the raven in confusion. The bird regarded him with equal intensity. Only then did Bran notice that it had three eyes, not two. The third eye, set in the center of its feathered brow, brimmed with ancient, terrifying knowledge.

The Three-Eyed Raven said only one word: "Fly."

Bran continued to fall, fall, fall.

Looking down again, he saw only ice and snow, cold and death. The frozen wasteland bristled with jagged blue and white spears of ice, reaching up toward him like the blades of countless enemies. Amidst the ice, he glimpsed human skeletons, countless bones picked clean by time and cold.

Will I join these skeletons soon? Father, save me!

Desperation clawed at him, a fear so deep it threatened to swallow him whole.

"Can a man still be brave when he is afraid?"

His father's voice echoed through the mist: "That is the only time a man can be brave."

"Now is the time, Bran," urged the Three-Eyed Raven. "Spread your arms and fly, or fall to your death."

The ice spears howled as they rushed toward him, like demons stretching their claws to claim his soul.

Bran spread his arms wide. The cold wind caressed his invisible wings.

And he flew upward.

He soared toward the sky as the terrifying ice needles receded below him. The world grew smaller and smaller.

This feeling is glorious!

"I can fly!" he shouted with wild joy.

I know. The Three-Eyed Raven fluttered its wings and hovered before Bran's face.

The ancient throne had awakened something in Bran's bloodline; his soul had begun to stir. The raven knew it must act now, before it was too late.

Bran, we will become one.

Its wings brushed against his cheeks, slowing his ascent and obscuring his vision. He wavered in the air, uncertain.

Bran felt the creature's gaze fixed upon the center of his brow.

Fear returned, cold and sharp as a blade of ice.

CRACK!

The boundless sky tore in two like parchment.

ROAR!

A monstrous beast wreathed in flame let out a cry that shook the foundations of the dream. The howling wind carried tendrils of fire across the entire world, consuming all in their path.

The Three-Eyed Raven beat its wings frantically, but was still blown leagues away by the terrible storm. Its whole body caught fire—red, blue, and white flames dancing across its feathers.

Yet Bran remained untouched by the maelstrom.

He raised his head to behold the source of his salvation.

Dragons and giants dominated the sky above.

The true dragonknight.

The dragon was more majestic than Balerion the Black Dread, and larger than Vhagar had ever been.

The giant wore armor and robes of purest white, his face concealed behind a white mask. In his hand, he held aloft a sword unlike any Bran had ever seen—a blade as black as smoke, yet rippled with veins red as freshly spilled blood.

Is that dragonfire?

The Three-Eyed Raven finally extinguished the flames that consumed its body. It spread its wings, and its form swelled to hundreds of times its previous size.

Its voice rasped like steel on stone: "You shouldn't have appeared."

The white-armored giant pointed the tip of his sword at the enormous raven.

"Yet here I stand," he replied. "Three-Eyed Raven."

The giant lifted his mask, revealing a face that Bran knew and trusted.

"Your Highness!"

"It's me."

Bran watched as the Crown Prince swung his sword at the monstrous bird.

"Don't trust this raven!" Joffrey shouted. "I know these creatures. It seeks to take possession of your body!"

Bran believed him instantly. The raven truly was a monster.

The gray mist surrounding them began to fade, replaced by pure white rain mist that danced and swirled.

Understanding dawned on Bran. This is my dream world. My power.

The rain mist joined the battle, attempting to blind the Three-Eyed Raven and corrode its midnight feathers.

Prince Joffrey's dragon unleashed a vast torrent of scorching lava, wide as the Sunset Sea.

The Prince raised his dragon-forged blade, which shone like the sun itself. Red light, black light, white light, and silver light poured into the sword before erupting toward the bewildered raven.

The dream world began to shatter like glass.

The Three-Eyed Raven let out an inhuman shriek before dissolving into dust.

Bran cheered in triumph.

The Crown Prince smiled at him warmly. "This is our secret," he said. "Tell no one."

The world vanished in a heartbeat.

Bran returned to true darkness, the comforting blackness of a dreamless sleep.

After a few shallow breaths, he opened his eyes and turned onto his side. Summer lay beside his bed, amber eyes regarding him steadily.

That really was just a dream...wasn't it?

Chapter 39: Farewell to Winterfell

The death of Maester Luwin cast a long shadow over Winterfell.

This gray-haired, frail old man had served House Stark with unwavering diligence for decades. It was his hands that had brought each of Lady Catelyn's children into the world. Over the years, he had become as much a part of Winterfell as its ancient stones.

Now the castle had forever lost a respected maester, lost the familiar sight of the old man reading by candlelight in the rookery, lost the patient teacher who shared tales with wide-eyed children and urged them to their studies with gentle persistence.

"He was a good man," came the solemn words.

"He was the most dedicated maester, upholding his oath and performing his duty throughout the long years of his life."

"Winterfell shall remember his contributions. The people will miss his kindness, his wisdom, and his steadfast character."

The septons recited prayers over the old man lying in his simple wooden coffin.

"May he rest in peace in the Seven Heavens..."

As the words faded, Maester Luwin was gradually lowered into the cold, dark earth of the North.

Lord Eddard and his lady wife stood at the forefront of the mourners, while the Stark bannermen bowed their heads in respectful silence. Bran and Arya wept openly, their young faces streaked with tears.

Sansa, her eyes rimmed with red, sought comfort in the prince's arms.

"May the gods have mercy and bless Maester Luwin's soul in the heavens," she whispered.

Joffrey held her close. "They will," he assured her.

Maester Luwin didn't have to die, Joffrey thought grimly. It was a cruel twist of fate that he woke at precisely the wrong moment.

Fortunately, the aftermath had been handled with reasonable discretion. The Starks knew only that someone had murdered the old maester, and the investigation over the past several days had yielded nothing of consequence.

A bloody storm, poised to be unleashed by a single secret letter, had been nipped in the bud. But only temporarily.

Joffrey couldn't help the throbbing in his temples at the thought.

Lysa Tully, what madness possessed you to trust Littlefinger?

Lysa's position was dangerously influential—both the sister of Lady Catelyn and the widow of the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn. The mere suggestion from her lips that the Lannisters had murdered the Lord Hand would be enough to plant seeds of suspicion in Stark hearts.

For Joffrey, the challenge was delicate. He could not allow the lion and the wolf to grow too close, yet neither could he permit them to tear at each other's throats.

One small comfort remained. Lysa still harbored caution in her heart. As long as she understood that the power of the Iron Throne was sufficient to destroy both her and her sickly son, she would hold her tongue.

The burial ceremony in the small sept concluded.

With thoughtful consideration, Joffrey escorted Sansa to the godswood to soothe her troubled spirit.

The godswood within Winterfell's walls stood apart from the world of men.

Ancient, gnarled oaks often blocked the narrow paths. Blue-gray sentinel trees bristled with hard needles, while ironwood trees lived up to their name, their bark black as night and their wood unyielding as iron itself.

This godswood embodied the very essence of the North.

Cold. Unyielding. Enduring.

They walked together to the black pool at the heart of the forest. The branches and leaves of an ancient weirwood tree intertwined overhead, spreading across the water like a living dome of crimson and white.

Joffrey moved closer to the heart tree.

For thousands of years, the fallen leaves and branches of the weirwood had created a carpet of soil so soft that each step felt as though the ground reluctantly yielded to the weight of the living.

The primeval forest possessed an unspeakable presence, as if the old gods watched with thousands of invisible eyes.

Joffrey stared at the solemn face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood.

The bone-white bark made its deep-set eyes appear even more scarlet. Though it was merely dried sap that formed those weeping eyes, the resemblance to fresh blood was undeniable.

Is the Three-Eyed Raven watching this place even now?

Joffrey knew the creature's abilities all too well. The weirwood trees were the raven's most powerful eyes, repositories of countless memories that the being used to observe the world across vast stretches of time.

He stretched out his palm and pressed it against the carved face. Immediately, the flashback rune presented him with countless visions from ages past.

He saw the same memories that the raven had witnessed through the centuries.

Sansa's mood had lightened somewhat. "Father says we'll depart for the south the day after tomorrow," she said, her voice soft against the silence of the godswood.

Joffrey turned and embraced her gently.

"Yes, and I'm grateful to Lord Eddard for not separating us."

Sansa pushed him away with a blush of indignation. "What do you mean, not separating us? You're not traveling with us at all. We might not see each other for months!"

"Don't be cross," he said. "I have matters of grave importance to attend to."

He lifted her chin with one finger. "I have a surprise for you on the day of your departure. Can you guess what it might be?"

"What surprise?" Her curiosity momentarily overcame her vexation.

Joffrey smiled mysteriously. "You'll discover it when the time comes."

Sansa kicked at him in mild frustration, but her eyes had regained some of their usual sparkle.

Winterfell bustled with activity in the days that followed.

Lord Stark, who would soon journey south to assume his role as Hand of the King, prepared to take nearly half his household with him.

His second son Bran, his eldest daughter Sansa, and his younger daughter Arya would all accompany their father to live in the Red Keep of King's Landing.

Winterfell's steward Vayon Poole, Sansa's dear friend Jeyne Poole, the captain of the guard Jory Cassel, the master of horse Hullen, and Septa Mordane were among the retainers who would travel with them.

The eastern sky had just begun to pale with dawn when the day of departure arrived.

The east gate of Winterfell teemed with people saying their farewells.

Bran rode excitedly upon a tall steed, weaving his way from the castle proper to the gate.

He spotted the crown prince standing by the roadside.

"Your Highness," Bran said, bending down from his saddle. The dream of that night had not been the end. The crown prince had bestowed upon him a mysterious power to resist the monster's attack.

Bran felt nothing but profound gratitude.

Joffrey waved a hand in casual dismissal. "Farewell until King's Landing. Be watchful on the road."

Bran nodded with all the solemnity he could muster, then spurred his mount toward the Kingsroad beyond the gate. The feeling of freedom was exhilarating!

Arya rushed over at that moment, her target the bastard brother who stood at Joffrey's side.

"Jon, I'll miss you terribly," she said, her usual fierce demeanor softened by imminent separation.

Jon tousled his little sister's unruly hair. "And I you. Don't fret—we'll see each other again before long."

Joffrey produced a small piece of polished steel and offered it to Arya.

"A gift for you," he said. "This is no ordinary trinket, but a treasure. With it, you and Jon may speak to one another across the breadth of the North."

Arya hesitated before accepting the gift.

Jon smiled and pulled a chain from beneath his tunic. Hanging from it was an identical piece of steel.

He spoke directly to the metal. "Arya, this is real."

Arya heard Jon's voice both from his lips and from the steel piece simultaneously.

"Seven hells!" she exclaimed, eyes widening.

She glanced at Joffrey, and the instinctive resistance she had harbored toward him diminished considerably. "Thank you," she said with rare sincerity.

Joffrey returned her thanks with a genuine smile. "Farewell, Arya Stark."

"Good nephew! Look who approaches," called Tyrion, making his way forward on legs too short for his liking.

Cersei enfolded Joffrey in a reluctant embrace.

"My sweet Joff, what madness possesses you? The Wall is a place of bitter cold and hardship. Was it Tyrion who put this foolish notion in your head?"

"There, you see? Once again, I am to blame!" Tyrion remarked softly to Jaime, who stood nearby.

Joffrey patted his mother's back reassuringly. "Uncle had nothing to do with my decision. I wished to behold the Wall with my own eyes and convey the royal family's regard to the Night's Watch."

"Mother, I pray you, be at ease. No harm will befall me."

He winked at Tommen and Myrcella, who stood behind Cersei.

After the days they had spent together in Winterfell, his younger siblings' impression of him had improved markedly. At last, he received two genuine smiles in return.

Cersei climbed into the wheelhouse with obvious concern etched upon her face.

Finally, the moment had come.

Sansa approached with graceful steps, clad in a silver-white leather gown.

"Where is this surprise you promised?" she asked, her voice alive with anticipation.

Joffrey produced a wooden tray covered with a bright red cloth, which concealed his farewell gift.

"Uncover it and see," he invited.

Sansa pinched a corner of the scarlet fabric and slowly lifted it away.

"Oh! It's magnificent," she gasped.

Every eye turned to behold the gift.

Crystal clear as freshly fallen snow, ice-blue as the depths of the sea—clusters of roses gathered together to form an exquisite queen's crown.

Joffrey placed the rose crown gently upon Sansa's auburn hair.

"These are winter roses, grown in the glass gardens of Winterfell. They were born to belong to you and you alone."

"That fateful spring, Rhaegar disregarded all consequence and bestowed this same blue crown upon Lyanna, the queen of love and beauty in his heart. Yet my love for you burns ten thousand times more ardently than his ever did."

"That was a spring of mistakes and sorrow."

Joffrey clasped the young girl's hand firmly in his own. "But we shall write a different tale, with the most perfect ending."

Sansa's cheeks flushed crimson as the roses in her crown.

Chapter 40: Slave Traders and Traitors

The sunlight dimmed as evening drew nigh, casting long shadows across Pentos.

Alyn stood at the edge of the sea, his gaze fixed upon the distant palace. Nine slender towers rose against the darkening sky, ornate and elegant, with pale ivy crawling across ancient stone like grasping fingers. The manse stood proud at the edge of the bay, a gift from the magisters of Pentos to Khal Drogo.

All the world knew the Dothraki lived as nomads, following the great grass sea wherever it led them. Their tribes were called khalasars, and the fierce warrior who led such a horde bore the title of khal.

And Khal Drogo commanded the largest khalasar of all, with more than forty thousand mounted warriors who answered to his call.

Alyn, however, was about to make an enemy of this man whose very name struck fear into the hearts of city-dwellers across Essos.

At a feast some ten days past, Khal Drogo had cast his dark eyes upon Princess Daenerys Targaryen and found her pleasing. The two were now betrothed, and the hour of reckoning drew ever nearer.

Alyn had precious little time remaining.

It was fortune alone that Khal Drogo had returned to his khalasar camped upon the grasslands outside the city walls, leaving the palace to house the princess and her retinue until the wedding day arrived.

After days of patient maneuvering, Alyn had finally arranged this clandestine meeting with Jorah Mormont.

"What business do you have with me?" came a deep voice from behind.

Alyn turned to face the speaker.

The middle-aged man who approached was broad of shoulder and thick of chest. His hairline had begun its slow retreat, and his skin had been bronzed by years beneath foreign suns. Upon his dark green surcoat was embroidered the sigil of his fallen house: a black bear rampant, standing upon its hind legs.

Ser Jorah Mormont, once Lord of Bear Island, now exiled from the realm he had dishonored.

"Lord Mormont," Alyn began, deliberately using the title the man had forfeited, "can you not see the folly and madness that drives Viserys? Why would a man of your caliber choose to serve such a master?"

Jorah's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Mind your words, squire. You forget yourself."

Alyn knew he must press onward, despite the risk.

"Following a beggar king who styles himself a dragon, or mingling with horse lords who know naught of ships or stone houses—is this truly the life you envisioned for yourself?"

The waves crashed against the rocky shore, their constant roar providing some small measure of privacy for this dangerous conversation.

"Or," Alyn lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, "do you perhaps still yearn for the pine-scented woods of your homeland? Might your present allegiance stem from promises whispered to you from across the Narrow Sea?"

Jorah's hand moved to the hilt of his sword with deliberate slowness. "Speak plainly. What game do you play?"

"The Spider spins his webs, and his whispers cross oceans," Alyn replied, watching the knight's face closely. "The promise you received comes from the Spider himself."

Alyn could only pray the Crown Prince's intelligence had been accurate.

"The Spider shall soon know the king's fury, and his promises will turn to ash in your mouth," Alyn continued. "What you truly require is the forgiveness of the Iron Throne itself."

"Lord Mormont, answer me true—do you wish to return to Westeros, or have you made your peace with exile?"

Conflict warred across Jorah's weathered features, but beneath it all, Alyn saw the unmistakable longing for home.

"Not a day passes that I do not think of Bear Island," the knight admitted at last. "The scent of pine and snow, the crash of waves against our shores... you ask for my answer? I shall give it. I am certain of what I desire."

His blue eyes hardened as he studied Alyn with newfound suspicion. "But tell me true—who are you, Alyn? Who do you truly serve?"

Jorah weighed many possibilities in his mind, but when Alyn mentioned, "His Royal Highness sent me to accomplish a task," the knight's disbelief was palpable. How could this complex scheme be the design of a royal youth?

Yet Viserys had indeed boasted of Alyn's former position as squire to Prince Joffrey, discarded and forgotten.

So it was all an elaborate mummer's farce, Jorah realized.

Despite himself, the knight felt a stirring of curiosity about this unseen Prince Joffrey, who could command such unwavering loyalty from afar.

Alyn laid his bargaining piece upon the table. "His Highness spoke of you specifically when instructing me. Should you lend your aid in completing my mission, those charges that drove you from your home would become as inconsequential as summer snow. Lord Mormont could reclaim his honor and standing."

The stern face of Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, flashed unbidden in Jorah's mind. The exiled knight gave a bitter smile.

"No," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "My honor can never be restored, nor will the North receive me as it once did. It would be blessing enough to wash some small measure of the shame from my family's name."

Alyn waited in silence, letting the waves fill the space between them.

After a long moment, Jorah spoke again. "What does His Royal Highness intend?"

Alyn did not answer directly. "I would remind Lord Mormont that my loyalty to His Highness has never wavered. Should my mission fail... I cannot promise your true allegiance would remain hidden for long."

Jorah's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.

Alyn proceeded to outline his mission, speaking low and swift.

When he had finished, Jorah turned as if to leave. "You propose madness! The princess is to wed Khal Drogo within the week. The man commands more than forty thousand screamers—the fiercest warriors in all the known world. What could two men alone hope to achieve against such force?"

Alyn stepped quickly to block the knight's path. "Is it not rather late to harbor second thoughts? If you wish to walk away, you must first draw your sword and cut me down."

Alyn understood all too well the difficulty of what he proposed, yet he could see no path of retreat.

"Has the brave knight who once claimed countless victories in the tourney lists grown so craven? Are you lesser now than a mere squire like myself?"

Jorah's laugh held no mirth. "You think to goad me into throwing my life away with such transparent tricks?"

Alyn shook his head slowly. "Consider what awaits you should your role as the Spider's creature become known in Pentos. Would that fate prove any kinder?"

Jorah's silence was answer enough.

"Moreover," Alyn continued quickly, sensing advantage, "we need not stand alone. I have dwelt in Pentos these four months past, and in that time, I have cultivated friendships with those willing to lend their strength to our cause."

Disbelief was plain on Jorah's face.

What allies could this boy have found? the knight wondered. Sellswords and cutthroats, most like. Desperate men with nothing to lose.

Alyn read the doubt in the older man's expression.

"Perhaps Lord Mormont might deign to hear my plan before passing judgment."

"How can you claim we do not march toward certain death? To ensure the success of this venture, I assure you I hope for both of us to safely return across the Narrow Sea."

Jorah found himself curious despite his misgivings, wondering what brilliant stratagem this young squire might have devised.

But after Alyn had shared his plan in full...

"Seven hells, boy," Jorah muttered. "If you don't call this rushing headlong toward death, then I suppose only opening your own throat upon this very beach would qualify."

Yet despite himself, the knight felt a grudging admiration for the squire's unwavering loyalty and reckless courage.

The boy placed no value on his own life when weighed against his duty.

"Lord Mormont, I have not forgotten who I am," Alyn said, his face set with determination. "Compared to wasting my remaining days in service to the Beggar King, I would gladly perish in pursuit of a worthy purpose!"

The trials of recent months had honed Alyn's resolve to a razor's edge. He had endured storms at sea, withstood mockery and hunger, witnessed slaughter, suffered insults and suspicion, and borne countless beatings.

Through it all, only his sacred mission had sustained him.

Abandon that charge and resign himself to permanent exile in Essos?

No. He yearned only to return to the Red Keep, to familiar faces, to the life that had been torn from him.

He would have Viserys and Daenerys both, or die in the attempt.

"The combined might of Pentos's magisters and the Dothraki horde is beyond our capacity for direct confrontation," Alyn admitted. "This single chance is all we possess."

His eyes shone with fervent belief, as though he could already envision their triumph.

"Think of it—what a glorious spectacle it shall be. The streets of Pentos will run red, and we shall escort the last dragons back to King's Landing in chains. His Highness will be most pleased."

"Not only will the Mormont name be cleansed, but your own infamy shall be transformed to glory, brighter and more radiant than ever before!"

Jorah's reason commanded caution, even as part of him responded to the boy's passion.

"Let us hope we both live to witness such a day," he said simply.

They returned to the palace separately, taking care not to be seen together.

Viserys Targaryen was already deep in his cups, sporting with serving girls in his chambers, while Daenerys sat alone in the courtyard, her violet eyes fixed upon the rising moon.

"Princess Daenerys," Alyn approached with appropriate deference.

The young dragon's thoughts had drifted to days long past.

She remembered kind Ser Willem Darry, who had smuggled them from Dragonstone. She thought of the house with the red door in Braavos, of the lemon tree that grew outside her window. She recalled her brother in those earlier days, before bitterness had consumed him, when he would share tales of their mother and father and the Seven Kingdoms that awaited their return.

That was the childhood she had lost, never to recover.

Now only the endless Dothraki sea of grass lay before her, and beyond it, the Seven Kingdoms that consumed Viserys's every waking thought.

Given the choice, she would rather journey to that homeland she knew only through words and imagination—a place of rolling green hills, flowering meadows, and deep, rushing rivers.

"Where is Ser Jorah?" she asked, her voice soft as a summer breeze. "Please bid him come and share stories of home."

Alyn bowed deeply. "Ser Jorah has retired for the evening, princess. If you wish to learn of your kingdom, perhaps I might offer some tales of King's Landing and the Westerlands."

He smiled with practiced warmth. "I believe you would find them to your liking."

Princess Daenerys glanced at him, her expression unreadable in the moonlight. After a moment, she gave a reluctant nod.