Chapter Text

i. thousand and one eyes

He was everywhere and nowhere all at once. Bran had finally learned how to fly, on the dark wings of ravens, but this was a different sensation. Now he was buried in the ground. Embedded into the soil with thick roots reaching down and branching out into an elaborate network, he knew only what they wished him too. Through the eyes of the Weirwood trees, he observed. He listened to their voices.

Bran had never been a patient child, not according to his mother. His father had affectionately, and with slight trepidation, called it wolf blood. Both him and Arya, likely Rickon too, had always been wilder than the rest of their siblings. There was a time when Bran would climb up the highest towers in Winterfell and clamber between the branches of weirwood trees. Before his fall.

It was a dangerous train of thought. Whenever he found himself reminiscing or missing his siblings, he had to seek out Summer for refuge. If he dwelled too long, however, he wouldn’t be able to accomplish his purpose out here. 

Clear minds, open eyes. Bran blinked, taken aback by the familiar visage of Winterfell. It felt like years had passed since he’d walked these paths. The last time he visited in his visions, they’d been in the godswood. Now, they stood in the main courtyard with people milling about around them.

“Did I bring us here?” he asked aloud.

Behind him, the Three Eyed Crow hummed. He stood wraith-thin, as if the slightest breeze could topple him, and gazed at the sight. “Time and memory is as liquid as the currents. Sometimes it sweeps us away before we know it. You must take note not to drown.”

“Can we stay?” he asked, hopefully. It was a childish notion, he knew, trying to shake it off.

“Not for long.”

Bran knew better than to argue. Jojen had warned him hundreds of times not to stay too long in Summer. The longer you stay, the more chances of the beast’s mind taking over. Already, Bran could not always tell where Summer ended and he began. The visions were much the same, so he had to be careful not to stumble in too deep. He couldn’t afford to get lost. Not if he ever wanted to return to the true Winterfell.

Just the thought of Jojen was enough to send a pang through his chest. Open eyes.

Laughter peeled through the yard. A girl with dark hair trotted around on a horse with a deep bay coat. For a second, Bran thought of Arya. But the girl was slightly older, wearing simple woolen skirts and a tidy Northern braid.

“Still showing off, Lyanna?” a voice asked. It took Bran a moment to register it as his father. Young Ned Stark stood beside his siblings, the younger one with the training sword who must have been Benjen and the oldest Brandon with a wide smirk. 

Lyanna Stark did a small circle with her obedient mare. Father had always said she adored horses. It was one of the only things Bran knew about her, and he was surprised to note how pretty she looked. Her statue didn’t do her any justice, not her beauty or the wildness that reminded him of Arya.

“It’s not showing off, brother,” she said, glancing down at Ned. “Though, if you feel upstaged, that reflects more poorly on you than it does me. Perhaps you should practice your riding more than swordplay.”

Brandon laughed loudly and clapped Ned’s shoulder, his voice echoing across the yard and drawing onlookers to watch. “She has you there, Brother. None could upstage her with her horses. Dare I say that our Lya might win even with a sword?”

“Hand me one, and we shall see,” Lyanna challenged, though she seemed to be jesting.

Uncle Benjen, who had been grinning at his sister, turned to his older brothers. “Can’t I go play with Lya?” he asked, dropping the training sword. 

“Father wants you to train,” Ned reminded, stern as always. Even in youth, he appeared solemn. Brandon had always been the outspoken, the bold one. The two of them together were a picture in contrast. 

Perhaps not too alike in personality, but the pairing reminded him of Jon and Robb. One solemn and reserved, though always with a kind word for them, the other charming and quick to laugh. How often had they stood together, mirrored halves, in this very yard?  

Brandon shrugged carelessly, then urged Benjen along. “Let them have their fun, Ned. I think we’re done for now,” he told Benjen, “though you’re to be up at dawn for training tomorrow.” He punctuated his statement with a wink. 

That was all Benjen needed to dart off, Lya keeping pace on her horse.

“Thick as thieves, those two,” Brynden spoke from behind him.

“Like me and Arya,” Bran remarked sadly. He sensed their time was almost up and, reluctantly, turned to face the Three Eyed Crow. He wanted to see more of Lyanna, of his Uncle Benjen who was gods-know-where, of his father long since gone.

The old man’s solemn gaze never wavered as he placed a hand on Bran’s shoulder.

Around them, the world warped into shades of red. When Bran opened his eyes, he was in a forest of weirwoods. The blood moss dripped off each branch, painting the place with the colours of crimson and vermillion. Sunlight filtered through the branches.

“A warm summer,” someone remarked.

“This is what you call warm?” a woman laughed. Her skin was a deeper brown, eyes dark and slanted. If her appearance didn’t give her away, the Dornish lilt in her voice did. This was…Winterfell still. Though Bran had never seen the trees so…alive, dripping with moss the same shade as the trees’ sap. They seemed to rustle with every breath.

The man she was speaking to was a Stark clearly, long face and grey eyes. His head of dark curls and the expression he wore reminded Bran suddenly of his brother, Jon. He was doomed to think of his family constantly. Some curse to have within reach in his mind’s eye, yet place them so far.

The trees themselves pulled him away. Bran was learning they had a mind of their own, outside of the Three Eyed Crow’s control. Sometimes they called them places, dragging them abruptly from one scene to the next, other times they cast them away entirely. No, not here, they’d rustle.

He found himself…back in the cave? Bran squinted through the shadows, taken aback by the sudden darkness. A panicked face loomed at him in the darkness, hazy at the edges like they didn’t exist. Face like a Stark, familiar and haunted. His clothes were tattered and blood stained. 

“You shouldn’t be here. Jon, wake up–” Bran started, but he was already gone.

He lifted himself from the cradle of roots he’d been tucked into, glancing around him. Above him the Three Eyed Crow sat in his usual perch, the thick white branches forming a makeshift throne that devoured the lower part of his body.

“Why was my brother here?” Bran asked. “Why would he dream of us?”

“Certain powers are passed on through bloodlines. They may not have greensight, but your siblings share other abilities.” A thoughtful look flickered across his face, making him appear more alive. “Your older brother. What’s his wolf’s name, again?”

“Ghost,” Bran said automatically. “He’d white with red eyes and is mute.” More suspiciously, he asked, “why does it matter? Didn’t you already know that? You know everything,” Bran accused. Knew much and told him little. 

“Not everything,” he said simply. “Some things are kept hidden, some I simply overlook. As a greenseer, you must learn to search in between the cracks. To find the missing pieces from your visions. This will come with time.”

“Where did we go? Who were those two talking in the godswood?” Bran asked, impatient. It didn’t feel like he had time. Instead, time slipped away in an uneasy stream, impossible to catch. Jon could be in danger. He’d seemed frightened, Bran thought. And he did not know where the rest of his siblings were, for the Three Eyed Crow bid him not to look.

“It matters not. If you are meant to know more, you will.”

Bran hated that answer, but he bit his tongue. Sometimes he could wheedle answers out of him, though asking straight forward questions rarely worked. He resolved to try and seek out Winterfell again, to find what he was missing. Or the Wall to see his brother. So much to see.

“How long will it take? To learn all of it,” Bran asked. “Did it take you long?”

“It can take years. It can take days. It depends on the person, and your case is very different from mine. I had no one to teach me.”

Bran sighed. He couldn’t help but feel impatient, nervous thinking about how long he would have to wait here at the edge of the world. His siblings might be in peril. Westeros was still embroiled in war, kings clashing every other day over new claims. There was little he could do, though. Just like he couldn’t save Winterfell from the Ironborn or the Boltons. 

“One more destination today,” Brynden told him. 

He swallowed any complaints as he nestled back down into the roots. It was similar to warging, once accustomed to it, the way he had to cast his mind out till it connected with something living. Instead of his wolf or Hodor, though, it was the trees themselves. 

They tugged him towards a destination, much farther North. 

Here the wind howled and screamed. It was a furious thing, but laden with the desperation of a newborn. A blizzard swarmed around them white swathing every inch of his vision. Above them, the sky was obscured.

Bran trudged forward, moving easily through the wind. This wasn’t his actual body, afterall, and it took little effort to combat the storm. His eyes were slower to adjust, making out the gray looming silhouette of towering mountains to his left. 

“The Frostfangs,” he said, trying to recall what he knew of them. 

Osha had described them once as knives, sharp and cutting and worthy of their name. During winters especially, snow could fall so heavily that ledges would snap and crumble with the weight. Avalanches were relatively common, making each and every step treacherous. People usually lived inside the cave systems there, which offered some protection from the elements.

To his right, hard to spot, was what seemed to be a party of Wildlings. Their figures, wrapped in thick gray furs, were nearly swallowed whole by the storm. Still, they trudged onwards steadily, carrying supplies on their backs. It seemed like about a hundred individuals, and he could spot many children in their midst. The young ones clung to their parents, being carried when possible, their faces tucked away in their parents’ furs. 

When they reached Bran, he fell into step beside the leaders. Two men with only flint gray eyes visible through the scarves wrapped around their mouths and slim figures. One had a child on his back, perhaps the same age Rickon had been when they parted ways.

“How much further?” the first man asked, squinting at the shape of the mountains.

“Two days,” said the second. He murmured something softly to his son. 

It made Bran long for his own father. And Rickon, who he’d chosen to leave behind. 

Brynden was silent behind him. He rarely spoke during these visits, instead instructing Bran to pay attention to every detail. Memorize faces and listen to patterns of speech, take in the surroundings from smell to taste to hearing. After, back in the cave, he’d ask Bran questions about what he’d seen. 

If Bran was lucky, he’d get a couple of answers in return. Usually, Brynden simply told him you’ll see or all will become clear in time. He’d become accustomed to Jojen’s vagueness, but it hardly held a candle to the Three Eyed Crow.

The boy lifted his head tiredly. Bran noticed he shared his father’s gray eyes. His words were soft against the cacophony of the wind, but Bran leaned closer to listen. “What about mother? Is she close behind us?”

Both men exchanged an uneasy glance. “I’m sure she’ll catch up to us soon.”

In his heart, Bran knew the woman was likely dead. Why she’d been left behind from the group, he didn’t know. Maybe she’d already been dead, and they simply lied to protect the boy's feelings in the interim. 

He thought of his own mother. Promise me you won’t climb, Bran. Promise me.

I’ll be fine, mother. I never fall. 

Just like before, he tried to push the thoughts away. His legs did not work, his third eye was open. He was no longer young Bran who loved climbing and ran around with his siblings under his mother’s watchful and loving gaze.

The boy glanced behind him, into the crippling white void. With a half-hearted shrug, he buried his head back into his father’s shoulder. Onwards, the men trudged, lapsing into silence. When no other words were spoken, Bran drifted further back to catch snippets of conversation.

People murmured about the cold. The storm came in out of nowhere, weather becoming more and more unpredictable. Skies had been clear. They had to find game to hunt. A few dragged bodies behind them, wrapped in tarp and rope, but unmistakably shaped. They’d burn the dead when they set up camp. May the Gods protect them. 

A hand landed on his shoulder. “That is enough.”

Bran had questions. He always did. Why were they headed for the mountains if they were so treacherous? What happened to their homes? What were they running from? Who were the two men leading up front? When was this?

He opened his eyes to the swimming shadows of the cave. “How long ago was that?” Bran asked. He’d discovered more innocuous questions were more likely to get answered. 

“Far before your time or mine,” Brynden answered. “This was the age of the First Men.”

The Starks were said to have descended from the First Men. “Were those them? They were speaking Common, though.”

“Were they?” Brynden asked. “You’re seeing the memories of the earth. The Old Tongue versus Common makes little difference to weirwoods and mountains.” 

Bran pondered the First Men, ancient myths told to Northern children on long, cold nights. The sight of them like in his vision, desperate and hungry and scared, made him realize just how similar they were. He had spent many nights like that beyond the wall, resigned to a frozen death.

The group hadn’t been heading South, though. They were traveling West to the Frostfangs. What could possibly be awaiting them there? 

“Tomorrow,” the Three Eyed Crow intoned, before Bran could ask anything else. 

On cue, the Children of the Forest slipped in quiet feet. They helped lift Bran onto his chair and push him carefully over the path strewn with roots and pebbles and bones, till they were back on the dirt floors of the cave. 

Bran looked over his shoulder once, as he always did, to observe the Three Eyed Crow just as he did upon his arrival. Every time, the scene struck him as uncanny and filled him with a unique sense of dread. Was that his fate? It didn’t feel like flying, didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like falling, again and again, helpless against a tide that pulled you where it wished. Was this truly his purpose?

In another chamber, this one clean of any bones and arranged with their bedding and the ever-burning fire, Meera awaited him like always. She was far more patient than him, though even her nerves seemed frayed. Sitting still felt wrong after so long on the run. It left them feeling uneasy. 

Jojen was noticeably missing, though he’d taken to sleeping the days away in a quieter chamber. 

“You’re okay?” Meera asked, keen eyes examining him. “Learn anything important?”

“No, just fragments as always. It’s maddening really.”

She smiled weakly. “It’ll take practice, like the green dreams. That’s all.”

The caves offered them some reprieve from the cold, but food was scarce. Even in the dim light, torchlight flickering onto her face, he could tell she was paler than she should be. Her cheeks were sharp and angular, devoid of any flush, and her eyes melancholy. For so long, protecting him and Jojen had kept her going, but even that need was evaporating. She seemed listless and blank.

“I suppose. I saw Winterfell again, though. Uncle Benjen and Aunt Lyanna were there, but they weren’t sparring in the godswood this time. They were in the courtyard with my father and Uncle Brandon. And I saw Jon.”

“Your brother in the Night’s Watch?” Meera asked curiously. 

“Yes, but he looked…wrong. There was blood on his clothes.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Meera said, unsteady. Likely worried about her own brother, who they saw less and less of. “I miss Winterfell,” she said instead, dreamingly. “ It’ll be nice to go back.”

“You’re always welcome. Maybe you can show me Greywater Watch one day,” he said. “Tell me more about it?” He’d asked plenty of time before, but he hoped the thought of home would cheer her up even a little.

“I’m sure you could see it for yourself if you wanted,” she reminded him. “And Jojen has told you much before. Greywater Watch is surrounded by the swamp, ever-shifting and changing. When we were little, father used to play a game of hide-and-seek with us,” she said wistfully. Bran tried to picture Howland Reed playing with his young children. “We’d have to evade him, while he’d track us down. When we were old enough, we’d reverse the roles. It’s warmer there than Winterfell, and full of green. The walls are always covered with ivy, creeping upwards.” 

The mention of home livened her up some, Bran was happy to note. It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t guarantee she’d ever see Greywater Watch again, though he would do his best to ensure it. Internally, he promised, we’ll get home one day. 

Near the mouth of the chamber, Leaf was whittling away some wood. All the Children, or the Singers of the Earth, were good at woodworking. Leaf’s nimble brown fingers were among the best, though, capable of creating the most intricate designs. She’d even made a blade for Meera, out of weirwood bark that the Earth-Singers had carefully collected. There was a ritual to these things, they were told, a proper way to harvest weirwood bark or sap. 

The hilt of the dagger was a milky grey, with knots that vaguely resembled little eyes, and it seemed perfectly made for Meera’s slender grasp. Its blade was dragonglass, pitch black from afar and iridescent up close. Collecting that might have been even more impressive than the weirwood, but the Earth-Singers insisted on the protection. In their honour, Meera had named the blade EarthSong. They had accepted the name with pleased nods and went about their business.

Helpful as they’d been, the Earth-Singers were vague and not obliged to answer their more serious questions. Anything about the Others was turned away, as they acquiesced to Brynden’s judgement on the matter. When Ash and Snowylocks settled near Leaf, all humming in tandem, Bran tried asking them about Jon. 

“Is there any word about the Night’s Watch? Or the Wildlings?”

Leaf, most familiar with the Common Tongue, blinked at him. “The Free Folk have migrated. A group from the Haunted Forest with the girl, and more from Hardhome. Your brother was there. As were the Others. I have heard nothing else but whispers of unease.”

“Jon was there? Unharmed?”

“Lord Snow was unharmed, more or less.”

Bran didn’t like the sound of that much. “What girl did you speak of?”

The Earth-Singers exchanged glances and a few soft words in the hard-to-grasp True Tongue. As always, the lilt of the language evaded Bran, drifting through his ears and into the ground before he could attempt to replicate it. It was more music or the rustle of trees than anything, clicks and sighs blending into each other.

“She has some greensight. Perhaps less than your young Jojen, but she is descended from one of us far back.”

Has she met Jon? What sorts of things did the Wildling seer see?

Bran felt the familiar wave creep up on him. So many questions, haunting him day and night. He’d thought the Three Eyed Crow would answer all his questions, restore his legs. It was what he’d held onto, day after day, through the long trek North. 

With a thousand and one eyes, the last greenseer would explain everything. And yet Bran, third eye or not, was left with a thousand and one questions. 

He closed his eyes and reached out for Summer, finding comfort in the wolf’s constant presence. One day he’d know. One day, he’d find what he’d been searching for. In the meantime, he stared into the darkness behind his eyelids and prayed, if he wouldn’t get his answers, to be able to enjoy a dreamless sleep.