Chapter Text
Bran
He was flying. There was a flock of dark winged ravens going North, searching for food and shelter from the heavy snow. Bran decided to take the ride with them, trying to see how far the Night King had advanced the past few days. The other ravens noticed that he was with them, but they didn’t seem to mind. On his way, he looked down and saw a pack of wolves running through the woods. His heart felt like it had tightened.
Summer.
His wolf had died bravely. Still, he died. Bran missed him terribly, just as he missed Rickon, Shaggydog, Osha, Jojen, Meera.
I need to make amends with Meera. He promised himself he would do that before the wars – both against the dead and against Cersei – ever began.
The ravens were arriving at the Wall now. The last time he had checked, the army of the dead was closer to Eastwatch By the Sea. It was clear that was the path they were going to follow to enter South. The question was: how would they do it? The Wall was massive, the gates as impregnable as the ice construction. They couldn’t climb it, they could swim in the sea, they couldn’t fly over it.
That’s way Bran checked it regularly. His doubts were always creeping in, and he couldn’t let the Night King surprise them. The living needed to have the upper hand, otherwise they would be all lost.
Past the Wall, miles North, Bran found the army. It always took his breath away to see the numbers. He couldn’t possibly count how many dead were part of it. They had mammoths, giants, horses. Every single one of them were cadavers.
And the Night King led them into war right in the vanguard on top of a dead horse.
It took a few moments for him to notice Bran’s presence. Or maybe he already knew he was coming and simply let him assess the size of the army. Bran interpreted it as a mocking, as if it would make no difference if Bran had all the knowledge in the whole Seven Kingdoms about how to defeat the army. In the end, the dead would always win.
The Night King grew tired and decided to look at the flock of ravens. Right into Bran’s eyes.
He was thrown back out of the raven and back to his own body.
His head was pounding so, his breathing was sped up and his heart was beating out of his chest with fear. And he felt cold, so, so cold. He closed his eyes and held his head in his hands, hoping that the pain would pass soon – even though he knew it wouldn’t.
He could hear a voice in the distance, as if it was far and far away, calling out his name.
But it was Sansa, who was kneeling right in front of him, touching his face, his hair, his shoulders, trying to look at him.
Bran could feel the tears running through his face.
Damn it, damn it, damn it, he thought again and again.
“Bran, please, what’s going on?”, Sansa called to him, worry seeping through her voice.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer.
“Bran, please, please…”, she sounded so scared. He wanted to console her, to tell her that it was alright. But he couldn’t find the words.
She held him, embracing his body with her arms and kissing the top of his head, taking to herself the shivers that ran through his skin.
A long moment passed until he was able to hold his sister back.
“Thank the Gods”, she whispered as soon as she felt him moving his arms.
They stood like that for a while. He felt awful. This time was even worse than the last. Bran was getting used to the fear, like it was a known person in his life. But this wasn’t just fear. It was hurt, it was a threat. The war would soon have its beginning.
Bran opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was Sansa’s copper hair, falling in her shoulder in waves. Just at that, he began to feel himself warm up. Behind her, he could see the books and parchment that his sister had left to come to his help. The ink was spilt over some of her notes. Then Bran remembered where he was. He and Sansa were studying in the library – Sansa for her upcoming role as Lady of Winterfell, and Bran for more secrets about the Children and the Three Eyed Raven.
The room was warm, with a fire place lit up in the corner. The place smelled of old books and burnt wood – both from the brazier and from the fire that took Winterfell during Theon’s raid. The keep still had scars from what happened to it over the last few years, just as all the Starks had. But they were fixing everything, they were healing themselves – and Winterfell – together.
Bran finally decided to pet his sister’s back. She immediately drew back to look him in the eye, holding his face in her hands.
“Bran? Are you well?”, she asked with the same worry form before.
“I will be. The worst is gone now.”
He saw a single tear escape from her eyes.
“What happened? We were just talking, and then I heard you screaming and…”
Bran placed his hand on her shoulder, and she stopped.
“I was looking at the Night King”, he whispered. He didn’t know if anyone else was around, but he didn’t want anyone to listen. “He looked back at me.”
“Have you done this before?”
“Yes.”
Sansa tilted her head slightly, as in questioning.
“How many times before?”
“A lot.”
Sansa’s face hardened.
“Why?”
“To keep track of the army of the dead.”
Sansa got up to look at Bran from up. Her hands were fits by her side.
“I want you to stop this.”
“I understand, but I won’t stop.” Before she could say anything, he continued. “We need to know where the army of the dead is. It is closing in to the Wall already. We don’t know how the dead will breach it, but they will, I’m sure of it. It’s like the Night King is laughing at me, it’s frustrating.”
“But Bran, you’re in pain!”, Sansa said as she held his hand.
“Only when it happens. Then I just get a headache for a few days. It’s nothing”, he held her hand back fiercely. “Sansa, everyone is doing something to win this war. Jon will fight in the North, you will rule Winterfell, Arya is training for battle. Brienne, Tormund, Berric, Clegane, Sam, Daenerys, Tyrion, the khalasar, the unsullied, the dragons… Everyone has their part in the wars to come. And so do I. This is my responsibility.”
Sansa stood still for a few seconds. Until she nodded and let go of his hand.
“Alright. But if it ever – and I mean it Bran – gets too bad, too much, I want you to tell me and I want you to stop. I will not let you sacrifice yourself because of it.”
“I promise, sister”, he said, a little bit of a lie since he had absolutely no intentions of ever quitting. He would do this no matter what.
Sansa kissed his cheek and turned to return to her table. She sighed at the mess of ink and paper and started trying to clean, staining her hands in the process. Once the blotted papers had been removed and the table had been cleaned again, she took a seat and resumed her studies.
“How is it going?”, Bran asked, pointing at one of the books.
“It’s so difficult. But I think I’m finally getting the hang of it”, she answered, sinking her pen in the ink.
“Really? Jon said you’re a natural.”
That made her smile.
“I think he may be exaggerating, but I appreciate it all the same.”
He rolled his wheel chair closer to her table. He took the books there and started to read through the subjects that she was studying today. They were mostly about how to run an army, how to form one, how many soldiers were needed to win a battle against an enemy with the same amount of men. Numbers weren’t always the best advantage in the field, but they surely could help. One book described the roles and responsibilities of a commander. He was the one who had total control of what happened with the soldiers, with the weapons, the food, the camp.
Which is why it amazed Bran that Sansa had named Sandor Clegane Lord Commander of Winterfell. Or was about to.
He still didn’t understand the relationship between the two. He couldn’t glance back into the past to see what had happened while they were in King’s Landing. Unluck for him, the South didn’t have many Heart Trees. Bran was only able to notice that the feelings they had for each other ran deeper. He thought this was best. Sansa would keep her privacy. But at the same time, Bran was curious and, most of all, worried about her.
But when she said that Sandor Clegane was to be named commander, he had one of those feelings, an omen that it would be a good thing. Specially because of the relationship they had.
Finally, curiosity had the best of him.
“Have you spoken to Sandor Clegane about his nomination?”, he asked Sansa, too gullible.
Her quill stopped and her eyes looked up to him.
“Yes, before I spoke to all of you.”
“And after?”
“No. He told to do as I wished, so I did.”
Bran noticed something that he could only name as resentment in her voice. Maybe sorrow.
“What happened between the two of you?”
“Can’t you see it through those visions of yours?”, she asked while she resumed her writing.
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“How does it work then?”
“Usually, I need a Heart Tree to see into the past. You and Clegane were never near one. There are other ways, but they are always harder.”
“So, you have tried to see us before.”
That wasn’t a question. Bran remained silent.
She rested her quill again and folded her hands in her lap.
“Do you have doubts about him?”, she asked serious enough for Bran to notice that it was a challenge.
“No, not even one. As you said, he saved Arya. And, according to you, he helped you too.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
She fidgeted a little. He had never seen her fidget so much since the last few weeks. So, he waited.
“He’s our ally, Bran. And I dare say that he’s my friend”, she whispered, reclining into her chair, her head resting against the wood. “I don’t have any doubts about him, but I feel that he does. About himself and about me. I need him to trust me.”
Maybe he doesn’t trust the feelings he has about you. And you about him. Bran kept those thoughts to himself.
“You can do it. You’re the Lady of Winterfell”, he decided to say instead.
She smiled at him shyly.
“Thank you, little brother.”