The Lion and the Rose: The North

[badgate]

ARYA

She had left Winterfell riding a spotted mare, with a chestnut mane and tail. Her dress, the one her mother made her wear, had been grey wool trimmed with black satin sashes, and when the summer snows had begun to fall she'd donned a black wool cloak lined with white wolf fur. Around her had been a chivalrous party that numbered in the hundreds. Ser Jaime the Kingslayer had laughed alongside the Lannister knights, and Queen Cersei was scarcely seen as she chose to ride in the big ugly cart with her ladies and children. King Robert bellowed from the front atop his black destrier, and her father laughed alongside him. Arya had never quite seen her father look that youthful, not before and never since. Nymeria had darted back and forth in front of her and Sansa's horses as a game, and Sansa got so upset by her she had resorted to riding ahead with Jeyne Pool thereon.

This hill must have moved. The North was still the north, but everything was different. Now Arya was returning. I will get there. I will get there. I will get there, she repeated over in her head. Every night since she'd left Braavos, she dreamed of the voices that had gone from laughter to horror. The chaos, and the tent that went up in flames. Then The Hound's axe would hit her, and she'd wake up. I was so close. She had felt her brother, there in that wedding camp. The flames had licked the sky while drunk men screamed and died. And now there is a Stark in Winterfell, and I'm close again. I will get there.

She was returning to Winterfell with calloused feet and lightning-fast reflexes. She could lie like a Faceless Man, speak the Braavosi tongue, some Tyrosh, and even knew some Summer Islander...and she had killed men. That day in Braavos, wearing only the clothes of Cat of the Canals, she'd marched up to the Braavosi cogs in the harbor and found one borne for White Harbor. The captain had rough tan skin that looked like old leather, with an oily black beard that even sparkled in the sunlight. When she showed him the iron coin, he handed it back to her with a golden dragon and his name. "Valar Dohaeris," he'd said. And she answered. "Valar Morghulis."

Now she was on foot. In White Harbor she'd used that gold coin to buy a small fishing skiff from a man who lived off the White Knife and sold his daily catch in the White Harbor market. When she thought she'd sailed far enough up the river, she left the skiff and struck west on foot. Maybe I didn't row far enough, she thought. She could turn back; she might reach the river again around dawn. She could flip the boat over and sleep under some shelter before returning to the river. Okay, now that hill definitely wasn't there before. She resolved to turn back after she reached the top of the next hill, if she couldn't make out where she was.

As she climbed the hill, her thoughts turned to the House of Black and White. Will they send someone to kill me? One of their faceless men who do not yet know my name? Will I die like Chiswyck and Weese and the guardsmen who supped on Weasel soup? Only time would truly tell. In the House of Black and White she had been No One, forced to forsake her possessions and her identity. She had spent months blind, had sold clams and shrimp as Cat of the Canals, even been an ugly blind girl who begged for money in the streets of Braavos. Now she was Arya of House Stark, and she had promised the Kindly Man that she would never be Arya of House Stark. One day she would return, with a purse full of gold coins to give her thanks and donate to the Faceless Men. Maybe they'd thank her and absolve her. What a stupid thought. Then she was at the top of the hill, and saw for the first time in years the walls and towers of Winterfell.

Her heart beat so loud and fast that she felt like drums were beating in her ears. I'm so close! I'll make it! I will get there! She charged down the hill, running, faster, faster. When she came upon her old home's walls she was breathless, her skin shining with sweat despite the cold winter airs. Hundreds of men and women moved about, at work restoring the castle. Arya then saw the singes of flames all along the walls. The gate is new, she noticed absurdly. It was fresh iron oak, heavy and raw. Over at the tower that hadn't been used in centuries was crude scaffolding, the sounds of hammers and nails as men shouted up and down. They're rebuilding it, she realized. When she reached the gate she stopped. It didn't feel right. This wasn't the gate where she'd left.

Sprinting again, Arya made around the castle to the gate by the kingsroad. There was a thicket of trees on either side of the road, thick enough to hide someone from passerby. As she got nearer to the edge of the trees, she stopped. Something was following her. Turning, she saw movement in the snow banks she had just crossed. In the distance she heard voices, the sound of horse hooves on dirt, and a voice shouting "Ghost! To me!"

Ghost! Suddenly she could make out the white shape, and in an instant the direwolf slunk through the trees and padded toward her. He was almost as tall her, with a big white head. Those red eyes that had once been small embers were now bright and glowing, the size of rubies in a sword hilt. His bushy white tail was bigger than her arms or legs. "You found me," she whispered as she stroked the wolf's head and scratched behind his big ear. He licked her face, and suddenly she was giggling like the girl she'd been the day her brothers brought Nymeria home to her. "You found me!" again, and louder.

"Aye, we found you," a voice behind her said. She whipped around to see two men on horse, big men with swords and shields. Ghost moved silently to her side, watching the men. "She's pretty, in her own sort of way," the second man said to the first. The first man answered "sure, why not? Got a nice northern look to her if you ask me. Bella will be pleased."

"Bella?" Arya asked.

"Me wife. M'lord honored her with management of the kitchens, y'see, and she's in need of a new kitchen wench. You'll do just fine, me thinks." A voice came from behind the man. "She'll do just fine for what, Duncan?" Ghost darted forward like an arrow from a bow, to meet the voice. The man came forward, sitting tall and straight on a grey horse spotted with white. He was wearing simple armor, but with a great wolf cloak fastened around his neck by two silver wolf heads. Each head had a ruby for the eye. "Duncan here's found us a new kitchen wench for your castle, m'lord Stark," the second man said to the lordling.

Father? He had the beard of Lord Eddard Stark. And the forehead, but no. Have I slept for twenty years? Am I old and ugly and this is little Rickon, a man grown? That was absurd. Of course not. She studied the face, and the man's eyes met hers. Was it seconds or hours or years, she would never know. There in the eyes she found her answer.

Hours later, after the laughter and the crying and the hugging, the shouting and drinking and eating and singing and crying again, after the first man had fallen to his knees and apologized profusely while the second man doubled over laughing, Arya Stark fell asleep in the castle she called home. In the winter, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. She'd finally found her pack. She'd finally gotten home. And earlier that day, outside the gates of Winterfell, she'd finally met Lord Jon Stark.

[badgate]

I'm tempted to allow it given the sort of crisis we're seeing, but Dkrol should modify the language. I do think Victarion would never call himself a humanitarian, xD

OOC: And remember that presumably no one would really have any way of knowing the Others have come yet.  On the subject of Victarion, I should add that we're talking about a character George R. R. Martin himself literally described as being "dumb as a stump" and "a dullard and a brute."

OOC: Poor Victarion, his chapters are worse than some of those Star Wars Expanded Universe books.

[badgate]

“

Arya

Winter is coming.

Ayra Stark was a child of summer, and she'd never imagined that this could be the winter of the north. Snow had fallen day and night for two weeks. It took two hours each day to reshovel the yard and paths around the castle. And Arya Stark had never been this cold.

The past months had been bliss. Arya and Jon picked up as if they had only spent a few long days apart. And Lady Stark...no, Val...she was a beautiful mix of Sansa's grace and beauty and Arya's love of adventure. They played in the godswood “before the snows became too deep, fighting swords with tree branches. Arya couldn't even believe her luck when the letter came from Riverrun announcing that Sansa was alive and safe and hoping to join them in Winterfell soon.

That was before winter had come. It was a cold and grey day like any other when Jon was brought a raven at breakfast with Arya and Val. Stamped with black wax, Jon's friend Samwell Tarly had written that the Army of Winter had arrived at the Wall. Arya stood on the castle walls with Val later that day when Jon set out with a ranging party to go north; but before midnight he had returned. Arya ran down from her chambers when she heard the noise.

“We rode just in time, you ask me. The whole earth shook like it was splitting apart, and I never even looked back to be sure the Wall had fallen,” said one deserter in Arya's presence. Others had seen the ruins of the centuries-old Wall; Arya had never seen so many grown men look so frightened and cry so much. It was more than she could take, and she ran inside to join Val in the slightly warmer great hall. Despite the hour, Jon ordered food brought up for the men.

In the next few days, fifty more men from the Night's Watch arrived at Winterfell. There were stories buzzing all over: Lord Commander Connington dead, the Army of Winter larger than even Mance Rayder's, even eyewitness accounts of Ice Spiders scaling the Wall. When Jon announced that he would take an expedition north, Arya begged him not to.

“I can't lose you again, “ she said through tears in Lord Stark's solar. Val put her hand on Arya's shoulder, but she jerked it away angrily. “No! I won't let you leave!” This time, Arya refused to go up to the walls to watch her half-brother ride north. The storms got worse that night, and in the morning there was no sun. Feeling like she would never see color again, Arya put herself into helping shovel the paths around the yard. She worked so hard she was sweating, even in this cold, and by midday she forgot how mad she was at Val for letting Jon leave that she accepted an invitation for lunch.

“I'm sure he'll be back soon,” Val said as soothingly as she could. She may have Sansa's beauty, but she's a horrible liar, Arya thought. Sansa had been great at lying, particularly if the lie got Arya into trouble. But that was when they were children, and the only snows they knew were summer snows.

“He's going to die out there,” Arya said grimly, aware that she couldn't possibly know if that was true. The wind howling outside the window seemed in agreement, until they realized at the same time it was the shouting of voices down in the yard. Val swept to the window and gasped, turned, and grabbed Arya by the wrist to lead her downstairs. “He's back!” she said excitedly.

The scene was even grimmer than the one before. Of the forty men that had left with Jon, he had six companions upon his return. He was limping from a bad wound in his thigh, but otherwise Arya's brother seemed fine. She hugged him fiercely and felt the tears freezing on her cheeks while she strained to understand his words. “Must...go...winter...coming...” Jon got out before collapsing on the ground.

As the Lord of Winterfell recuperated that evening, Val and Arya got the story from one of his remaining companions. “We came on them, m'lady, the wights, I mean. And Lord Stark, he had us all with torches so we was able to beat a retreat quick enough, but then the spiders came...” the man shivered and you could hear his teeth chattering against one another through his closed lips. “They ran the horses over, eating them raw and alive. Lord Jon parried with a White Walker, his sword rang out most queerly when he did...I never seen anything like it in me life. It was like beautiful music that was poisonous. Men stopped to watch and got stabbed in the back or such.

“Finally Lord Jon swung that bastard sword of his and the walker shattered like an icicle! The world seemed a little warmer after that, but it could've been the blood running down my face” - he gestured to a gash on his left temple - “either way, m'lord and the rest of us beat back as quick as possible. There was fifteen remaining when we fled, but only seven got back, as you saw...not a fun lot, the Sidhe.

“What's a Sidhe?” Arya asked. The man opened his mouth to answer, but -

“Enough,” a hard voice from behind them said. The weary man looked downcast and left quickly as Jon limped and sat across from his wife and sister. “You two are not safe here. You're the only family I have, and I can't let you die here. I've prepared a guard of fifty men to ride with you south, to White Harbor or Moat Cailin, whichever we can agree upon as the safer destination.” He raised his voice when Arya opened her mouth to object. “I know you can fight, sister. I know you are brave and a Stark. This is more your home than mine, I know that. Which is why you have to run away.” Then it was Val's turn. “Wife, I have grown to build a love for you as we set out rebuilding our home together. I...I'm not sure I could have had the courage to restore this castle without you at my side. But now you need to leave my side and go with Arya. Together you are safer than apart, and neither of you are safe here. What that man said was true. The army of the dead is marching on us.”

A few hours later, with only two small bags, Arya went down to the yard. Val and Jon were huddled alone at the mouth of the stables, saying the goodbye of husbands and wives, when an earsplitting horn blew form the North Tower.

Arooooooooooooo!

Aroooooooooooooo!

“Aroooooooooooooooooooooo!

Three blasts? What does three mean? Arya thought. As a child, two had meant wildling raiders, while one meant friends. The world around her seemed to answer her question in an instant.

What little sunlight remained disappeared behind dark, heavy clouds. The winds howled and whipped, and snow fell in a torrent like she had never seen. There was almost a numbness that she felt as well, as if her happiness was being sucked out of her...

Through the snow and winds, she could only see a few feet ahead in any direction. She made for the stables and ran headlong into Val. “South gate!” Jon shouted. “To the south gate!”

They ran as best they could, leading the distressed horses to the gate that Arya had come upon when she returned to Winterfell months earlier. The thick wooden gate was closed, however, and the watchman said to her lord brother “It's no use, Lord Stark. They're out here too. We're surrounded.” Jon turned to Arya and Val. “You need to get inside!” Jon shouted at them. “They're here! The Sidhe!”

Dread was mounting in her throat as she and Val dashed up into the castle. They heard a great deal of shouting and the sounds of steel and hammers for over an hour. Finally, curiosity got the best of Arya and she snuck out of the chambers as silent as a cat, leaving Val none the wiser. She climbed and climbed until finally she was in old Maester Luwin's apartment. He kept the ravens, so his was one of the topmost chambers in the castle.

Arya could hear her heart pounding, pounding, pounding like a drum as she braced herself against the winter wind and looked out over the battlements. As far as her eye could see (which, mind you, wasn't too far given the weather conditions), were the legions of the dead. The Army of Winter is coming, she thought. And we're surrounded.

[badgate]

OOC: I want to do a Yohn POV that ends with his death and an Anya POV to introduce her to the game. Been waiting for the weekend as I'm largely too tired to write after work during the week

[badgate]

Bran
Part I

He had been two full years in the caves below the great weirwood tree when the day came. Brynden Rivers closed his pale milky eyes for the final time as Bran, Meera, and Hodor supped on silence as always.

Meera Reed's eyes had sunken behind pale puffy skin after Jojen died, and Hodor said "Hodor" a lot less. The time in the cave was hard on them, even as Bran blossomed immeasurably. Every thought he had, it seemed the weirwood answered. He had seen his brother marrying a beautiful stranger in the sunset west. He had seen Jon raising Winterfell, Arya journeying home, the return of dragons to the realm, even his sister arriving safely in Riverrun. But he had also seen horrors. The burning of King's Landing. The march of the Sidhe. And then...darkness. In the last few weeks he could see nothing of the North, nothing of his home. The weirwood magic was blocked.

When Lord Brynden died, the Children closed his eyelids and placed a wreath of weirwood leaves around his crown. The roots had grown through his legs so much that he was just torso, arms, neck, and head. He was buried there, in a blanket knit of leaves and moss. The next morning, Meera glanced warily at his grave before turning to Bran.

"I'm going hunting today, with Leaf and Summer." Leaf, like all the Children, did not eat the way humans did, but had helped Meera hunt for food for them all just as they had fed Bloodraven for decades.

After Meera and Hodor left, Bran slipped inside the trees.

Winterfell...let me see Winterfell... Nothing. The Wolfsood, then. The White Knife. Last Hearth. Nothing. Bran felt the roots of his tree seat creeping around his legs. Suddenly, without warning, there was a prick on his shin. He gasped, and in a blinding blaze of white light he saw the North in all its horror.

Thousands of raised dead men and women moved across the land. Winterfell was afrost with a terrible curse of darkness. Giant spiders slid down the frozen White Knife toward White Harbor. Jon, Bran thought. Show me Jon. The trees showed him nothing. After hours and hours he awoke.

The next day he bid Meera to go hunting again. "I have work to do. I've had a breakthrough. I've seen the North." Meera agreed, but he saw her eyes flicker quickly to his shin and then away. She avoided his eyes when she said goodbye.

Again Bran entered the trees. Instead of south below the wall, he reached eastward. Far on the island of Skaagos, he saw a dazzling winter untouched by the Sidhe. He saw a unicorn with blood and hair dried to its horn, gorging itself on a cranberry tree. Stark...find me a Stark, he thought. Then he felt the warmth of Summer's skin, but it was different...more dangerous. Shaggydog! Bran thought. Through the direwolf's green eyes, Bran saw his brother for the first time in years. Rickon! he called out, and Rickon Stark's eyes darted from the trees to Shaggydog and back. His hair was longer than his arms, but styled tightly to warm his ears and neck. It was not unlike all of the other hairstyles he saw when he reached to the island. Can you hear me? Rickon nodded slowly, his eyes wide and afraid. Apparently Shaggydog rarely sat so still. It's Bran. I'm beyond the Wall. Stay on Skaagos, the Others have-

"Hodor, hodor, hodor, hodor!" the giant stableboy shouted as he shook Bran by his shoulders. There was fear and sorrow in this voice. Bran opened his eyes, angry at the interruption. He found himself more irritated by the sound of Meera crying. "Hodor, hodor hodor!"

"Yes, what is it Hodor?" Bran snapped. The stableboy clapped his mouth with his left hand, and pointed to Bran's legs with his right. Slowly, Brandon Stark looked down. His toes were longer...whiter...and wood. They stretched down into the ground like roots. Absurdly, since he had been lame for so long, Bran tried to wiggle them. Nothing happened. "It's okay, Hodor," Bran tried to say soothingly, but his voice betrayed his own fear.

Meera looked Bran in the eyes. "This may be your destiny, Bran, but I hate to see it." Bran felt strangely guilty. She had lost her whole life, her family, her brother to see him north. But Jojen had always known the day he would die, even she admitted it...so why did he feel at fault for his friend's death, after so long?

"I know what you're thinking," Bran said, "but we can't...we can't let him have died in vain. I have to take over now that the Three Eyed Raven is gone." Meera resumed crying, but when they supped she gave Bran a choicer yet smaller rabbit than the smoked squirrels she and Hodor shared.

The next day, Bran was alone when he woke. He called and called, but nobody answered, not Meera or Hodor or any of the Children, not even Bloodraven from under his weirwood grave. After giving up, he steeled himself and entered the trees again.

Jon? Where are you? Show me Jon Stark! He saw nothing. Arya...where is Arya? But nobody came. If either of them where alive, they were no longer Starks, no longer Jon or Arya, or else he could find them with a mere thought. He settled to study more of the Sidhe invasion, seeing through time as the Wall and then castle after castle fell to the seemingly endless horde of undead.

Then before him was a young woman who looked strikingly like Arya, but all confused. She is an Other, Bran thought. He watched his sister for hours that day, seeing her struggle against her captor-husband, the man who had masqueraded as Reek at Winterfell years and years ago.

When Culhrikan called himself the King in the North, Bran felt scorching anger flood his veins like nothing he'd ever felt. He tried to reach out to kill the man, and amazingly felt something strange happening...Could it be hope? But before Bran could tell, he was awoken again by a distressed Hodor.

This time, Bran looked down to see that his feet were wider and more root-like. The root that had pierced his shin days ago was poking out of his calf. He shuddered and began to sob. He let out a muffled scream through his hands.

"Do not fear, Brandon Stark," came a calm and childlike voice from nearby. "You were meant to be Lord Brynden's heir. You were meant to take his place and his power. And since his passing, while we have left you alone to explore your strength, we have watched." It was Leaf, the Child of the Forest who had saved them when they arrived at the cave. Yet now, Bran felt colder than he ever had in the cave. They'd seen what he'd seen, then? When I'm in the tree, can they see what I see?

"No," Leaf answered, as if she knew his thoughts. "We only know you have tried very hard. What did you see, before Hodor woke you?"

"I saw my brother, Rickon. I saw the North, engulfed in an invasion of dark forces. I saw..." he did not want to say it. It can't be true...Arya dead too...

"You are ready, I think, to find someone," said the Child.

"Who?" asked Bran.

Leaf's expression was impassive. "You will see. Go to the Wolfswood. Go now, before it is too late."

Bran glanced anxiously from Leaf to Meera, who sat silently watching the proceeding, then to Hodor cradling his legs to his chest. He closed his eyes...

[badgate]

Bran
Part II

He wasn't in the Wolfswood. Far off to the east he could hear the faint crash of the northern end of the White Knife, but he was seeing an open field. In the middle of it was a great stone stained with centuries of men's blood. The wind howled, and Bran could almost here his half brother once more. "Don't look away," the wind whispered, "father will know."

He was racing through the winds now, down a hill toward the edge of the Wolfswood. Show me the man, Bran thought hesitantly. Nothing happened. The forest was deathly quiet; it was as if the invasion of the Sidhe had wiped color and sound from the world. Bran jumped from tree to tree. He saw a brook, a famished raccoon desperately eating snow, a bridge- Bran's heart jumped.

Just as he had seen the bridge, he could have sworn, sworn, he felt fur brush against his naked leg. Summer? he thought, calling out to his direwolf. The bridge seemed to shine in the winter light, and Bran moved over it. His heart was pounding in his ears, but through the trees it sounded like someone knocking on the inside of the bark as if trying to get out. Past the bridge he came to a familiar hillside, sloping sharply downward toward the brook. The memory came flooding back and so did Bran, hurtling himself back in time.

Suddenly he stood before himself: younger, with shorter hair, and whole. He stood. There was Robb, holding Grey Wind and Lady in his arms. Bran was clutching Summer tight, while Jon held Nymeria and Shaggydog. "Lord Stark," Jon said. Bran felt a tear stream down his cheek back in the weirwood cave. "There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children. Your family were meant to have them."

Bran had loved Jon immensely in that moment, but never realized till now how sad his own face had looked as he'd processed what Jon had done. He had also never seen the sad amazement on his lord father's face at the time, but saw it now. Then, looking as if he had made up his mind for the final time, Eddard Stark nodded curtly to his bastard son.

The figures melted away; Theon Greyjoy's mocking smile faded last, and there at the bottom of the hill kneeling at the brook for a drink was his uncle.

Brandon Stark's heart leapt with joy and amazement as he looked upon his uncle Benjen through the eyes of an old gnarled weirwood. "Uncle!" he said, and a gust of wind carried his voice to his uncle's ears.

Benjen Stark looked up, and his eyes widened when he looked into the weirwood face...Bran's face. "Who...what...who are you?" he asked. His voice was hoarse: the water was clearly a welcome thing for him, and he was much thinner than he had been when Bran saw him at Winterfell years ago.

"It's me...Bran. Your nephew." The word felt strange in Bran's mouth, as if family relations were ideas from a distant structured life he'd nearly forgotten. "I'm north of the Wall, or what used to be the Wall, with the Children of the Forest."

To his credit Benjen Stark did not ask the obvious questions. Perhaps he too felt they had limited time before the final sunset in Westeros. He nodded, and took a great gulp of water, standing to fully face the tree.

"What happened to you, Uncle?" Bran asked. Uncle Benjen looked tired, like he'd been asked this a thousand times now, but patiently he said, "Lord Commander Mormont sent me on a ranging to find out what happened to Ser Waymar Royce. Ser Waymar was a vain knight who joined the Night's Watch within two months of coming of age, the third son of one of the oldest houses in the Vale. Lord Royce already had two sons, there would be scarce glory for a third, but as a knight and a highborn with a maester's education Ser Waymar likely would have risen high in the Night's Watch...had he listened to his brothers.

"Ser Waymar was sent out with two seasoned men to track wildling raiders who had been spotted climbing the wall west of Castle Black. When they never returned, but one of my brothers mysteriously appeared near Winterfell, we knew something strange might have happened. Myself and two of my brothers tracked them into the forest, but when we reached a place that looked like it might have held their battle we were attacked..." his voice cracked here.

"It was Walkers. A big one, with a great ice sword, took two of my brothers. Somehow, through some miracle I got away. I wasn't too far from a wildling village when the sun came up. So for the last few years I hid myself among hundreds of thousands of wildlings who came down behind Mance Raydar. When Stannis defeated Mance, I was with the refugees who fled to Hardhome. There I saw the work of the Sidhe for the first time in true: thousands of dead men and women fell off cliffs, only to get up, kill everyone they met, and make them get up and kill too. I made it to a boat and have travelled on foot from near Karhold to the Wolfswood." Benjen looked around. "It seems the forest repels them...somewhat."

"It's Stark land," Bran said boldly. His Uncle Benjen smiled. "So it is."

"I learned through the trees...I learned, Uncle, that the leader of the Sidhe calls himself the King in the North."

Benjen's eyes hardened. "There is only one King in the North, nephew. You."

"I know, Uncle," the King said. "The Nights Watch is ended, and I relieve you of your vows."

Benjen Stark knelt before the gnarled weirwood tree.

"I need a champion, Ser Benjen," said the King in the North. "I believe I have had an idea."

[badgate]

Benjen

The sky was slate gray and the wind had a murderous bite to its chill. There in that clearing in the Wolfswood, Benjen Stark stood before the weirwood trees and focused all his might on the dry kindling at the base of the tree. He clenched his fist, and with startling speed felt a rush of heat burst from his arm. Across the clearing the tinder erupted in flames. This fire is the oldest magic, Benjen thought, staring thoughtfully at his hand.

"Good," came his nephew's voice from the tree. “You’re getting much better, uncle.” Benjen looked into the eyes filled with blood red sap. For weeks now Benjen had lived in the wood, eating and sleeping at its feet, and training daily for the battle to come. His nephew had learned deeper and more ancient secrets than any Stark ever had, and slowly but surely some of those secrets had helped Benjen to prepare.

His senses were heightened in a way that allowed him to hear and see better, and his reflexes were faster than any man he'd ever seen. Then Bran had told his uncle to place his bare hand on the weirwood one morning, the same as always, but when he did the wood was boiling to the touch. "Do not move your hand," Bran had said. Benjen obeyed, and despite the pain saw that his hand was unscathed when he eventually pulled it away.

The transfer and training of weirwood magic was only part of it. With the Night's King's return to Winterfell, the plan to destroy him had been undertaken in earnest.

"The Children of the Forest say the Night's King's death will cause the Sidhe to fall," Bran reported again.

"Yes, but why don't they know for sure? Didn't they help the First Men during the Long Night?"

"Of course, but uncle, until just recently the others were thought of as a long lost myth; there was barely a whisper of a memory of them even in the North. If the men of Westeros forgot, how can you expect generations of Children to remember?"

"You will need to get inside Winterfell, through the Army of Winter. Once you've gotten to the godswood, we will speak again."

"Through the army?!" Benjen asked.

"I can guide you in some ways," Bran said.
That night Benjen Stark slept restlessly, for there was nothing but terror that stood before him.

In the morning he gathered his things: his cloak, boots, and sword were all put in place with steady care. The whole time, Benjen Stark's hands trembled.

He was returning to the castle he'd only dreamt for five long years. In the end of Summer, he remembered the merriment of the feast honoring King Robert's visit to Winterfell. It had reminded him of the chaos he'd loved as a child, chasing Brandon and Lyanna through crowds, playing at swords in the godswood, racing their horses across the moors.

The memory of his childhood at Winterfell, when everything had been whole, seemed to warm him and calm his nerves. He remembered his decision to join the Night's Watch after Ned returned from the war. At the time he had hated Ned, hated him for living and coming back with a beautiful wife and son, when father and Brandon and Lyanna all came back as bones. Now he felt at peace with his decision, for the first time in his life. How strange that it was today.

Benjen had learned by now to know when his nephew was warging nearby animals. A scruffy rabbit was guiding him out of the Wolfswood right now, then he switched to a crow that flew from branch to branch, until finally he stood looking at the castle he once called home.

It looked more like a ruin now. And stretched all around in the tens of thousands was the Army of Winter. Benjen pulled his cloak tighter about him, and the hood farther over his head. Slowly and deliberately, he walked into the camp.

To his surprise, nobody seemed to notice him. This army had the looks of a hard and recent defeat. Closer and closer he got to Winterfell, and could tell that Bran was warging the crow flying ahead, guiding him through the camp without coming face to face with a wight. Finally he reached the gates and crouched behind a tent, taking stock of the guard.

There were four men posted at the gate, Benjen had counted, when the crow landed on his arm. “How am I getting in?” he asked the crow. It quorked, and then he heard a shout from yards away. Looking up, he saw a young warrior woman, a sidhe, leaving the castle with an escort of followers. The guards seemed enthralled to meet her, and Benjen seized the opportunity to slip past them in the hubbub of the night woman’s presence.

Inside Winterfell, it was like second nature getting himself to the godswood. First he’d cross through the yard, as he’d dashed across it hundreds of times as a boy. Then he’d pass the great wolf statues that lead to the Stark crypts, where the Kings of Winter still live on their stony thrones. Past that was the next stage in their plan. As he crossed the yard, a noisy flock of crows flew overhead to draw the attention of the sidhe warriors. Past the burned remains of Catleyn Tully’s modest sept he saw the wolf statues, smoked and charred from fires that the castle had weathered. Then he was there, inthe forest of the Winter Kings: the Godswood of Winterfell.

Steam still rose from the pools, but it was a feeble effort now. Decades past he’d have bathed and jumped in the ponds for hours, laughing and splashing and chasing his older sister and brother. Fortunately the place now seemed abandoned, almost as if the Sidhe shunned it but could not destroy it. Benjen clenched his fist together and felt the fire magic tingling in his fingertips. This is the realm of the Old Gods, and the land of the Starks. He stepped lightly and crossed the wood to the great weirwood at the center. In this freezing winter it lacked the crimson leaves, but its face still seeped blood-red sap from the eyes.

As Benjen stepped forward, the weirwood took the features of his nephew. “You made it,” Bran said. He smiled back, too breathless to respond. “Right,” Bran continued, “you need to get to the Night’s King. He will be guarded, of course, and that’s where what I’ve taught you kicks in. He’s in the great hall right now, I saw through a rat that he is eating with his men.”

“How many?” Benjen asked.

“At least a hundred. I’m not sure I can work a diversion to get-”

Bran’s words were cut off by a piercing screach from the sky. The sound was joined quickly by two others, and through the leaves of the godswood Benjen saw dragons flying over his head. Without thinking he drew his sword, and turned to the nearest exit toward the great hall.

“Good luck,” he heard his nephew whisper in the wind.

Ahead the dragons were diving and circling the main part of the castle, raining fire on the shouting Sidhe in the yard and on the walls. A cream colored one broke formation to scorch the perimiter of the walls, while the green one dove into the yard and cast a flame so long and hot that Benjen felt it from his safe vantage point. Hurriedly, he ran up the stairs that led to the walkway over the yard. When he reached the top he was ready to sprint, but came face to face with three sidhe warriors, each with their swords drawn.

Before the wights could even react, Benjen swung his sword through the chest of the first one, and from his fingers flames enveloped the blade and body alike. One turn and ran, while the other lunged for his legs. With the speed of a shadowcat, Benjen swung the flaming sword downward and it caught the Sidhe’s blade with full force, knocking him to the ground. In an instant the second Sidhe’s body was enveloped in flames as well.

Benjen proceeded across the walkway as the monstrous black dragon flew overhead, missing it by inches. He could have sworn he heard the shouts of the woman riding the beast. He ran as fast as his legs would take him, and burst through the doors to the great hall.

Inside was not the home of the Starks. The walls and ceiling were frozen in strong coats of ice. The sword in his hand extinguished, and through the smoke that rose before his face, Benjen Stark found himself face to face with the Night’s King, the woman Sidhe he’d seen at the gates, and a man so tattered and unclean that he positively reeked.