A tall, slender youth moved slowly through the crowd of the dead, glancing around and taking everything in. He wore a brown leather doublet laced at the chest, belted trousers, and soft boots. His thin, narrow face was completely expressionless, while the wind lightly ruffled his dark hair.
The dead did not notice the living. He passed easily between the motionless bodies, careful not to touch anyone.
But the three Others had clearly seen him. They began to move toward him—slowly, calmly—trying to remain unnoticed.
I rushed forward. Bran was behaving far too carelessly. The Others were approaching from the other side…
The dead paid no attention to my presence. Despite the frost, I could still sense the stench of death and decay emanating from them.
"Stop!" I reached him first, seizing his arm and spinning him around sharply.
One of the Others, crowned with small horn-like protrusions, fixed us with a piercing gaze filled with boundless hatred. It stretched out its hand and nearly seized Bran. Nearly.
Bran saw the Other, faltered, hesitated—and in the next instant, I had already "leapt" with him back to King's Landing.
We stood on a deserted beach. Behind us rose the reddish walls of the castle, while the sea, softly whispering, sang its endless song. A lone seagull flew past, heading toward the opposite shore of Blackwater Bay.
"I know you," Bran said. He did not seem surprised in the slightest. He looked me over from head to toe and calmly added, "You are Joffrey Lannister. And you killed my father."
"I am Joffrey—but I did not kill Eddard Stark."
"A lie!"
"Wait—don't leave," I said quickly, urgently, afraid he would vanish. "You're a warg. Tell me—are you responsible when your direwolf kills someone while you are not inside it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Joffrey killed your father—but I am not him. You can inhabit animals; I have taken his body."
Silence fell.
Bran stood perfectly still, watching me without a word. Nothing could be read in his eyes. As for me, I had no fear in revealing this secret to Stark. People had long said that Joffrey was a bastard, a sadist, a tormentor. If Bran chose not to keep silent, it would simply become yet another rumor. Who would believe him?
On the other hand, it even suited me if someone like Bran—or Jon Snow—took my words seriously.
"I cannot verify what you're saying," Bran finally said.
"No, you can't—but actions speak for themselves. Your sister Sansa lives in the Red Keep, and I have no intention of killing her. I brought Arya here, gave her every opportunity, and she still ran away. Moreover, I promised to restore the Starks to Winterfell. Isn't that proof enough?"
"What do you want?" he asked, and I understood that he was willing to accept these new circumstances. And here, one fact worked in my favor—it seems Bran had begun to change. Just as in the canon, he was losing his emotions and feelings. He was becoming the Three-Eyed Crow—but ceasing to be human. He was growing distant, calm, and cold. He was leaving his emotions behind, in a previous life. Along with them, vengeance remained there as well.
It was somewhat strange. I, too, looked through the greenery, yet for some reason I had not lost my emotions or my enjoyment of life. Perhaps it was because I did not perceive the greenery as a full-fledged existence, but merely as an additional ability? To me, it was nothing more than a means to an end. Bran, on the other hand, perceived it differently. In the greenery, he was whole—strong and healthy. I don't know… but that explanation makes a certain kind of sense.
"I want you to know this—your teacher, the Three-Eyed Crow, intends for you to take his place and sit among the roots of a weirwood for centuries. Think about whether you want such a fate, or whether you wish to return to Winterfell and see your family with your own eyes."
Bran looked at me in silence, his gaze steady and utterly calm.
"All right. I'll think about it," he finally said.
"Good. Then remember this—under no circumstances let the Others touch you. If they do, they will be able to breach the protection surrounding your barrow."
"That all?"
"No. Help me find your brother Rickon. I believe he is at Last Hearth with the Umbers—or on the island of Skagos."
"Why do you need Rickon?"
"He must take Winterfell and become the new Warden of the North."
"I'll consider your words."
"Do."
Bran vanished.
Well then—I had finally done what I had long intended. On one hand, I had met Bran, explained my position, and attempted to establish an initial connection. On the other, I had prevented his encounter with the Other—and everything that would have followed: his escape from the barrow, Hodor's death, and the journey back to Winterfell. True, the Three-Eyed Crow remained alive—but that, so to speak, was a minor detail.
I could tell Bran whatever I pleased, but for now it benefited me for him to remain as far north as possible—beyond the Wall—and not meet any of the Starks in person. Let him remain where he had so long striven to reach.
Could I have spoken the same way to Arya Stark? Could I have confessed to her what I had told Bran? Probably not. Arya would have taken my words as a trick, an attempt to evade punishment. She would not have believed me. The girl was too biased—too quick to act and speak.
Bran, however, had already become something else.
(End of Chapter)
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