45 The Keeper of the Dawn

A full moon hovered above, resting directly at the center of the dark sky. Its light bearing down atop the House of the Undying - sandstone pylon towering over the rocky, lush landscape of hills and olive trees close to the coastline outside of Qarth - gave it a glow almost mystical. Oddly, not a star was in sight. The sky was a completely bare, inky black.

The observation was not odd to Bran Stark. "The sparkling gods in the heavens flee."

"The clash of the mystic commences," stated the voice of the unknown old man. "Not the great battle - not even a battle of the great war - but a clash nonetheless. One that will define history."

"Such destiny will lay itself out before us how it may," Bran said to the voice, sounding as if talking to the open air, or to the faint crash of the ocean waves onto the cliffs. "My goal is to get Meera back."

"Hodor, Hodor, Hodor." Increasingly agitated, the gentle giant looked frantically for an entrance. Any entrance. "Hodor!" He couldn't let the kind Lady Meera be stuck here, imprisoned by the wraith-like warlocks.

Eyes closing, Bran searched himself for the answer. Flashes came to him in fits and starts. A crow flapping its wings, diving for the familiar sandstone tower. A cluster of souls, magic pulsing within and a tied up female alongside them. Bony hands pressing against a particular place in the wall. The crow's beak pointing. Pointing…

'Brandon Stark. Here. Here…'

A raised hand silenced the ranting fear. "Hodor, there." He pointed at an unremarkable point on the wall, no different than the others. There were no distinguishing marks or features, but to Bran it was as if a bullseye adorned the spot. A deep inhale, then exhale, stoking the ancient mystic core that existed within him. He slowly reached out with his hands from his position in Hodor's arms. Warm skin touched the cool stone, magic leaving Bran in an unseen wave as he silently chanted the ancient tongue of the warlock.

Startling Hodor but unseen yet by Bran - too absorbed in his task - finely carved cracks appeared in the sandstone, a large entranceway forming as the rectangular block swung open on nonexistent hinges. "Let's go, Hodor," Bran finally said, face flat as Hodor plodded inside.

Aside from the reverse shadow on the floor, cast by the moonlight streaming through the entranceway, the interior was pitch black. What little illumination the moon provided showed a bare antechamber. Stairways lined the walls, leading upward. Grabbing a torch lining the wall, he flicked at it with his hand, magic sparking the front into a flickering flame. "Well, Hodor. Up the stairs."

"Hodor. Hooooodor." Both jumped slightly as the stone block slammed shut in the entranceway, but continued on wordlessly. The stairwell seemed to wrap around the tower, leading on and on. Mindless step after mindless step. Not one feature distinguishing one patch of wall from the other. A slight mystic force tingled Bran's skin. Ever present but weak, like the sound of a raging river that was a distance away.

Suddenly, a slight gust of wind - more like a soft exhale than an actual gale - passed by. The torch extinguished, casting them into a silent darkness. "Hodor. Hodor. Hodor." The gentle giant began to panic, struggling to keep his footing on the staircase while Bran willed him to calm down.

Click.

The sound may have been low, barely audible in even the laid back atmosphere of a calm meadow - but in the pitched darkness of the House of the Undying it boomed like the greatest explosion. Feeling Hodor tense, Bran swiveled his head around. Nothing. There was no one, despite the sound. Only darkness, pitch black all around. In one area, the darkness seemed to shimmer…

His eyes widened. "Hodor!" Warning in vain, nearly half a dozen spectral images surrounded the gentle giant, clinking of chains and iron shackles mixing with his panicked shouts. Bran found the tight grip on his body slacking, weakening. Bran tried to bring forth the magic from within his core, but a sharp blow to the head from the hilt of a knife disoriented him. A quick yank back buckled Hodor's knees, and with a pained shout he fell.

He lost his grip on Bran, the young warlock falling upon the ground - barely able to register the pain, the floor disappeared below him into further blackness.

Green stretched out as far as the eye could see, mountains peeking into the cloudless sky with nary a snowcap on them. It was beautiful. A serene sight if there ever was one. Bran stood quietly, a small, childlike smile on his face as he surveyed the landscape. It felt so much like home, the land of his birth. A sense of pleasant nostalgia filled him.

A muffled cry shook him out of his reverie. Turning to his left, Bran saw a small figure race into a grove of rocks. Pointed into the air, arranged in perfect circles, they surrounded a simple weirwood tree. Taking a few steps closer, Bran's eyes widened at the tiny forms gathered around the tree. Mottled, dark skin framed the bodies of small children - grass and leaves lining their hair. "The children of the forest," he said to no one in particular. None could hear him anyway.

Tied to the tree was a man, fit and young. He struggled against his restraints, casting hateful looks at the children surrounding him. They clapped their hands together in reverence, while the middle one - their leader by the looks of it - approached the restrained First Man. Snapping his teeth through his gag, squirming with all the power he could muster, the man was nevertheless unable to stop what happened next. With a mere silent chant of ancient magic, the child of the forest plunged a sliver of dragonglass into the man's heart.

A wave of mystical energy forced Bran to his knees, filling his head with silent yet piercing screams of pain and agony. Struggling, he lifted his head up to gaze at the condemned man. Instead of lifelessness, the man's gaze grew cold as his eyes formed a brilliant ice blue.

Suddenly, the picture vanished. The pain dissipated. Breathing hard, Bran placed his hand over his heart to steady himself as he lifted himself back up. The grass was gone. Greenery gone. Everything around him was dead, shriveled and frosted with angry dark clouds circling overhead. Slowly walking through the death and cold around him, Bran did not think this was the North. Westeros clearly, but it could have been anywhere.

"Clearly he lies!" At the sound of the angry voice, Bran hurried to the top of a small molehill dotted with dead bushes. A party of warriors clustered around a single man of shaggy silver hair. Wounds dotted his body, clearly a great fighter in how he stood tall and strong against impossible odds. Atop a massive litter rested a gaudy figure. Draped in silks and adorned with jewels, the only feature of his visible to Bran was a thick thatch of golden hair. "He wishes us, as our crops fail and livestock die, to journey north to take on 'monsters?'" The warriors around him erupted into laughter.

"I have seen them with my own eyes, sire," the silver-haired man said. "And haven't I shown myself to be a man of integrity in the sight of the gods?"

A hiss left the sovereign's mouth. "The gods have granted me their blessing to rule over this entire land, and I'll be damned if some upstart warrior seeks to question their judgement." He waved him off. "Kill him and be done with it."

Clubs, and swords raised, the warriors moved forward to finish the man before them. So unlike the others, silver locks alien to the blacks, browns, and reds of the others. 'Perhaps it is why they worship the gold one,' thought Bran. He had remembered that gold hair was not found among the First Men - that it was intermarriage with the Andals over the millennia that brought it. The man knelt, back to the ruler as his lips moved in silent prayer.

Just as the warriors were about to swarm him, with a loud cry he leapt up, swung around, and threw his spear directly at the golden god among men. Spearpoint ran right through, bright blood seeping through the gaudy fabric. With a gasp the living god collapsed on the ground. Dead.

Bran knew just as the other warriors did. Staring at the silver man, they gaped in awe. A god could not be killed - he was no god.

Hearing a clang of metal on metal behind him, Bran turned to find himself in a hovel. Sticks and sod connected to a hollowed out scoop of a hillside. The howling of blizzard winds was deafening, but heat and stagnant air engulfed the hovel. Hunched over a blacksmith's forge was the same man. Whereas despite his wounds at the confrontation, here they were far worse. Bandages covered his body, dirt and scars everywhere as he swung the final blow of the hammer upon his creation. His face was gaunt, eyes deep in their sockets from pain and lack of rest. Only his hair, matted to his forehead, showed any vibrancy - silver shining in the firelight.

Eyes focused on the man, Bran watched as he gingerly lifted the item worked on for a hundred days and a hundred nights while the world collapsed around him. Bran looked in awe. A longsword, glowing with the heat of the fire, etched in red runes of ancient magic. Instead of being proud of his creation, the man's gaze was that of anguish. "Must I?" he asked, voice forlorn.

"You must, dear husband." Voice making itself known, Bran looked to the right to find a tall and shapely woman, fair northern beauty evident despite her tattered rags. A tear fell down her cheek, but she remained strong and composed. "Fulfill your destiny."

"But I cannot kill you. I love you, wife," he practically wailed.

"I do not want to die, but I shall for the greater good." She smiled at him, baring her breast. "I shall see you in the afterlife. Come to the most beautiful meadow, and I shall be waiting." Tears cascading down his cheeks, the man drove forth the sword. In the burst of great flame that followed, engulfing all in bright white light, Bran could almost see the face of the man morph into…

Jon's.

"Hmmmm-ahhhh... Hmmmm-ahhhh... Hmmmm-ahhhh..."

First thing to penetrate his unconscious mind was the low humming. Pain and soreness filled his body, torso and shoulders aching from his fall. The steady chants resonated in his ears, pounding the inside of his head like rhythmic beats of a drum. Eyes fluttering open, Bran blinked away the blurriness clouding his vision.

A dozen warlocks, thin lips like shriveled blueberries from shade of the evening, stood in a large semicircle. At the center was a large pit of fire, flames a dull red. On a raised platform was Pyat Pree, gnarled fingers sprinkling mixes of frankincense and other mystical powders into the flame. "All knowing one," he proclaimed. "Emerge from your solitude in the icy blast. Bring forth your knowledge and your power." Another flick of the wrist sent a dash of crystals into the fire, flames sputtering into a bluish shimmer. "We have brought your apprentice, and the one he loves."

Staying quiet, Bran's heart clenched as he saw Meera, shackled in chains close to Pyat Pree. Only a few feet away from him was Hodor, chained as well. The gentle giant seemed despondent, while Meera sported a mix of withering defiance towards the warlocks and loving concern towards him - likely thinking him hurt. 'I guess she does love me,' he thought to himself. The prospect seemed oddly calming.

"Bring her forth."

Two warlocks picked Meera up by her chained shoulders, dragging her forward to right by the dias. Rage burning within him, Bran's hands reached out to grip the cracks and edges on the floor, slowly but surely dragging himself forward.

This was not lost on Pyat Pree. "Ah, the great Brandon Stark has awoken." Reaching into a jeweled box behind him, he pulled out a beating blue heart - free from any body, but in motion nonetheless. Bran could just feel the intense magic contained within. "You have something we need most desperately, young Bran."

Hauling himself till he sat, Bran glared at him. "What?"

"The one you have been talking to in your visions, the Three Eyed Raven." Gears clicking in his head, Bran nevertheless remained impassive, looking at Meera. "You do realize, Bran of House Stark, what knowledge the Three Eyed Raven holds within his mind."

Bran's eyes never left Meera's. "I haven't the faintest idea."

Pyat Pree smiled wryly, face a grinning skeleton. "Immortality." He chuckled, stepping down from the dias. "Such is the great mystery, on how to bring eternity from the heavens. There is only one known to have done so - a Red Priestess from Asshai, though her techniques have been lost to the ages. Warlocks for thousands of years have tried and failed to find the answer, but when Daenerys Targaryen's dragons hatched and brought magic back to this world..." His hands illuminated, pressing the energy on Meera's cheeks. "The answer came to me in a vision. The same Three Eyed Raven that has graced your visions."

Anger coursed through Bran at the thought of the sickly wraith touching Meera. "How does the Three Eyed Raven allow immortality."

"A gift from the Children of the Forest," a chinless warlock answered.

His scarred colleague nodded. "The original inhabitants of Westeros. Granting a man eternal life through their ancient magic."

The vision from before flashed in Bran's mind. 'The others.' Through creating White Walkers, the Children granted immortality.

"Of course, the process created nothing but great malevolence," Pyat Pree conceded. "But a great mystic sign filled all disciples of the art of sorcery. In this age, the Children succeeded where they had once failed. Thanks to none other than the Three Eyed Raven." Confusion filling his expression, Bran saw the warlock's smile turn to a scowl. "Bring him to us."

"I have no idea what you want me to do," he said, honestly. "The 'Three Eyed Raven appears to me at random, and I don't have a clue as to what the Children of the Forest are!."

"Lies!" hissed an earless warlock.

"A child of the North of Westeros knows the ancient stories," stated a chinless warlock, annoyance tinging his voice.

Grabbing Meera, Pyat Pree jerked her forward. "My patience is running out, Bran Stark. We have brought you into our home and gave you training, but you spit at our generosity. Bring the Three Eyed Raven here, or watch your love burn." He held her over the fire, ready to drop her in. "A person deserves to be with their love. Do not destroy such for someone you don't even know." Meera shook her head, shaking from fear.

"You know what you must do, Brandon Stark."

'You're right,' Bran said silently, almost envisioning the old man nodding to him. "I'll do it."

"No Bran!" Meera began to shout, only to be thrown roughly to the side.

"It will be alright, Meera. I promise." He smiled at her. "Do not worry about me. I love you."

A flicker of joy as he said it turned into sorrow at the circumstances. "I love you too."

Smile returned to his face, Pyat Pree stepped forward, heart in hand. "Good. You have chosen wisely. For you and your lady love." He handed the beating heart to him. "With this talisman, the power of the gods rests within you. The Three Eyed Raven shall be in your grasp. Bring him forth to deliver his knowledge."

"Bring him forth!" chanted the others.

Heart clutched in his hands, Bran closed his eyes, allowing its magic to seep inside him. 'You know what you must do.' Realization hit him, all the knowledge and skill taught to him. Laid open to him. Enabled by the mystic power given to him. His hands took on the blue tint of the heart, light covering them. Soon, it covered his whole body. Energy flew into his legs, tingling into burning as sensation returned to them for the first time since that horrible fall so long ago.

Excited, it soon turned into puzzled horror on Pyat Pree's face as Bran began to rise up - levitating in the air before dropping on his legs. The glow covered him as he stood upright. "What is this?!" he hissed. Meera watched, jaw agape. "Get the guards!" he shouted.

Eyes glowing a bright blue, the heart dropped from Bran's hands as the last bit of magic seeped from it. Spectral images shimmered from his body, splitting around as they drew the mirror copies of the knife Bran had kept on his person. "Justice upon the wicket," each stated, going after the warlocks. Many screamed as the knives ripped through blood and skin.

"Kill the girl!" Pyat Pree hissed. Two of the warlocks grabbed at her, Meera kicking and biting at them. None of his duplicate forms close, Bran's supercharged mind acted on instinct. Eyes rolling in the back of his head, suddenly the panicked Hodor straightened, purpose filling him. With one jerk of his strong arms, he ripped the chain from it's hook on the wall and charged. "A warg?" Pyat Pree murmured with shock just as Hodor lifted him up and tossed him screaming into the fire. Similar fate rested for the warlocks assaulting Meera. The girl watched as Hodor broke the chains binding her before turning towards her love.

He had collapsed on the ground, warging sapping his magical energy and leaving his legs crippled once more. "Bran!" she screamed, rushing to his side - just as the scramble of feet were heard from outside the door. "The soldiers! Hodor, hold the door!" Still connected to Bran, he bounded to the door and pressed all his strength upon it as the guards attempted to enter.

"They've buttressed it tight!" Muffled shouts of the guards filtered through the thick wood. "Bring the battering ram!"

Grabbing the prone Bran by the shoulders, Meera felt her muscles ache as she pulled him to the open window. "Hodor! Hold the door!" she screamed.

"Heave! Ho!"

Hodor looked in great pain and anguish, body jolting each time the guards outside the door hit it with their ram. Only the ever persistent voice and a deep gut instinct to protect the two children struggling to move to the window kept him firm.

"Hold the door!" They were halfway across the floor.

"Heave! Ho!" The hinges strained.

"Hold the door!" Meera lost her grip and nearly fell, recovering quickly.

"Heave! Ho!" Something splintered, showering his back with stinging cuts.

"Hold the door!" Meera looked behind her to see the window only a few feet away.

"Heave! Ho!" Part of the doorway broke, leaving a hole in which a guard rammed his short sword through. Hodor let out a pained cry as it sliced through his arm.

Below, Meera could see the crystal clear waters, hauntingly still in the pre-dawn darkness. Bran still out of it, they had no choice - they would have to jump. "Hodor!" She couldn't leave him. "Come on!"

Spotting Meera gesturing madly to him, Hodor broke from his post split seconds before the battering ram crashed into the weak hinges, shearing them off the jam and sending the heavy oak clattering on the floor. Crossbow bolts smacked off stone walls as Hodor ran hunched over. One hit his back with a wet slap. Gritting his teeth, it did not slow him down. Soon he was at the ledge with Meera and Bran, arms out to scoop up the young nobleman.

"JUMP!" Leaping, the three of them fell into the waters below.

Spray drenched all present on the seawall. Ironborn roustabouts and sailors went about their missions without a second glance. For Petyr Baelish, child of the Vale and one who had no experience with the sea until moving from his ancestral home to King's Landing at two decades and a half from his first name day, misery shrouded him. 'Tywin must have had a laugh over making me master of ships.' Soaked to the bone despite the oiled cloak draped about his shoulder, another wave nearly knocked him off his feet. Why they called these lands the Stormlands was no longer lost on him.

His companion wasn't affected at all. On the other hand, his reaction was the opposite. "Whooooooo!" whooped Euron Greyjoy, arms extended as another blast of seawater slammed into him. Not even bracing himself, the man wasn't affected in the slightest. He snarled with tongue out, catching another spray with relish. Hair matted to his skin and eyes were wide with near insanity, but he didn't seem to care. "Bring it on! Fuck you ocean! You are my bitch!" Laughs resonated from him, defying the waters that provided him with such power.

"I see where the Ironborn reputation comes from," Littlefinger muttered. Either tied up at several earthen or solid wooden piers or out bobbing in the strait between Storm's End and Tarth - occupied since Selwyn Tarth bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen - were the mass of the Ironborn fleet. Ships massive and fast, surface sharks ready to bring might and terror on the waves for King Joffrey.

"There's a reason we have been undefeated on the sea. My cunt of a brother never understood that, bogging us down in mindless wars on the land, letting mainland shits land on Pyke." Euron spat into the dark waters, mouth curled in a menacing snarl illuminated by a lightning bolt. He tapped his skull. "I was the only Ironborn capable of thinking. Need allies on the land, so that we are secure to rule the sea." He threw his arms wide. "The sea is our bitch!" A cheer rang out from all Ironborn that heard him, but the thunder drowned it out.

Hit with another wave of salty spray, Littlefinger pursed his lips. "Quite. You do have a penchant for plotting and planning." He smirked slightly. "Goes with the fact you considered an offer to Queen Daenerys similar to your offer to his Divine Majesty." While not as extensive as Varys or Qyburn, he had his 'little birds' as well.

Turning to stare at him, Littlefinger's smirk disappeared as Euron merely grinned, eyes wide with partial madness. "I have nothing to hide, Baelish. Only people who end up drowning at sea after being around me… accidentally of course." The grin widened at the other man's paling face.

Laughing, his entire upper body shaking with mirth, Euron hopped off the pier into the waiting skiff. It bobbed and weaved in the water - motion causing Littlefinger to cover his mouth to keep his last meal from spewing forth - but both the strong Iron Islands wood and the Drowned King stayed firm. "Tell those fuckers in King's Landing that after I send every single fucking dragon cunt into the depths of the ocean, that I want the pussy promised me!"

"There shall be no doubt about that, Greyjoy," Littlefinger yelled back over the booming thunder. 'We shall both have our woman.'

Raising his fist into the air, Euron turned to his men. "Time to claim our birthright boys! We rule the fucking waves! Death stares us in the face but we care not!"

A single archer, dipping his arrow into burning tar, angled the flame ever skywards and let it fly. The projectile arced above, orange-red glow penetrating the blackness of the rain and sky…

And then, in a resounding wave of sound… "WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" Heralded by the cheering sailors, a wave of rockets shot up from the hundreds of ships. A bright, blinding glow of orange mesmerized Littlefinger. For a man always hedging, always scheming and stabbing in the back - always forced to deal with people like Renly Baratheon and Euron Greyjoy that would kill him as soon as look at him - that moment was the first time in his life that he felt he had definitively chosen the winning side.

Could even dragons match such power?

"We made it!" Jojen laughed, running his hand through his hair in relief. The five travellers rested in their boat, looking back at the chaos that had begun to engulf Qarth as the realization sunk in that their King was dead. "Thank the Old Gods for that…" Suddenly stopping, his eyes rolled back into his skull as he collapsed on the ground. Violent tremors seized him, the childhood illness rearing its ugly head once more.

Meera was the first to notice. "Jojen!" Quickly she knelt beside him, expertly cradling his thrashing head in her arms to prevent him from cracking his skull on the wooden hull. "Ply, grab his legs and keep him steady." The apprentice warlock did as requested, horror on his face. "This should last several minutes, so hold tight."

Watching with a distant glint in his eye, a quizzical realization came to Bran. An instinct. "Go, Brandon Stark. Show them your gift." Voice encouraging, pressing him forward, he closed his eyes and let the mystical energy course through him. Power shot through his legs, draining him but once again bringing movement to the once dead limbs. Slowly, he rose and knelt beside Meera. Brow knit, concentrating on keeping her brother alive and unharmed, she did not realize Bran's movements till his hand touched Jojen's forehead. A soft glow of blue light shone where palm met forehead, and then stopped.

Along with Jojen's tremors.

Where they had once been engulfing his entire form in jerking, painful movements, the boy was as still as a sleeping baby. He rested his head on his sister's lap, lost in a serene sleep. All three of the others watched with jaws open as Bran stood again, pressing his hand to Hodor's shoulder. "Hodor?" He winced as the glow engulfed him.

"Thank you, dear Willis," Bran spoke, slowly lowering himself to the hull before the magic faded away and his legs gave out. "I hope this begins to repay all you've done for me."

The broken man opened his mouth to speak his one word. "You don't need to do that, I was happy to…" He stopped abruptly, the words out of his mouth the first he had ever spoken since that day in the courtyard long ago. "What… what did you do?" Overwhelmed, he collapsed onto the hull, fainting from shock.

Staring at the one she loved, eyes as wide as saucers, Meera gently raised her hand until it cupped his cheek. "Who are you, Bran?"

A ghost of a smile crossing his lips, Bran gazed at the morning sun just peeking above the horizon - red orb casting beauty into the clear sky. "I am the keeper," he said, voice cryptic. "The keeper of the Dawn." Failing to parse what he meant, Meera simply pulled him into a tight embrace.