18

Chapter Text

Sansa

Everyone always froze when the distant echo of the horn came from the south. It was quiet but hardly anyone made enough noise to miss it. They all waited for three longest seconds for another blast but none came. It was like the whole world let out a sigh of relief when it was official that the signal meant a team of scavengers sent south five months ago had finally returned. With supplies and resources scarce, chances had to be taken to retrieve things of use left behind the Wall.

What was presented at their arrival, however, was hardly much. A wagon of weapons with some of the steel rusted, some clothing and fabrics to make more, a few barrels of grain, and, surprisingly enough, eight goats. They could arm a small battalion, dress themselves warmer, and have cheese now. Barely anything in the scale of things but even that was more than what they were lucky to get.

Sansa spent the days after preparing more clothes. When it came down to it, those who had the short end of the stick were given the priority for new things. There wasn't a day that went by without complaint or whining about wanting more than what they had, most of it stemmed from the highborn.

She just finished a cloak for an eleven-year old boy who had a handful of rabbit pelts stitched together for one until now. But rather than dispose of the pelts, she managed to convert them into a sheath for his dragonglass shortsword. He looked like a little adventurer now. Such brought a little smile to her face as she sent him off.

"How come you never had any of your own?" Tyrion asked from his end of the cave. He kept his gaze locked on the battle plans drawn up as he had been for the last two hours, looking for any small flaw that needed to be fixed and any place where a little change could mean all the difference. "Children, I mean?"

Sansa frowned at him. "Why don't we send you back and you can be raped by Ramsay night after night?"

"I know the scars he left on you had cut deeper than any blade can," he tried sounding apologetic, "but in all those years, you truly couldn't heal from them? Move on? Tensions were tight without you taking a husband and without an heir," he looked up from the plans, "were you planning on naming a successor instead? Or hoping Arya might return one day with one of her own?"

Sansa turned her attention to her work, finishing some repairs on a pair of shoes. House Glover had pressed hardest about the issue during her reign, in fact they almost rallied a few houses into a coup but the dead's return changed things.

"I've been a puppet too long. I wasn't going to let another appoint my future for me."

"No, but neither would you decide on one. Could it be that no man was worthy enough?"

"There were a handful that you could call worthy, even more that I could have kept as figureheads to my reign, and then there were even more who would do everything they could to make sure they were more than regents to my crown."

"Then why not pick from the worthy?"

"Because they were all more weathered than autumn leaves. Good men, all of them, but old, far too old. Everyone has their standards or else you would have fathered a child in me when we married."

"Believe me, had circumstances been better and our marriage one of willingness and love, we would have had more children than Good Walder Frey himself. But alas, I suppose I do not measure up to certain tastes of yours. A brave and honorable warrior, someone who can lead with a firm fist in times of war, and at the same time be able to gently caress your cheek with kindness and love."

She scoffed. "Any other woman would have wanted a man like that."

"Then what kind of man do you want that separates you from every other woman?"

Sansa scoffed at him with rolling eyes. This conversation made her skin crawl with ants. She didn't want to think about it either. All the men who presented themselves to her were just the same. Hungry for the place as Regent beside her, fathering a future King in her for their glory. None of them could be trusted, they were all the same.

In a brief instant, her eyes wandered over to Jon and she thought of him as the only man she truly had faith in and knew wouldn't harm her in any way when they grew up. The days after their reunion and him going into his slumber were different, however. He barely spoke a word to her if he could help it, and his hand always rested on Longclaw's pommel when they were in the same chamber, never with anyone else.

"Oh," Tyrion said, "I see."

"What?" Sansa asked quickly.

He held his gaze with her a second long enough for her to question if he knew something. "I see I've overstepped. My apologies. Perhaps it's best that I go elsewhere to do my work." He rolled his plans up and tucked them under his arms. "Oh, and by the way," he began before leaving, "if your search was for the one man among ten thousand, I don't think you'd find any south of the Wall when you were queen."

Arya

"Up!" Arya barked, watching the girls raise their spears, tipped with the razor sharp dragonglass. "Present!" Each of them dropped, more fluid than the day before. "Hold fast!" They crouched, rooting themselves in space as much as they could, a wall of spears directed forward to protect against anyone that could come at them. "Strike hard!"

"Hoo! Hoo!" They stabbed forward, the chant normally hooted by the low, powerful voices of dozens of burly male soldiers quite out of place among two dozen girls just having flowered whose voices cracked and were closer to mewls than bellows. "Hoo! Hoo!" Nevertheless they walked forward in a crouch, then stabbed again.

They were improving, and no injuries. Gods' knew that the need to work with actual weapons immediately given their hellish situation had caused their share of gashes and scrapes.

"We're doing it!" shouted Rhea Hightower, daughter of the late Ser Baelor and a natural leader of the girls. Aside from two other highborn girls and one daughter of a landed knight, her command were all smallfolk and they looked to her as if she was their Queen now that they were starting to enjoy the weapons in their hands. "Drive them back!" she shouted from their left flank. "Drive them back!"

Arya admired their determination… and almost didn't walk to Rhea's side and shoved her with her arm. Sending her to the ground, starting a domino effect where the entirety of the two dozen girls collapsed over each other in a heap. It would've been funny had it not been so serious. As such, Arya scowled. "Dead."

Rhea, face flushed, sprang to her feet. "What was that for! Why'd you do that! It was perfect!"

Arya folded her arms."You didn't watch your flank, so the enemy got at you from the side."

"That's not fair!" She was shaking, showing her immaturity. It reminded Arya of her younger years, to the days before she had Needle with her. . "We're fighting from narrow positions in the caves if they get to us!"

"If you're the ones that are thrown into the fight, then the battle is already desperate. You need to be careful or you die, and assume nothing. Those dead freaks know how to dig. They'll drop down on you from above or pull at you from the side. They're monsters, not humans." Glancing up, feeling eyes on her, she saw Gendry walking along the upper paths leading up to the Great Weirwood with a handcart full of dragonglass weapons, watching her with that thousand-yard stare he normally held and tinged with the usual scorn. Before she could think to do anything to register some form of communication with him, he disappeared into the tunnels. Yet another instance where he refused to even speak to her. Arya almost hated it. "That's enough for now. We'll continue tomorrow, go about your duties." Each girl bowed, even the still upset Rhea Hightower, collecting their spears and taking them to the impromptu armory that was simply a collection of wagons by the smallest creek in the valley. Each carried a dagger with them just in case, just like everybody else.

Feeling the fatigue of a half-day's duties, Arya trudged towards a boulder, grabbing her waterskin and draining it of the wine that she stole from Tyrion's stash he believed was secret… only to feel a shadow approaching her. "We have to stop meeting like this, sister." Sansa chuckled, sitting next to the panting warrior. "Now I know what it was like to be you over those years in the Riverlands… never thought I'd say this but I actually miss the Hound. Would've had plenty of proper opinions on the situation."

Arya snorted. "Aye, he would. Plenty of proper insults for our highborn stupidity." She sighed, the bitter dry cold working to combine with her sweat and fatigue in what was the worst part of living in the Far North. "They're all gone, Sansa."

She could tell her sister was eyeing her quizzically. "I feel like you're being rather specific."

A nod. "Aye." Arya kicked at the snowdrift. "They're all dead, everyone we've known. All of our friends, all those we've known."

"Tyrion is still alive, Jon… Gendry…"

"Jon's soul is stuck in the past trying to fix our own mistakes." A laugh. "Gendry hasn't talked to me in weeks, and yes, Tyrion is there. The good Tyrion Lannister, the one that practically ordered our cousin-"

"Brother," Sansa corrected, "Jon has always been our brother."

Arya shook her head. "The day we asked him to kill Daenerys was the day we lost the right to call him our brother. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Our sentence, his sword." There was a silence, one that was only punctuated by the howl of the wind. "At least you had time with the last friends and family before the hammer fell down."

This time, Sansa put things together. "You were traveling, exploring."

"The greatest of times. Finding the Cestran tribes in the Amber Grass Sea, climbing the Glass Tower of Ryloth, fighting with the Mikeesh on their war drakes..." Ten years of the greatest adventures of her entire life. Were the world not about to end, a poet or a scribe would make her the most famous adventurer in all of history. "I saw so many amazing things even Euron Greyjoy couldn't have imagined. I did everything I wanted to do, ever since the day we left Winterfell, while my home was falling apart piece by piece. . My dream, alone among my crew that came close to slitting my throat and throwing me overboard while all of Westeros was getting closer and closer to being annihilated completely." She laughed. "Did you know Gendry had a wife and son?"

Sansa sucked in a breath. "I did… the daughter of one of the Stormlords. Lonmouth I think."

Arya shrugged. "Never met them personally, because when I finally landed at Westwatch and made it across the Wall, they had long since become corpses in the new army of the dead." She picked up her dragonglass dagger, a weapon that had served her well alongside Catspaw. "Gendry wanted that to be me, to be his wife. His Lady, but not one who would be in a dress and hosting lunch parties. He loved me and wanted to make me happy but as his wife…."

"He did, and you rejected it all." No longer did Sansa defend herself, or Arya's actions. She had her revelation, her own guilt gnawing at her. "Are you upset that he found what he wanted with you in someone else?"

She paused, silently thinking of whether or not she did in fact feel that way. But no answer came to mind, just thoughts that felt empty of conviction when she tried to imagine the possibilities of what could have been. "I don't know. I think when it all happened, I was scared mostly."

"Scared? You?"

"Aye, scared of the chains a husband and child put upon you. I never let anyone be my responsibility except for myself, that way if I make a mistake, I'm the only one at fault, and the only one who suffers." She drank more of the wine. "I'm not a mother, Sansa. Or a wife. Any children of mine would grow up wishing they had a gentler hand than mine, someone who's pretty in dresses and sings them to sleep. My place is as it should be."

Suddenly standing, Arya had already walked off before her sister could call after her. "Arya! Come back!" But she wouldn't. She was a Faceless Man, a master of ridding herself of emotions and becoming someone else entirely. And yet the more she talked, the more she became frustrated with herself.

Arya lied. She had to. There was no greater humiliation than admitting that the last ten years of everything she ever said she wanted meant nothing. Yes, she had gained glory and felt powerful in days of discovery and battle. She held her friendships she made to the highest of importance. But she never realized until she returned that being alone through it all was the most terrifying thing.

Throughout her years of exploration, she had told herself that her path was how it should be, walking apart from her crew and the people she met, being alone, was the best choice. She was her own responsibility, and anything that happened to her was her own fault and her consequence. She would have asked Gendry to come with her, he may have even said yes, but if he had gotten hurt or killed, it would have been because of her. And she couldn't handle such anymore.

Father dead. Mother dead. Robb dead. Rickon dead. Bran decaying in a magical realm. And she was no sister to Jon anymore. Sansa was all she had left and Arya couldn't face her.

There was a cave nearby, thankfully unoccupied for the moment, that laid as her salvation from anyone to disturb her silent lamentation. Arya threw her wineskin at the stone floor, wanting to scream and shout. She beat her breast, tugging at her hair and nearly crashing her head against the walls. Everything she buried since the day her father died was starting to boil within her.

"Why does it all mean so little?" She hissed at herself.

"Because you are No One."

Blinking, Arya turned… only for her blood to turn to ice.

"And when you are No One, there is no peace, no emotion, only death. That is our vow, that is our curse as Faceless men."

"No, you are not real." Arya shivered. The voice was Jaqen's, but she could not see the face under the hooded figure walking to her from within the darkness of the cave.

"Only death can tell whether we are real or not. That is the answer someone desires. But we are no one. If a woman named Arya Stark had left the House of Black and White, how is it she used the faces without penalty?"

'When the faces are worn by someone, they are as good as poison.'

When she stole a face to kill Meryn Trant, she had paid for it with her eyes. So why hadn't she paid for using the faces when she left Bravos? Had she been deceiving herself, or did she not realize the truth?

"Family," Jaqen whispered as he walked out to the entrance of the cave, "love, adventure, all the desires of someone, but not those who serve the God of Death. All gifts to those who are lucky to not be named. And now, there is one that defiles the laws of the Many Faced God." He turned his hood to her, even in the light, a shadow covered his face. "A girl was able to delay this chaos, but stopping him cannot be done by No One. It takes someone to end it all."

"I know," Arya said, sitting down on a large rock, "Jon is the prince who was promised. He has to do it because he's special." She didn't fully understand, now realizing that she didn't care to. "Why are you here?"

Jaquen walked over and sat down next to her. "Because long ago, a girl named Arya Stark made Jaqen H'ghar bend the rules of the Many Faced God. And now, Jaqen H'ghar asks that a woman do the same." He reached into the sleeve of his robe, producing a vial of clear liquid. "The last of that remains. If you take it, walk into the shadows of the tunnel, when you come out, you will only have one chance."

"To do what?" Arya asked as she cautiously took the vial.

She heard a faint chuckle escape Jaqen as he stood up and began walking into the darkness of the cave. "To make a choice."

"Wait!" Arya stood up and Jaqen stopped, but didn't turn around. "Why are you doing this for me?"

There was a brief because. "Because you are my friend." He walked into the shadows and disappeared from sight.

Arya eyed the liquid in the vial closely. Her intuition made her suspect that this was the water of the well with the House of Black and White, that which takes life, grants boons, and many other things she could not guess.

But what was going to happen if she drank the water this time? And what choice was it that awaited her? Looking outside the cave, Arya knew everything that awaited her out there. Family, work, training, and eventually death.

"One more adventure," Arya whispered, uncorking the vial and downing the water. It was tasteless, and almost felt like thick air instead of a liquid. After swallowing and feeling a cold flutter in her stomach, Arya strode into the darkness. As the shadows enveloped her, she felt the urge to close her eyes. She wasn't afraid of the dark anymore.

The cold brisk air suddenly warmed, a breeze carrying the smell of the sea and flowers filled her nostrils. Arya felt her body tingle and tense up, and her clothes seemed to slip over her skin but she did not feel herself become naked. She then felt a hand gently take hers and an arm followed under her arm, helping her along.

"One last face," Jaqen said, and Arya felt a soft sensation gliding down the skin of her head and then her entire body felt the change.

There was a new warmth that bathed her skin now, it felt like the sun, but she could not see anything in front of her.

"Come, grandmother," the voice next to her was no longer that of Jaqen H'ghar but of a young boy. "There's a spot to sit right here." The moment she felt her bottom touch the warm stone bench, a great breath escaped from fatigue as if she had been walking all day. Her back ached and her hands felt brittle. "I'll be back. I want to go see if the dragons are close!" The touch on her arm disappeared and the sound of dashing footsteps grew distant and then gone.

"Dragons?" the Old Crone whispered. What dragons. Where was she?

"Oy!" A man's voice appeared. It wasn't Jaqen's, it sounded southern. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh," the crone spoke weakly, keeping up appearances as perfect as she had to for the face she wore, "am I in the wrong place?" she waved an arm out in front of her gently, as if to keep anyone approaching away but also to find them if they came close enough to identify. "My grandson just ran off, you see."

"Look," another man's voice said, "the hag's blind as a bat."

"Right," the first voice said, "you can't be here. These are the private gardens of the King. Peasants aren't allowed here-"

"Hey," a familiar girl's voice called, "instead of pissing around helpless old ladies, why don't you two fuck off and get something done for a change." fierce steps came tapping by and stopped next to where the voices of what had to be guards were.

The old crone almost couldn't control her breathing. This couldn't be what she thought. Was this a facade by the Faceless Men? Some trick to punish or amuse her? Or could she really have gone back…

"Listen here, girl," the second voice said with great annoyance, "you may be the King's cousin, but that doesn't mean a damn thing unless you have office in his court."

"I'm not using my place as his cousin telling you to piss off, I'm warning if either of you wants bleeding balls before you can draw those big swords you have."

One of the guards had tried to take a step forward but the other stopped him with a hand whacking on a breastplate. The sounds were so distinct to the blind crone. "Let's go. I don't want any trouble with the King for this."

The other guard growled but both of them began their march away.

"Are you alright?" the girl's voice asked.

"Oh yes, quite well," the Old Crone replied, "but you sound rather angry for a young lady."

"I'm not a bloody lady," the girl scoffed, "seems that's what everyone still wants of me though."

"Well traditionally, noble women are ladies, especially cousins to a King. But I can feel the temper in your voice. You're a fighter, aren't you?"

"I am. One of the best you'll ever meet."

The old crone stifled a laugh. "I remember when I felt like you do, in the days when I would wield a sword instead of a needle and thread."

"You used to know how to fight?"

The crone shrugged. "Those days are long past. But fate can be an interesting friend, bringing some things left behind back for one last dance."

"How did you lose your sight?"

The old crone sighed, saying the first idea that came to mind as smooth as a knife through butter. "Pride."

"Pride…" the girl repeated in a half voice, taking in the word. "Where'd your grandson go off to?"

"Off to try and catch a glimpse of dragons of course. I suppose you've seen more than enough of those creatures flying overhead now. But in truth, he's not really my grandson. Just a stranger I found one day. One favor led to another, and he's been my friend through many hardships. I don't mind that he calls me grandmother. It settles the heart a little, pretending to believe in it sometimes."

"You never had children?"

"No," the crone said solemnly. "My youthful days were spent in the battles of men and their halls of glory. Sometimes I wondered if I was where I wanted to be, but I refused to think twice at the moment."

"Let me guess," the girl said with a slight disdain in her words. The crone could almost feel the eye roll from the girl. "Then one day came when it was too late, you wished you could have taken it back."

"Not even close," the crone replied, "I never regretted my life. Not once. I've thought about what it could have been from time to time, looking for love, having children, all of it. But I never desired it because I was afraid of it." The crone stifled her laughter when the words left her wrinkled lips. "I have bled on battlefields, climbed to the clouds, and challenged seastorms, but having to truly love someone terrified me more than anything. I wanted to be someone amazing. I would tell myself a husband and children would keep me from it. But truthfully it was fear that I couldn't be any of what I would need to be. Wives are caregivers, not killers. A mother cradles her babes in gentle arms, not with hands stained by rivers of blood she's spilled. I was scared, so I never tried." The old crone rubbed at her palms that were callused.

"Do you think it was worth it?" The girl asked.

"You sound as if you're at a crossroads like I was once. Am I wrong?"

The girl paused. "Just now, my sister kept bothering me about a man I've been thinking about. He's my friend, and he's certainly handsome. I haven't gotten to experience being with a man yet and I have been thinking about asking him…" The crone heard the girl kick at a stone, gritting her teeth. "But then my stupid brother had to make everything a mess, and now I'm angry and I'm bloody confused for the first time in… long enough."

The crone giggled. "We're only human. Sometimes the things that bother us most are when the people we know try to solve the problems we have."

"Exactly," the girl agreed, "My brother's got more power in the world than anyone now but that doesn't mean he has all the answers. And my sister's just the same. I love her, but…" an exhausted sigh came from her. "They don't understand."

"Are you certain that you can say you understand any of it either?"

"That's what I've been trying to do. But they just keep interrupting."

"Then perhaps you should ask someone new, someone with a fresh perspective."

"Isn't that what I'm doing with you?"

"From the way this has gone, you might as well have spoken into a mirror. I may be a stranger to you, but you and I have too much in common. You'll be better off with a true stranger's advice, if you ask me."

"Do you have anyone in mind?" The girl asked. "Everyone around me's practically someone I've already gotten to know."

The crone turned her head to the sky. "Did you hear that a group of foreign invaders arrived not too long ago? Sounds like the right kind of strangers." She could practically feel the youth blink, for once stunned into silence. As if she hadn't even considered it.

"Grandmother," the boy's voice appeared, "it's time to go home now." The pitter patter of footsteps got closer and a gentle hand touched the crone's arm.

"I understand, child." She was helped up to her weak legs. A sudden shiver went throughout her body. "Farewell, young lady. I wish you all the luck I can offer."

"Thank you… what is your name?" It seemed as if she didn't want the conversation to end. "I just realized I never asked it?"

A small smile. "I never gave it." The smile fell as she sighed, hanging her head with a sudden sorrow. "I don't have much need for one anymore these days." The crone and her grandson began their walk back from whence they came. They turned a corner, and then the sounds of the wind rushing through leaves and the chirping of birds disappeared, the lovely warmth of the sun faded, replaced by the cold, and a faint light appeared in Arya's vision.

Everything was a blurry at first, like how things appear when looking underwater. But gradually her sight focused. The feeling of the hand on her arm disappeared.

Arya stepped into the cave and sat down on the rock she had before. Her body still felt sore from being an old crone. Such was a first. Perhaps it was a weariness of going to a place like that. But then again, how can she be certain that any of it was real? What if it was all just an illusion by other Faceless Men to get her mind straight and focused?

She turned her eyes back inward to the cave, to find Jaqen. But he was gone. The setting sun illuminated the whole of the cave, only to reveal that it wasn't deep at all. It didn't continue into a tunnel. If she stood up and took no more than ten steps instead, she would come to its end.

The only thing that remained was the empty vial. Arya picked it up and the crystal glimmered in the sunlight.

The Three Eyed Raven

Every moment, of every day, of every lifetime, all of it trying to happen all at once. Waves of time and memory crashed into each other, pushing aside one another, ripping apart into something new or something old… no mortal could withstand such torment being stuck within the Greensight itself. But the Three Eyed Raven was no longer a mortal, neither was he human, he was only a memory, a lingering one.

There was no beginning and no end, but through his powers the Three Eyed Raven could hold himself together to gather his strength… at least it felt as such. The more he used his powers, the weaker he became. Underneath his robes, his body was beginning to crack apart like dry clumps of sand and dust. But time, as it worked for Jon and the others, was ever happening, always moving even when he could not.

The Raven diverted himself from his rest and dove into the cascading waves of memory, going deeper than he ever thought possible, searching for the moments that were needed most. The sight was meant to guide him at times, but with the Night King's powers growing ever stronger and his connection to what anyone would think was life was waning, he could only start to rely on himself.

But there was a whisper of power that carried familiarity to it. It was him.

The Raven followed the trail and was atop a cliff of ice, looking down at the marching hordes of the dead. Wights of men and giants trudged onward through the blizzards that preserved their cold dead flesh and Whitewalkers atop undead horses rode amongst them. But on a small peak across the cliff of ice was him.

The Night King was standing there, but not watching his army or the Raven. They were far apart, but he could barely see that the blue glow of those eyes was gone. They were bright, like a warg's eyes. What was he doing? The mark on the Raven's arm pulsed like a heartbeat. Some kind of power was in use here, but what?

Regardless, it wasn't safe to linger here. The Raven left the dead to their own devices in search of the answers he needed.

He had to think where to look, what places could provide a hint or key to unlock the mysteries they needed to truly defeat the Night King once and for all?

Dragonstone, many years ago.

The Raven materialized in the throne hall of Dragonstone, four days after the funeral of Jon Arryn, three days after Robert Baratheon decided to appoint Ned as Hand of the King, two days after a raven arrived in Winterfell bearing the King's message, and one day after a ship from Asshai arrived bearing a priestess of the R'hllor. And now, here in the throne room where Stannis Baratheon sat upon the stone chair of the Targaryens, Melisandre of Asshai came before him and kneeled.

"Dārilaros Stānīs, iksan rigle naejot obūljagon gō ao isse aōha lenton."

"I do not speak High Valyrian and none of my household do," Stannis replied gruffly.

Melisandre smiled. "To greet you in the tongue of my faith is the highest courtesy I have to offer, my prince."

"He's not the prince," Stannis' maester said, "he is lord of Dragonstone."

Melisandre's eyes did not leave Lord Stannis'. "Without a rightful heir, the next brother of the King is named prince. And my Lord has shown me that no son or daughter sleeps in the house of King Robert."

Stannis leaned forward. "Who sent you? Was it Jon Arryn?"

"I come at the behest of my god, the Lord of Light. He guided me to this island through sight within fire. It is here I shall find the Prince who was Promised, and now I stand before him."

"What are you talking about?" Stannis asked, no longer as stern as he was and now with a peaked interest.

"For thousands of years, those who serve the Lord of Light were granted knowledge of the great prophecy. Winter is coming and a darkness follows that reigned once already upon the world for a hundred years. But in the darkest night, a light shined. The hero of the Long Night came forth with a burning sword and cast away the darkness. And now it returns and so shall that hero. He will draw forth his burning sword, Lightbringer, from fire and cast the evils away. For the night is dark and full of terrors, the Prince who was Promised shall bring the dawn."

Lightbringer, the sword forged by Azor Ahai. The Raven remembered perfectly the vision he witnessed of the man being run through with the blade by his lover and dying, only to return and the blade igniting in glorious flames illuminating the world after years of darkness.

"Hm…" The Raven had seen enough to know where he needed to go. But first he had to find if Bran was ready to see it too.

He found the new memories made and the newest day. Bran was at the weirwood.

"Bran," he said, standing next to his younger self. "It's time to learn again."

Bran raised his head up and took a deep breath as he placed his hand on the weirwood and entered into the sight with the Raven. Together, they dove deep and followed the current of memories that followed the journey of the sword that was plunged into the heart of The Hero. From the start of its conception in a small forge to the Battle for the Dawn… it ended there.

The Raven and Bran materialized in the middle of the greatest battle ever witnessed, more horrifying and death-ridden than the battle at Winterfell. All around them were men, Children of the Forest, and Giants, all fighting against wights of their own kind. They were on a hillside part of the country, a place many of the North would find familiar but notice something important to be missing. The battle was taking place on the very ground where the Wall would soon be raised up.

Bran was aghast at the sight before him, looking all around with a mouth agape and eyes widened.

"You've never seen a battle before," the Raven noted, "nothing like the stories and lore of books."

"They never describe it like this."

The Raven almost felt what he thought was the desire to be amused. "Welcome to hell."

A blaze of light entered the battlefield from the forces of the living. Azor Ahai, charging forth on his steed with Lightbringer held high up. Every enemy he struck erupted in flames, turning into ash seconds later. A White Walker hurled a lance of ice but it melted instantly when it came a few feet at Azor. The battle blurred all around except for Azor. He fought mightily, cleaving through dozens of his enemies, destroying wights and the White Walkers wherever he went. The memory became clear again when Azor Ahai stood face to face with the Night King, only this one was far different. Parts of the Night King remained as the person he once was. He had thorny protrusions on his head, but he also had glacier white hair and no black armor. He carried a spear instead of that curved blade and his skin was smoother, not cracked and wrinkled.

Both warriors of ice and fire dueled epicly, trading blows but neither landing, until Azor's will was poured into the fire of his sword and cut through the lance of ice, slicing into the Night King's chest and creating a long gash in the icy skin. But the Night King did not shatter as he did when Arya ran her dagger into him. He fell back, clutching at the wound. But looking at Azor, something else had happened. Lightbringer had broken into two pieces.

It couldn't be possible.

The memory faded from sight as questions arose in the Raven. What happened? Why did the blade break? Why didn't the Night King die? What place does this sword have in all of this if not to kill the Night King?

But then he felt it, one last rift of memory about the sword of heroes. He held Bran's shoulder and together they followed it and found themselves brought inside a small keep in the North, the First Keep of Winterfell before the rest of the Castle was built.

"I failed," Azor said at a table where the remains of Lightbringer rested. Gathered around were his lover, the Nissa Nissa, Brandon Stark the Builder, and another man with prowess of great power and authority. "The blade broke like it was as weak as gold and all I did was leave a damn scratch on the monster."

Brandon's fist clenched. "It broke his power over his army. His flight was more than we could have hoped for in all of this."

"As long as the Night King lives on, it won't be enough." Azor folded his arms. "I felt something when I struck him. A connection. For one brief instant, I could sense the magic, like I could see it. It was a darkness, but not like shadows and blackness, but more like a pure cold emptiness. When Lightbringer touched him, I could feel the light try to fight it. But they were both too equal in power. The light subdued him and that emptiness, but it won't last. We need something more."

Nissa picked up the hilt of the broken sword. She whispered soothing words and golden flames engulfed the sword. Then, she touched flames as though they were solid and plucked a small piece of them into her palm and swallowed it into her mouth. "A light touched by the R'hllor's grace is not enough. Fire shall melt the ice that threatens us all… but we cannot destroy it completely and have nothing left. Fire and ice must be forged together into balance. Only the light of grace can bridge these two together in unity." The sword extinguished and was placed back on the table. "But Azor will not return from death if we attempt a second chance. This task must fall upon one after us."

Brandon folded his arms and sighed. "But we can't exactly start to live with the creatures still out there. Once he is healed, he will return to build his army again."

The other man stomped his fist on the table. "Then I will gather my people and begin to march north. We will hunt him down and trap him in a cage so dark and cold even he will beg for the warmth of light."

"Joramun," Azor said, "I don't think that's wise. I sense that even though he is weak and runs from us, any hunter to go after him will fall and begin his army anew."

"Then let a wall be raised so that should we fail, that army will never cross into the realms of summer ever again."

Brandon shrugged. "To fend off him, it'll have to be a damned huge wall. Stone stacked that great and tall would take a thousand years to raise up… but ice will only take a lifetime."

Joramun nodded. "Too long. But with my wild hunters we can delay any act of his long enough. I will seek the giants for their help as well." He picked up a piece of the broken blade and cut the palm of his hand. "We will keep watch in the darkness for generations if we have to until your wall is built."

"But what about Lightbringer?" Brandon asked, looking at Nissa. "How are we supposed to reforge it so it can defeat the Night King?"

Nissa's head fell down. "I do not know. All we can do now is search for answers. And if we fail, then it falls unto those after us to do what we could not. But we shall not let them forget. We shall sing our riddles for a thousand years if we must, praying and hoping that someone might find the answer, the truth of ice and fire."

In the midst of the memory, there came something interesting, a faint hum from the blade, something never felt before in the sight.

"You feel it too?" Bran asked, noticing the Raven looking intently on the broken sword.

The Raven nodded. "Of all my years looking through memory, I found it might be possible for somethings to emanate their magic into it as we can ourselves." he raised a finger up and gestured to Bran to do the same as they reached out to the steel. "It could be that these magics with give us trails of their journeys."

Both of them touched the blade of the sword and shock went throughout their bodies. Dozens of memories flashed before their eyes all at once they couldn't keep track.

Azor in his elder years passing on the broken blade to his eldest son… a craftsman using a small hammer and burin to engrave the blade in Ancient Valyrian… a stranger of anger and theft raising the broken sword to kill the man he stole it from… the blade hiltless and being melted into liquid steel and being poured into two molds of daggers, each a differently shaped blade…

The hands of the Raven and Bran pulled away from the blade and both of them were standing before a bed of wood and roses where an aged woman, Nissa Nissa, laid upon. Her eyes were pale, blind to to the world around her, as she weakly prayed to the Lord of Light.

Without warning however, the strength in the Raven's legs gave out and his lungs burned. He fell to his palms, wanting to gasp but he couldn't breath. Something was strangling him and he could feel himself starting to crack inside.

"Are you alright?" Bran knelt to his side and tried helping him up.

"No," the Raven answered honestly. "I'm drowning."

"We need to leave-"

"Wait!" the word strained from the Raven's clenched teeth. "We have to see," he grunted.

Two priestesses came to her with torches and lit the wood while Nissa was still on it. The flames grew quickly but when they licked Nissa's skin, she did not scream or yell in pain, but tears streaked from her eyes as she continued to pray.

The flames grew and began to consume her and then turned into a brilliant shimmering gold light that reached to the sky above, turning night into day. Finally, a great declaration came from Nissa.

"The Prince who was Promised shall bring the Dawn!" Nissa cried out in a voice of ecstasy and pain.

As the voice carried over throughout the sight, the Raven felt himself nearly go faint. Were it not for Bran's help, he would have collapsed and perhaps have become stuck in the memory.

They were back in the Godswood of Winterfell. Near the weirwood, the Raven felt vigor and clarity in his mind returned to him. The strangling throughout his body released and he could stand once more.

"You saw what the blade showed you?" The Raven panted.

"Nevermind that," said Bran, "are you alright?"

"I will be. Don't worry, my task is not done yet. Now tell me, did you see?"

"Yes…" Bran said solemnly. "What do they mean?"

"I don't know. Whether it was merely the life of the broken sword, or if it was a path to an answer… I will search when I can. If Lightbringer is the key to defeating the Night King, finding the source to forge it true is the most important thing we must find."

"But all these years gone by, what if it's still not known?"

The Raven looked blankly at his counterpart. "Then we keep looking. No go, I must rest."

Fading from the memory, the Raven found solstice in the apparition of the Broken Tower in Winterfell. Something was missing in Lightbringer's power, but what? Using his powers would be too much searching through thousands of years to find a clue. He'd fade into the sight expending that much power. But what if he did find the key if he tried? Would it be worth it to be gone before the last battle began?

Notes:

Just want to thank my co author for posting the chapters the last two weeks since I've been unable to. The mood board for the previous chapter is also up