Greendreams

"Lord Karstark." A rider called urgently as they galloped towards the front of the marching army, the snow coming down heavily, blanketing the ground around them in a thick, white covering. "We've found traces of a large force moving north towards the Dreadfort."

Rickard looked towards his sons, Harrion and Eddard. "How far away?" He asked, a sense of anticipation rising within him at the thought of finding Ramsay Snow.

"Uncertain, my Lord." The rider replied, bowing his head in apology. "The snow has covered most of the tracks, but we assume no more than a few days march, we're closing in on them."

"They're tired and hungry," Harrion muttered.

As a result of the conflict between the Starks, Ironborn and the Boltons in the Wolfswood, food has been scarce between the three sides. Hunger was prevalent among all and the Boltons were now marching back to the Dreadfort.

Though their march had been slowed down because of the size of their army, the weather had also played a large part. Many of their forces were unfamiliar with the freezing, harsh weather of the North and were struggling immensely. But unlike the Boltons, who while familiar with this kind of weather, they were fully fed.

The Boltons were not.

"We keep at our current pace," Harrion instructed, Rickard nodding his head, pleased with his son's observations. "If the Boltons are slowing, we will catch them before they reach the Dreadfort. But they may also be lying in wait to ambush us. Dispatch more riders to scout out surrounding areas. Ser Flint, you command the scouts moving North towards Dreadfort."

The son and heir of Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch, bowed his head, moving ahead.

"Eddard." Harrion continued, sparing a glance at his father who remained silent. "You take command of the vanguard, you'll be the first to take the walls of the Dreadfort. Even if they are reinforced, the food within the castle will be minimal and we'll starve them out."

Watching on, Rickard smiled beneath his beard, the sight of his two sons filling him with pride. This war had changed them, hardened them and made them into warriors and leaders. They had been by his side, fighting for King Robb and they had grown beyond his imagination. Yet as he watched Harrion and Eddard begin to ride on ahead, the army following their lead, Rickard couldn't help but look on their backs with a sense of longing.

There was someone missing from the image of the two of them.

His second son, Torrhen.

There should be four Karstarks, not three.

Three sons, not two who he could watch as they fought against the Boltons and brought peace to the North. Yet the hole Torrhen had left, the wound of losing his son was still fresh and as the cold familiarity of the North encompassed him, that wound pained him.

He dreaded returning to the halls of Karhold and all the memories they held.

-X-

Jon sighed deeply.

His breath was foggy as he stood in the cold air of the North, his thick fur cloak providing him escape from the frigid wind. Yet the beast by his side, its fur a pristine white colour, yet its paws muddy as it stood by his side, its body brushing against him, light growls escaping its lips.

Ghost reflecting the anger he felt.

'Bolton bastards!' He cursed as he looked upon the ruins of the Crypt of Winterfell, a sacred place that had held the remains of the fallen members of House Stark. A place of such rich history and a place of such importance that even a bastard like him had been taught of the value this place held to their house.

Yet, it was now in ruins.

All the history was desecrated by a house that was blinded by its greed and ambition. It angered him beyond anything ever had before, just looking upon the collapsed entrance and the large stones that blocked the way.

"Owen," Jon said, his friend, Owen Norrey coming to his side, having been watching from a distance. "I want some men dedicated to restoring the entrance to the Crypt. This, above all else, should be our main priority." There was no threat posed by the Boltons or Ironborn now, and Stannis and his men were being watched carefully.

With Robb's army marching further north every day, there was no more threat to Winterfell. Yet, even though he had secured Winterfell, Jon did not feel a sense of accomplishment as he looked upon the Crypt of Winterfell.

This soured it.

It needed to be restored.

-X-

As Hodor trudged through the snow, Bran looked towards his unlikely companions, Jojen and Meera Reed. Yet most unlikely of all was the man riding upon a great elk, dressed in the colours of the Night's Watch, a black wool scarf covering his face, but revealed his dark eyes that looked out upon the world.

Coldhands he had referred to himself as.

He found and guided them through the lands Beyond the Wall, protecting them and aiding them upon their journey. Without his aid, Bran imagined they would have died long ago, especially with Jojen having become despondent in recent days. Quiet and subdued, just trudging along the ground with a strange, indescribable look on his face.

The only reason he had not wandered off on many occasions was due to his sister, Meera who had since kept a firm grip on his hand, never once letting go of him as they moved through the harsh lands of the far north. "We should rest." Meera finally spoke up, looking to her brother, Jojen who had once more, begun dragging his feet, slowing them down.

"I agree," Bran said, turning to Coldhands, whose gaze focused upon Jojen.

Yet, whereas the piercing gaze once made the heir of House Reed flinch and look away in fear, now it had no effect, Jojen's mind elsewhere. "Very well." His voice rasped, rattling as he enunciated each word.

As the group came to a stop in the Haunted Forest, having passed a place Coldhands referred to as Caster's Keep, Bran was lowered to the ground, looking towards Jojen. "What's wrong?" He asked, Meera, Hodor and Coldhands working to set up a camp for them to stay in as night began to set in.

"My dreams," Jojen murmured. "They're changing?"

"Changing?" Bran asked, remembering how many times Jojen had told him that the greendreams did not lie, what they showed were the truth and the future. That no matter what they did, nothing could change as their future was predetermined. "How?"

"I don't know." He shook his head, Jojen clutching his hair tightly, panic and fear set in as a bubbling sensation of hope that he had long since thought lost began to appear. "But it began with the dream I saw when I dreamed that the sea was lapping all around Winterfell. I saw black waves crashing against the gates and towers, and then the salt water came flowing over the walls and filled the castle. Drowned men were floating in the yard."

"The Ironborn," Bran stated, knowing full well of the Ironborn invasion of his homeland, now understanding what the dream meant.

"Yet they did not take Winterfell as I saw." Jojen continued. "Instead, it was the Boltons."

"What dreams have you had?"

"I saw a lion and a wolf, clashing upon the antlers of a deer, their battle staining them red, the lion roaring to the world, a soaring falcon spreading its wings. Then I saw a black and red dragon, joining together to burn a wolf that howled to the sky. Yet in both events, they changed." News had travelled far North of the situations taking place in the south, the Battle of the Bloody Antlers and the Battle of the Bloody Fields, showing that where Robb should have died, he had succeeded.

"What do you dream now?"

"A wolf wielding swords of flames as it battles against the ice that engulfs the world," Jojen said, fear overtaking his voice as he thought upon the dreams he had, different each time, but always revolving around ice and fire. "A wolf of ice, devouring the burning world, a flock of doves soaring through the sky."