Am I floating towards the sky, or falling?
Where am I?
Bran felt the world around him, but not with his eyes, nor with his nose, ears, or skin. He sensed it with something more primal—with thought itself.
He drifted in a void, weightless and formless. There was neither color nor feature to give him bearing.
Is this darkness or light?
It seemed to hold nothing, yet paradoxically, it seemed filled with everything that could ever be.
Am I breathing? Can I breathe here?
The sensation was strange beyond telling. In this place, nothing needed doing. Nothing changed. Only thought persisted.
Can I create something?
As soon as the question formed in his mind, the blank canvas before him was suddenly stained with a patch of gray. In less than a heartbeat, it expanded and contracted, filling the entirety of his perception.
The void became a world of gray mist.
Bran gradually understood. This was a dream.
He had no memory of ever dreaming such a dream before, yet the gray mist surrounding him felt oddly familiar.
Stranger still was the fear it stirred within him.
Everything seemed so peaceful. Bran didn't think himself so craven. It was only a dream, after all. What danger could there possibly be?
The gray mist suddenly churned and surged like a storm at sea.
Countless clouds rushed toward him, and he found himself submerged in an even denser fog.
Dizziness overwhelmed him, and then he knew with dreadful certainty.
He was falling, faster and faster, as if there would be no end to his descent...
"Fly."
A voice sounded from somewhere in the void.
"Fly up quickly. You must not fall to the ground."
Below the gray mist, Bran saw a blurry landscape take shape. Though it seemed distant, he could tell it was drawing closer with each passing moment.
What would happen if I fell to the ground?
Panic seized him.
"Who are you?" he called out. "I can't fly!"
"I am here." The voice grew clearer, as if it spoke directly into his ear.
Bran saw it then.
A raven circled around him on ebony wings. He tried to reach for it, but the bird remained just beyond his grasp no matter how he stretched.
"This is just a dream," Bran reassured himself. "I won't fall to the ground."
The raven cawed, a sound filled with annoyance. "No. If you fall, you will die. You must fly up."
The ground rushed closer. Bran heard the roaring wind, felt the gray mist sting his cheeks and fill his lungs until he could scarcely breathe.
The gray mist in his vision had transformed into gray rivers, like streamers flowing past him at terrible speed.
It's so high. So fast.
This was ten thousand times more perilous than jumping from the Broken Tower.
Will I die?
Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. "But I can't fly."
With unexpected grace, the raven landed beside his hand. "I'm hungry," it said. "Do you have any corn?"
Bran frantically reached into his pocket, fumbling with desperate hope. He opened his palm, and a handful of golden corn kernels appeared, falling alongside him through the endless gray.
The raven hopped onto his hand and began to peck at the offering.
One bite, two bites, three bites, four.
At last, the raven spoke again. "I have wings, and you have wings too. You cannot see them, but they exist."
"You are too afraid. Fear makes your wings shrivel. Stop binding them. Let them stretch, and the wind will carry you aloft."
Bran listened intently to every word, though their meaning remained just beyond his understanding.
"Look down," the raven commanded.
Bran glanced downward, and an indescribable feeling seized every inch of his flesh.
The distant, blurry ground had transformed into Winterfell!
Even from atop the highest tower, Winterfell had never appeared so small, so vulnerable.
Through the swirling mist, he saw Maester Luwin lying in a pool of blood in the darkness, while a shadowy figure moved silently away.
No!
The scene shifted. Now he beheld the godswood bathed in sunlight.
His father knelt by the black pool, dipping Ice into the still water to wash away crimson stains from its rippled steel. His mother stood nearby, her face etched with sorrow and fear.
His parents departed, and the black water grew still once more, becoming a perfect mirror that reflected the towering, bone-white weirwood.
The red leaves rustled in the cold wind.
In the black water's reflection, Bran saw the carved face of the heart tree open its blood-red eyes and look directly at him.
He hurriedly averted his gaze.
Then he glimpsed the sleeping faces of his brothers and sisters. Deep, dark shadows stood before their beds—one with a terrifying visage, another clad in dazzling golden armor, and a third, a faceless giant, taller and stronger than any man.
Looking northward, he saw the Wall shimmering like blue crystal in the distance.
Beyond the Wall stretched boundless ice and snow, ancient forests, frozen rivers, and desolate plains of white.
His gaze traveled farther north still, until a strange light appeared at the edge of the world. Within that curtain of light, the heart of winter itself stung his eyes, bringing tears that froze upon his cheeks.
"Winter is coming," the raven whispered from its perch on his shoulder. "You have a mission."
"Why me?"
Bran turned toward the raven in confusion. The bird regarded him with equal intensity. Only then did Bran notice that it had three eyes, not two. The third eye, set in the center of its feathered brow, brimmed with ancient, terrifying knowledge.
The Three-Eyed Raven said only one word: "Fly."
Bran continued to fall, fall, fall.
Looking down again, he saw only ice and snow, cold and death. The frozen wasteland bristled with jagged blue and white spears of ice, reaching up toward him like the blades of countless enemies. Amidst the ice, he glimpsed human skeletons, countless bones picked clean by time and cold.
Will I join these skeletons soon? Father, save me!
Desperation clawed at him, a fear so deep it threatened to swallow him whole.
"Can a man still be brave when he is afraid?"
His father's voice echoed through the mist: "That is the only time a man can be brave."
"Now is the time, Bran," urged the Three-Eyed Raven. "Spread your arms and fly, or fall to your death."
The ice spears howled as they rushed toward him, like demons stretching their claws to claim his soul.
Bran spread his arms wide. The cold wind caressed his invisible wings.
And he flew upward.
He soared toward the sky as the terrifying ice needles receded below him. The world grew smaller and smaller.
This feeling is glorious!
"I can fly!" he shouted with wild joy.
I know. The Three-Eyed Raven fluttered its wings and hovered before Bran's face.
The ancient throne had awakened something in Bran's bloodline; his soul had begun to stir. The raven knew it must act now, before it was too late.
Bran, we will become one.
Its wings brushed against his cheeks, slowing his ascent and obscuring his vision. He wavered in the air, uncertain.
Bran felt the creature's gaze fixed upon the center of his brow.
Fear returned, cold and sharp as a blade of ice.
CRACK!
The boundless sky tore in two like parchment.
ROAR!
A monstrous beast wreathed in flame let out a cry that shook the foundations of the dream. The howling wind carried tendrils of fire across the entire world, consuming all in their path.
The Three-Eyed Raven beat its wings frantically, but was still blown leagues away by the terrible storm. Its whole body caught fire—red, blue, and white flames dancing across its feathers.
Yet Bran remained untouched by the maelstrom.
He raised his head to behold the source of his salvation.
Dragons and giants dominated the sky above.
The true dragonknight.
The dragon was more majestic than Balerion the Black Dread, and larger than Vhagar had ever been.
The giant wore armor and robes of purest white, his face concealed behind a white mask. In his hand, he held aloft a sword unlike any Bran had ever seen—a blade as black as smoke, yet rippled with veins red as freshly spilled blood.
Is that dragonfire?
The Three-Eyed Raven finally extinguished the flames that consumed its body. It spread its wings, and its form swelled to hundreds of times its previous size.
Its voice rasped like steel on stone: "You shouldn't have appeared."
The white-armored giant pointed the tip of his sword at the enormous raven.
"Yet here I stand," he replied. "Three-Eyed Raven."
The giant lifted his mask, revealing a face that Bran knew and trusted.
"Your Highness!"
"It's me."
Bran watched as the Crown Prince swung his sword at the monstrous bird.
"Don't trust this raven!" Joffrey shouted. "I know these creatures. It seeks to take possession of your body!"
Bran believed him instantly. The raven truly was a monster.
The gray mist surrounding them began to fade, replaced by pure white rain mist that danced and swirled.
Understanding dawned on Bran. This is my dream world. My power.
The rain mist joined the battle, attempting to blind the Three-Eyed Raven and corrode its midnight feathers.
Prince Joffrey's dragon unleashed a vast torrent of scorching lava, wide as the Sunset Sea.
The Prince raised his dragon-forged blade, which shone like the sun itself. Red light, black light, white light, and silver light poured into the sword before erupting toward the bewildered raven.
The dream world began to shatter like glass.
The Three-Eyed Raven let out an inhuman shriek before dissolving into dust.
Bran cheered in triumph.
The Crown Prince smiled at him warmly. "This is our secret," he said. "Tell no one."
The world vanished in a heartbeat.
Bran returned to true darkness, the comforting blackness of a dreamless sleep.
After a few shallow breaths, he opened his eyes and turned onto his side. Summer lay beside his bed, amber eyes regarding him steadily.
That really was just a dream...wasn't it?
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