GOT: The Great — Chapter 291 - Bran Starts Stirring Things Up

Someone shouted from the crumbling walls of Winterfell.

A sentry's finger jabbed north, mouth hanging open, the wind rushing in and scattering the tail end of his cry. Several captured soldiers hauling rubble straightened up and looked along the line of his arm.

Out on the snow plain, a small group was approaching. Fewer than twenty. Moving slowly.

At the front was a woman in a grey cloak, hood pulled low, a shield hanging from her saddle.

Behind her, someone carried the Direwolf Banner.

Sansa rose from her chair. Margaery reached out to steady her, her hand stopped in midair, never making contact.

Sansa was already moving, heading for the gate, steps quick, her belly pushing against her cloak with every stride, her center of gravity tilting forward, but she did not slow down.

She stopped inside the gatehouse tunnel. One hand braced against the stone wall, the other pressed to her belly. Her white breath curled in the shadows.

The group halted below the walls.

The woman in the grey cloak swung down from her horse. The motion wasn't quite graceful, her knees buckled the moment her feet hit the ground, and she grabbed the stirrup to catch herself. She raised her head. The hood slid back to her shoulders.

Sansa's breath caught.

That face. She knew it.

Every contour she had traced and retraced in dreams, never quite able to make it whole. And yet not entirely familiar.

Her mother's skin had once been warm. Now it was ashen, the color of cold cinders raked from a dead hearth.

Strips of torn flesh hung down her face, from her eyes all the way to her chin.

"Sansa."

Catelyn Tully's voice leaked out from between cracked lips.

It was not the voice she remembered.

The voice in her memory was warm milk. This voice was gravel.

Every word had to be dragged up from deep in the throat, and in the dragging, every soft edge was ground away.

Sansa walked toward her.

Her hand slipped from her belly. She reached out. Her fingertips touched her mother's hand.

The skin was like winter stone, no warmth, no give when she pressed down. Nothing but bone beneath.

"Mother." Her voice shattered in her throat. "Mother. Mother. Mother."

Catelyn pulled her daughter into her arms.

Her palm pressed hard against Sansa's back. Her fingernails dug deep into the wool of the cloak. Her hands were trembling.

Drogo stood on the inner side of the gate, back against the stone wall, arms folded across his chest.

Bran was lifted down from his horse by Jon Snow. Jon's arms wrapped around Bran's chest, and he set him carefully in the snow.

Bran's legs from the knees down were wrapped in animal hide, pitifully thin.

He looked up and saw Sansa.

"Sister," he said.

Rickon pushed through from the back of the group.

He was a full head taller than when he had left Winterfell, his hair wild as a bird's nest.

Sansa let go of her mother and dropped to her knees in the snow, pulling Rickon into her arms.

He buried his face in her shoulder. His shoulder blades shuddered under his cloak.

Jon Snow stood behind the Stark family, Longclaw hanging at an angle across his lower back, a layer of frost across his black cloak.

He was looking at the black dragon banner on the castle wall. The flagpole was a rough-hewn pine branch, bark not yet fully stripped.

"Let's go inside," Drogo said. "The wind's picking up."

The brief reunion ended, and they filed into the castle.

As Jon passed Drogo at the gate, Drogo spoke. "Why aren't you at the Wall? What brings you back to Winterfell?"

Jon turned. The gap where his missing front tooth had been was still empty, and his tongue caught the hollow without thinking when he talked.

"The Night's Watch is barely holding on. I need men."

"Movement beyond the Wall again?"

"There's been movement constantly. More and more of them." Jon's gaze moved through the gatehouse tunnel and settled on the captured soldiers at the far end of the main street, hands and feet bound.

White Harbor soldiers were herding them toward the base of the castle wall.

"Bolton men."

"Slaves now," Drogo said.

"Westeros hasn't had—"

"Right. Not for a thousand years. Today it does again." Drogo read his thoughts. "You need men — these are yours."

"Take them all to the Wall. Put black cloaks on them. I think they'd rather be Night's Watch than slaves."

Jon's gaze lingered on the prisoners a moment longer, then pulled away.

"How many?"

"253."

Jon nodded. "Still far from enough. There are too many wights."

"Then on your way back, stop at Harrenhal and take everyone there with you as well."

"Besides men, I'll need enough food to feed them."

The two walked side by side into the great hall, still talking.

A fire burned in the hearth.

Catelyn Tully sat beside the fireplace, letting the warmth wash over her face. The old scar across her throat had deepened slightly in color, shifting from ashen white to dark red, like a centipede in the process of thawing.

Bran's wheelchair was placed to her left. Rickon sat to her right. Sansa sat across from them, separated from her mother by the fire.

Jon Snow stood in the doorframe, shoulder resting against the stone. A habit built over years. A bastard could only ever stand at the margins.

"What are you standing there for?" Sansa looked back at him.

"Habit."

"You are Aegon Blackfyre, bastard son of House Targaryen. You are not bound by Winterfell's customs," Catelyn said.

Jon shook his head. "Snow or Blackfyre — both are bastard names. To me they're the same."

"I am a man of the Night's Watch. The Watch gave up family long ago. I'm only used to standing here. And I have no wish to intrude on a Stark reunion."

Bran said: "Blackfyre? No. You are Aegon Targaryen, first in line of succession to the Iron Throne."

Drogo knew Bran was doing it on purpose. He seemed indifferent to the world, yet in truth he had been coveting the Iron Throne for far longer than his manner let on.

Jon blinked. "None of that matters anymore."

He hesitated a beat, then walked in and sat on the edge of the table in front of the fireplace.

For a moment no one spoke. The fire crackled twice.

Rickon dug a walnut out of his pocket and tossed it into the fire, watching the flames curl around it and burn it gold.

"What did you see?" Sansa asked. "Did you truly become a greenseer?"

Bran didn't answer right away. He tilted his head and watched the fire for a while.

"Things from the past."

"Which things?"

"From the beginning of time to now, everything that ever happened before a weirwood tree, I can see." Bran said: "I saw Rhaegar Targaryen and Aunt Lyanna wed in a lawful marriage."

Sansa turned and looked at Drogo. "You told me Lyanna was raped by Rhaegar."

Drogo hadn't expected Bran to stir up trouble this openly. A greenseer, a greenseer indeed. What exactly is your plan?

But he wasn't especially worried. With four dragons behind him, was he supposed to fear some so-called line of succession?

In the original world, Daenerys Targaryen had been isolated and without allies, that was the only reason Bran's scheme had worked.

He, Drogo the Khal, had seized the Iron Throne by force. No one had handed it to him.

He said easily, "The Princess of Dorne was still his wife. How could any marriage between Rhaegar and Lyanna have been lawful?"

The greenseer caught the edge beneath Drogo's tone and quickly shifted the subject.

"Jon. I saw Uncle Benjen beyond the Wall."

Something in Jon's face loosened. "We all thought he was dead. I've been with the Night's Watch for more than 3 years. I went looking for him many times. Never found him."

Rickon looked at him. "You've been in the Haunted Forest?"

"I have. On ranging patrols."

"Did you see the Others?"

"I did," Jon said.

Silence. The fire crackled once more.

➤ Next: Bran Stark, the Green Seer