A New World- Chp- 36 (Patreon)

Daenerys Stormborn stood upon the deck of the Balerion, her violet eyes fixed upon the impending coastline of Astapor.

The air was thick with the scent of salt. The city of Astapor was a place built on the bones of slaves and the pride of the Good Masters.

Beside her, the wide figure of Ser Jorah Mormont loomed.

He had been released from the stifling dungeon cell in the belly of the vessel only two days prior, emerging into the light with the weary posture of a man seeking a redemption he wasn't entirely sure he deserved.

His apology had been rigid, formal, yet seemingly genuine. He had finally accepted that his actions—kissing her and touching her without her explicit permission—were a grave offence against her station and her person.

For according to him, she was not merely a girl adrift in the world; she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and the blood of Old Valyria ran true in her veins.

Dany found herself in a complicated state of internal conflict regarding the knight. Part of her agreed with his admission of guilt; to her, every woman—be she highborn lady, sovereign queen, or the lowliest peasant—deserved the sanctity of her own body.

No woman was a piece of property to be claimed, and liberty of the self should never be taken by force or assumption.

Yet, she also recognised the grim reality of her situation. She allowed him out not because her heart had softened, but because Jorah remained the only man in her service with a strategic mind capable of navigating the treacherous waters of Essos.

His advice was a weapon she could not afford to keep locked in the dark.

She looked up toward the bright, expansive sky and felt a genuine smile tug at her lips. Flying above the masts, silhouetted against the burning sun, were her three children.

Aeron, the most distant of the three, was flying far to the side as was his custom, his all-black scales catching the light in brilliant flashes.

Meanwhile, Rhaegal and Drogon tumbled through the air in a mock battle, their shrieks of play echoing over the sound of the churning waves.

"They seem cheerful, Khaleesi," Irri gushed, her voice filled with a mixture of awe and terror. The maid stood at a respectful distance, her eyes glued to the winged shadows.

Dany noted that no one on the ship—not the sailors, nor her own Dothraki—dared to approach the dragons.

To her, they were small, almost cute in their fledgling state, but they were not lizards or pets. They were the living manifestation of fire and magic. The Dragons had been the core of her family's strength; some would even argue that it was the dragons who made him conquer and not swords.

The Dance had been an unfortunate set of events; the gragons should not have been pitted against each other at such a large scale. If her father had the dragons, the usurper might never have reached the throne; he would have faced the fire and blood of the Targaryen.

One of the men handling the mast ducked as Drogon and Rhaegal flew past him, quite a few feet above his head. The crew feared them, and Dany knew that it was the right thing to do. Only a Targaryen was above the notion of fear when it came to dragons; only the blood of the dragon could hope to tame the flame.

Viserys, in his many rage-filled monologues and descent into madness, had occasionally spoken truths that Dany only now fully understood.

He had obsessed over the purity of their blood, and while his methods were cruel, his belief was indisputable: who else in the known world could claim dominion over such beasts? None but her family, and now, none but her.

She felt herself becoming the Aegon of a new era. With three dragons, she held the ultimate upper hand, yet she was wise enough to know that fire alone was not enough to hold a throne. She was here in Astapor to secure an undefeatable army, the final piece of her tactical puzzle.

Her current Khalasar were formidable monsters on the open plains, but their numbers had dwindled significantly since the death of Khal Drogo.

Many had abandoned her in the Red Waste, yet enough remained to maintain the dignity of her title.

A fresh spray of cold, salty water lashed across her face as the Balerion crested a particularly large wave before descending into the trough. Dany grasped the smooth wood of the railing, feeling the vibration of the ship beneath her feet.

From the hold below, she could faintly hear the horses neighing in high-pitched frustration. The Dothraki, her "Screamers," were terrified of the sea, which they called "toxic water" because horses could not drink it.

While they maintained a brave front, Dany could see the tension in their shoulders and the way they avoided looking at the horizon.

She, however, felt no such fear. She had been a wanderer of the waves since her youth, fleeing the hired daggers of the Usurper who had hunted her and Viserys from one Free City to the next.

Robert Baratheon had never allowed them a moment of peace, and now she was coming for retribution. If not for him, then for his son and every lord who had raised a banner in his name.

As the ship drew closer to the harbour, the water turned glass-calm, shielded from the open sea by the massive red-brick breakwaters of Astapor.

Dany glanced back toward the captain, Berion Balaris. He was a Lyseni ex-pirate she had hired with the last of her dwindling coin—a man who had traded the life of a thief for that of a mercenary sailor.

To the side of the ship, Drogon and Rhaegal dived down, touching the surface of the water. Suddenly, a fish darted near the surface; Drogon descended with lightning speed, snatching it in his talons.

He opened his mouth wide, releasing a concentrated burst of flame that charred the fish black in mid-air before he swallowed it whole. Dany laughed at the sight, watching Rhaegal whine and snap at his brother in jealousy.

Drogon merely grunted, diving once more to claim another prize.

Her eyes searched the area, but Aeron was nowhere to be seen among his brothers.

"He flew that side," Irri pointed out, noticing her mistress's searching gaze.

She walked to the very end of the railing and leaned over, looking down toward the water line. There, perched precariously on a protruding wooden plank near the hull, was her third son. He was hunched over, munching greedily on what appeared to be a sea snake or a large eel.

Sensing her movement, Aeron looked up, his green eyes glowing with intelligence. He had not only hunted one snake but had a second coiled and dead beside him.

He bared his sharp, needle-like teeth at her in a silent warning—a display of independence that made him stand apart from his siblings.

She had been right from the moment they hatched; Aeron was the most unruly of her children. He was bordering on rebellious, a wild spark that even his mother could not entirely predict.

He was beautiful, lethal, and entirely hers.

Harry observed with a serious, pensive gaze as the heavy wooden doors of the carriage creaked open. His siblings—Tommen and Myrcella—were gently led into the velvet-lined interior by a contingent of household guards.

They were still mourning the passing of their mother, and Myrcella had broken down as he had described to her what transpired.

The girl had attached herself to him for hours while she cried, and Tommen had wasted no time in joining her. They had refused to leave him and beseeched to sleep in his chamber, which he couldn't refuse. It wasn't like he slept in them himself.

No, while he remained in his chamber for hours at a time, he couldn't sleep soundly. Sansa was still missing, and he had no clue where she was.

However, it was time for them to return to the capital. And for that, Harry had opted for a modest arrangement: a single, sturdy carriage and a small group of Stormsland guards, with his own small entourage.

In a realm currently bleeding from a dozen different wounds, a smaller, faster party was often safer than a bloated royal procession that moved with the agonising slowness of a wounded beast.

His stay at Storm's End had been peaceful, perhaps even likeable by the standards of the times, yet Harry found little true rest. The salt-sprayed stones of his family's ancestral seat offered shelter, but they could not provide a refuge from his own mind.

Every waking moment, the shadow of his wife loomed over him.

He found himself wondering where she was being held, what horrors she was enduring at the hands of Baelish, what grand, twisted design the man had planned for her.

The tension was a slow-acting poison, eating away at his resolve even as he maintained the outward mask of a King.

He turned toward his horse, a powerful, dark-maned beast that was alive as a testament to sheer endurance. It was the only animal that had survived the harrowing, breakneck trail to the Griffin's Roost.

Harry had been correct in his prediction that the horses would falter once the adrenaline of the flight had faded. He couldn't have possibly drawn runes across every stead's saddle; Certain sacrifices were necessary, deliberate or not.

Most of the horses had suffered heart failure the moment they were allowed to stand still; they had dropped in their tracks within an hour of reaching the stables. A few had lingered, panting and trembling for a short while longer, but death had eventually claimed every single one of them—except for this one.

Beside him, Jon mounted a magnificent white charger, a gift from his uncle. Renly had been uncharacteristically vocal in his praise for the northern knight, citing his unwavering willingness to put his life on the line during the bloodbath of the Blackwater.

To honour the "Red Wolf," the Lord of Stormsland had bestowed upon him a full set of polished plate armour, a heavy purse of a hundred gold dragons, and the horse beneath him.

Jon looked every bit the legendary hero, though his expression remained as sombre as the winter he had left behind in the North.

Harry knew the man would choose to use the armour he already was wearing; the runic one was nearly impossible to pierce or dent. He would likely show the gifted armour as a trophy.

If he didn't, Harry would advise him to.

The King had spent his final hours at the castle in deep discussion with his uncle regarding the future of the Small Council. Renly would resume his role as Master of Laws. He had never been formally removed from the post, despite his "vacation" to the Stormlands, and Harry saw no reason for a formal reappointment.

The seat was already his by right and record, and the new King desperately needed a councillor who was less of a politician and more of a family member.

His uncle had agreed to return, but his cooperation carried a non-negotiable condition. He would not suffer Tommen as his heir.

His uncle's words had been transparently clear: while he would maintain a civil and even affectionate facade toward the boy, he would not allow a Lannister bastard to inherit the seat of the Baratheons.

When he asked whom his uncle would prefer as a successor, Renly had named Shireen.

The choice was strategically and emotionally sound. His cousin was the only Baratheon of the direct line left to them, apart from him, Renly, and his rebellious uncle.

Before his father, King Robert, had chosen to sideline his elder uncle by granting him the damp rocks of Dragonstone instead of the ancestral seat, the Stormlands had been Stannis's birthright.

By extension, that right now trickled down to Shireen.

His uncle had admitted, with a flicker of openness, that he would likely never father children of his own. If he did, and if the child were a boy, he intended to marry the lad to Shireen, thereby unifying the splintered claims of the family.

He refused to let the girl be punished for her father's rigid, unyielding transgressions, a sentiment Harry wholly supported. Shireen was, by all accounts, a kind and temperate child.

He remembered the stories of how his own mother, Cersei, had kept the girl at a distance, fueled by a paranoid fear that her dormant greyscale was a contagious blight that would infect Joffrey or him.

Harry had not yet had the chance to properly talk with his cousin since he had allotted her a chamber at the capital. He had been too consumed by the grief of his mother's death and the hopeless disappearance of his wife to play the role of a doting kinsman.

He had simply ordered that Shireen and her mother, Selyse, be placed in comfortable, dignified chambers.

He promised himself that upon his return to King's Landing, he would make amends. She was, after all, one of the only true families he had left on his father's side.

The political logic was also ironclad: if Joffrey had been the heir to the Iron Throne, Harry had been the heir to Storm's End. Tommen could not reasonably expect to hold both positions in a world where the Baratheon line was so perilously thin.

With a sharp nod, Harry signalled for the departure. Ser Balon took his position beside the carriage, his white cloak catching the morning light, while Ser Arys fell in behind Harry.

Ser Garlan Tyrell was also part of the retinue; he was intentionally bringing the "Gallant Knight" back to the capital. He would never make the tactical error of sending the Tyrell back to Highgarden while the Reach remained a wildcard.

If Loras was a hostage to whomever Baelish's masters were, then Garlan was his hostage against the Tyrells.

He was a living deterrent, a guarantee that Mace Tyrell would think twice before entertaining any thoughts of defection or rebellion. He had been played by Varys and Littlefinger before; he would not be caught off guard by the Rose of Highgarden.

His uncle stood at the gatehouse, his hands folded neatly behind his back and a practised, benign smile on his lips.

"You'll come back to the Capital soon, won't you uncle?" The King asked, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.

Renly nodded decisively. "As soon as the administration is handed over and a castellan is firmly in place, Your Grace. I shall follow your trail within the fortnight."

He gave one final look at the colossal fortress of Storm's End. It was the stronghold of his ancestors, where the Baratheon line had taken root and where the Durrandon Storm Kings had reigned for millennia.

If his father had not revolted, Robert would have inherited this castle, and Harry might never have been born into this royal burden, or not.

Death had sent him here, or so the entity had claimed, and he knew neither he nor destiny did anything without reasons; These entities always had ulterior motives, hidden layers of purpose that Harry was only beginning to scratch.

There must be a reason. He was born Haridon Baratheon, the son of King Robert, and not Lord Paramount Robert.

During his week of recovery, he had frequently visited his father's effigy in the crypts. His father had been a deeply flawed man—a drunkard and a negligent ruler—but a father still. He was at least alive to talk to him, praise him and at moments love him.

He couldn't say the same about James, for he had never seen him physically, and his previous father's ghost was quite different from the real him, as was the case always.

For the baron had been a scary ghost, but not internationally cruel, and he was the ghost of the man who had allegedly killed Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter, Helena.

Real people were complicated; ghosts were just the echoes of their souls, never sound, always lagging.

The King turned his horse toward the King's Road, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the horizon. He had no clear map for the future, no one man to lead him forward, and no companion to light the way.

He was a King without a Queen, a man with a crown but a bleeding heart. He would get Sansa back. He would navigate the web of lies and the rivers of blood until he found her.

By hook or by crook, by sword or by sorcery, he would bring her home.

Bran was ushered into the solar by his uncle, the heavy solar door closing shut behind them.

His father sat calmly behind his desk, the firelight casting long shadows across the lines of his face.

It had only been half an hour since he left the presence of his brother, father and uncle, yet they had called him again. He didn't know what it was about, did they doubt what he said, or were they sceptical of his tale?

The Breaker had been with him all this time, so even he didn't know the cause behind calling him back to the Solar.

Robb stood to the side, his tunic under the fur coat clinging to his body; he was damp with sweat, and his breathing was somewhat uneven, as if he had just finished a bout in the training yard, or rather a search of the library.

Bran's eyes immediately peered toward the hearth. Was the heat too much? The fire was burning bright, surely, throwing an orange glow against the solar's wall, but it was what lay beside it that truly made him curious

The high metal bookcase that had stood in that corner for as long as he could remember—the one filled with thick books and dusty parchments—had been dragged aside.

In its place was an empty space in the wall: an open gate, carved directly into the surface. The interior was a pocket of complete darkness, a gap that seemed so deep that Bran could not ascertain what was inside it.

"Come sit, Bran," his father said, his voice calm yet weary.

He turned back toward the desk.

Now that he was looking properly, he noticed a stack of black-covered books arranged neatly on the table, one above another. Before he could move, a shimmering distortion rippled through the wall of his father's solar.

The ghost of Brandon drifted into the room through the solid wall. He glanced toward him from the corner of his eyes, considering for a moment that being a ghost had its distinct advantages—passing through walls undisturbed and unhurt was a gift, no matter how grim the cost of such a state was.

He sat in the chair in front of his father, the wood cool beneath his palms.

The ghost did not come to him instantly, as it usually did. Instead, the Breaker turned his translucent gaze toward the newly revealed chamber.

He floated close to it, his spectral face contorting with a flicker of pained recognition as his fingers brushed the displaced metal bookcase before he came to a halt at the open gate, staring into the dark.

The ghost sighed, a sound like wind whistling through a tomb, before flying back toward Bran.

"That's my son's solar," the ghost said, his voice echoing in the back of Bran's mind. "Built by him after I passed on. He made it to keep my chest safe from the eyes of those who did not understand."

He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the empty air beside him as the ghost came to stand at his shoulder.

He looked up at his father, who seemed expectant, his grey eyes searching his younger son's face as if waiting for a disclosure. When the boy said nothing, Ned Stark leaned back into his furs, and Robb took the cue to start talking.

"We searched every inch of the solar for any clue of what you told us, Bran," Robb said, still leaning against the desk, his voice slow and soft.

"We found nothing at first," Benjen added, his voice husky. "But Ned remembered he had found this door quite a few years ago, back when he took the Lordship of North in haste. He attempted to open it, but didn't get a positive result."

"We tried Grandpa's ring, which Father had found. It opened quite easily; it seems the stone in the ring was the key," Robb said, his voice rising with a note of intense curiosity. "Do you, or does Breaker, know anything about what lies within?"

Bran glanced toward the ghost. He noticed his father's eyes flick momentarily toward the space where the spirit stood—he couldn't see him, though.

"He says that the solar was built by his son," Bran relayed, and the ghost of Brandon nodded solemnly.

"There must be a chest inside there," the Breaker said, his voice growing more certain. "My son had this hidden room constructed specifically to house my items. Things that were not meant for the public annals of the Kings of Winter."

"He says there must be a chest there," Bran said, repeating the ghost's words for the living. "His son had it built to hold his personal items."

Ned Stark nodded slowly. "There is a chest. We saw it when the door first opened. But we cannot open it, nor can we even lift it from the floor. It's as if it's grown into the very bedrock of the castle."

"It's magic, Young Wolf," the ghost said, glancing toward the gate with a faint, proud smile. "The magic of the Starks that holds it there. My son was an able sorcerer in his day. He was nothing like that prince of yours, perhaps, but he knew enough to carve the runes and put the protections in place. It answers only to the blood."

The ghost turned back to Bran. "Come."

Breaker floated toward the dark gate, and Bran stood automatically to follow him.

"Bring the torch, Robb," Benjen said, falling into step behind his nephew.

As he reached the threshold of the gate, he waited for the light. As soon as his brother thrust the torch forward, the orange glow entered the small, cramped room.

Breaker was already inside, knelt in front of a heavy box bound in iron, and its latch was of bronze. His ghostly hand hovered inches above the bronze lock, his fingers trembling with a grief that spanned centuries.

As he walked closer, he could see the faint, intricate markings on the lid.

The surface was etched with swirling symbols—ancient runes of the First Men—and depictions of direwolves and weirwood leaves that seemed to dance in the flickering torchlight.

The ghost looked quite sad. "You know, Young Wolf, what pains me the most about this undying state? It is the waiting. I cannot join my son. I cannot find my wife. I am tethered to this plain."

He looked up, his eyes meeting Bran's. "Come closer."

Bran knelt beside the ghost, the cold radiating from the spirit making the hair on his arms stand up.

"Smear your blood over the lock, Young Wolf," the ghost commanded. "The bronze must taste the line of the Winter king to break the seal."

The young Stark looked around at the shadows of his kin before looking up at his uncle. "Can you get me a dagger, Uncle Ben?"

Benjen Stark hesitated, his hand moving instinctively toward the hilt hidden inside his heavy fur coat.

He looked at Ned, then back at the small boy kneeling in the dirt. It didn't seem right to hand a blade to a child for any purpose.

He saw the doubt and offered a small, reassuring smile. "Worry not, uncle. I just need it to open this. The chest won't move otherwise."

"How?" Robb asked, his voice sharp with a mix of protectiveness and curiosity.

"I have to smear some blood on the lock," He replied easily, as if he were talking about the weather. "It's linked to the Stark blood. The magic needs to know we are who we say we are."

His elder scowled, a flash of their father appearing in his eyes. He stepped forward, handing off the torch to Benjen before kneeling smoothly beside him. "You're not going to cut yourself, Bran. You're too young for this blood-magic business. I'm as much a Stark as you—I'll do it."

Without waiting for an objection, Robb pulled a small, sharp dagger from his own belt.

With a quick, practised motion, he drew the edge across his palm. He didn't flinch as the red line opened. He pressed his hand firmly against the bronze latch, spreading the crimson across the ancient metal.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, the wood beneath the chest began to groan.

The chest shifted, a faint blue light flickering momentarily within the carved runes before it settled into silence.

"Raise it now," the ghost whispered. "It will come out, and it will open."

"It must be open now, Robb," Bran directed. "You can take it out."

His brother nodded, wiped his hand on his breeches, and gripped the iron handles.

With a huff of robust strength, he heaved the chest upward. It came free of the floor with a soft thud, and he carried it out into the light of the solar.

Bran followed his brother out. His uncle and father were already standing there, the latter leaning against the desk, his eyes fixed on the mysterious chest.

The ghost of Brandon stood in the corner of the solar, watching as they opened the chest.

Benjen watched with bated breath as his eldest nephew finally opened the heavy chest.

The lid creaked on hinges, likely not oiled in centuries, revealing an interior lined with lush, deep-red fur—the pelt of some beast that his ancestor had hunted.

Atop the contents lay a grey cloth, thick with the dust of ages, concealing the items beneath.

He leaned forward, his mind whirling with thoughts of what they might find inside it as Robb reached in and carefully drew back the cloak. There were four distinct items nestled within that small space.

As the cloth fell away, Benjen's eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat.

Bran, standing on the other side of Robb, didn't hesitate. While the older men were paralysed by a sense of awe and surprise, the boy moved with a certainty.

He reached into the chest and pulled out the first item: a longsword. It was forged of unmistakable Valyrian steel, its dark, rippled surface drinking the torchlight rather than reflecting it.

Unlike Ice, which had a simple, practical round pommel, this blade featured a pommel intricately carved into the snarling head of a wolf. Silver in colour.

Ned moved closer, his usual composure shattered by the sight. He noticed that his brother was limping, yet his cane was nowhere to be found.

It was as if the closeness to these age-old relics was pulling the strength back into Ned's bones. He stood beside his youngest son, his hand trembling slightly as he hovered over the dark steel.

"It is a Valyrian blade, named 'Cold tooth'," Bran said. His eyes darted toward the empty corner of the solar, eyeing a presence only he could see. "It was the sword Brandon had gifted to his son, a second source of protection against the Night King. This Valyrian steel is the only metal that can bite deep enough to kill the Night King"

His eldest nephew reached out, his face pale, and took the sword from Bran. He ran a cautious finger just above the edge, never daring to make contact; it was said that Valyrian steel never lost its bite, and Ice proved that right.

This blade might be centuries old, but Benjen was ready to bet that it was sharper than the sword at his waist.

The weight of the blade seemed to settle into Robb's grip as if it had been waiting for a Stark of his stature to claim it once more.

While one of his nephews was enchanted by the steel, the second one reached back into the old chest and retrieved a second item.

It was a dagger, black as a moonless night and jagged at the edges. It shimmered with an oily, translucent quality. Dragonglass, Benjen realised instantly.

He had seen shards of it at the Wall, but never a weapon crafted with such skill.

"Dragonglass dagger," Bran murmured, handing the hilt to his father. "The Breaker inherited this from his own father, along with Ice."

But the swords and daggers, as legendary as they were, seemed almost ordinary when his young nephew pulled the third object from the depths of the chest. It was a crown, though like no crown Benjen had ever seen or heard described in the annals of history.

It was made of glass—or perhaps something that mimicked it—transparent as the clearest mountain stream and carved into the jagged, majestic shape of a mountain range.

Around the brow, inscriptions in a shimmering, deep blue hue seemed to pulse with a light of their own. It was a heavy, daunting thing, larger than Bran's small hand could easily grasp.

The beauty of the object was hypnotic. Driven by an impulse he couldn't name, the first ranger stepped forward.

He felt a desperate need to touch the transparent surface, to feel if it was as cold as it looked.

As his fingertip made contact with the glass, the world didn't just change—it collapsed.

Strength fled his limbs in a sickening rush. His right hand went numb, and for a terrifying second, he felt as though he were being crushed from all sides by an immense, invisible weight.

The walls of the solar vanished. The smell of old books was replaced by the scent of air so cold it felt like inhaling needles.

He found himself standing on the ridge of a tall cliff. All around him was a wasteland of white ice and howling wind. Startled, he looked around, but there was no sign of Ned, Robb, Bran or the warm fire of the solar.

He was utterly alone in a frozen hell.

A sound beneath him caught his attention—a frantic, high-pitched whimpering. He peered over the edge of the cliff and saw a small group of Wildlings.

They were a ragtag group, clad in filthy furs, cornered against the base of the rock with nowhere to run.

At first, he couldn't see what they were cowering from. He frowned, leaning down to sharpen his view against the blinding glare of the snow.

Then, he saw them. Movement.

Creatures the same colour as the ice, moving with a frightening, fluid fineness that defied the laws of nature. They were nearly invisible against the landscape until they moved.

One of them—a tall, gaunt figure of translucent skin—glanced up. Its eyes were not white, but a deep pit of black. To Benjen's horror, the creature inclined its head slightly, a mock gesture of greeting.

"Not you, Stark," a voice rang out. It was not a human voice; it sounded like the cracking of a frozen lake underfoot.

He spun around, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Standing before him was a woman—or a goddess, he presumed, though one born of a nightmare.

She was as tall as he was, but possessed a petite, fierce demeanour. Her skin was a flawless white, and her eyes were twin jewels of shining blue light.

She wore a gown that seemed woven from the very mist of the North, the colour of a winter sky—grey, like the eyes of the Starks.

She moved toward him with the prowl of a shadow-cat.

Her eyes dropped to the glass crown in Benjen's hand, and her lip curled into a sneer of pure, undiluted malice. "You are a small thing. You are not worthy enough to touch that, Stark," she hissed.

Her hand extended toward him, her fingers like icicles.

Before she could touch him, he felt a violent jerk, as if a hook had been slammed into his navel and he was being hauled through a tunnel of darkness at unbelievable speed.

He gasped, his lungs burning, as his senses slammed back into his body. He was no longer on a cliff; he was on the floor of his brother's solar, his back against the cold surface.

Sweat was pouring down his face, and his heart was racing so fast he thought it might burst. Robb was instantly at his side, gripping his shoulder and helping him sit up.

Ned stood over him, his face a mask of profound worry. His eyes darted between him and Bran, who now held the glass crown that Benjen had so foolishly touched.

His young nephew looked remarkably calm, his small fingers wrapped firmly around the transparent peaks of the artefact.

"Don't worry, Uncle Ben. It will not pull me," He said softly.

He reached out and rubbed his own forehead, as if soothing a phantom ache.

"I am not that weak, magically." His nephew added.

"Weak?" He managed to choke out, his voice a whisper as Robb helped him into a chair. His hands were still shaking uncontrollably.

Bran nodded solemnly. "I have been learning many things from Brandon. My mind is protected, walled off, unlike yours or Father's. Robb must be protected, too, if he truly has a strong connection with Grey Wind. The bond with the wolf is a shield for us, but you had no shield, Uncle."

His eldest nephew glanced at his young brother with a mixture of confusion and anxiety, then looked back at the crown. He reached out a hand, but Benjen lunged forward, despite his weakness.

"Don't touch that!" He barked.

The heir of Winterfell flinched, his hand hovering inches away before he pulled it back and nodded, his face pale.

"What did it do to you, Ben?" Ned asked, his voice low. "Your eyes... they turned blue for a moment. You were shivering, then you fell and started writhing on the floor as if you were being burned alive."

He turned to Bran, ignoring the question for a moment. It seemed all of today's answers resided in the mind of this small boy. "What was that? Is she the one you were talking about?"

His nephew sighed, a heavy, weary sound. "Yes. She is known by many name as I told you before, Verordi. The Night Queen. The Corpse Queen. Whatever you'd like to call her, uncle"

Ned's eyes went wide, and he sank onto the edge of his desk. "Did you truly see her, Ben?"

He nodded; the image of those blue eyes burned into his mind. "I was on a cliff, somewhere far beyond the Wall. I looked down and saw a group of Free Folk cowering. At first, I couldn't even see their attackers; they were so well-hidden by the ice. But then they moved."

"They?" Robb asked, his brow furrowed.

"The Others," Bran answered for his uncle.

Benjen nodded and leaned back, the memory of her sneer making him cold all over again. "She saw me with the crown. She said I didn't deserve to hold it."

His young nephew nodded knowingly. "She hates us, Uncle Ben. She hates the blood of the Starks. You don't need to feel bad that she rejected you. To her, we are the only things that truly stand in her way."

If the situation were any less sinister, Benjen might have laughed at the absurdity of being comforted by a ten-year-old. Instead, he simply gave a weak, tired smile.

"She hates the Starks because two of ours have stopped her before," Bran added, his eyes focused on him.

"Have you seen her, Bran?" Benjen asked.

The boy shook his head. "No, never. Brandon has told me what she looks like. He described her so I would know to warn others if I ever see her"

"Wait a minute!" Robb yelled, his voice cracking with sudden realisation. "She spoke? In the Common Tongue?"

He nodded slowly. It was the detail that terrified him the most. She wasn't a mindless beast or a force of nature.

The King and Queen of the Night were as real as the men standing in this room, and they were actively hunting.

"She is real, Ned," Benjen said, looking his brother in the eye. "And if she is real, then the King is real too."

"I told you," Bran said. There was a touch of smugness in his voice, but it was devoid of any real joy.

Robb, seeking to break the tension, reached back into the chest and pulled out the final item.

It was a collection of parchment sheets, folded together and wrapped in preserved furs. They were yellowed with age and not particularly wide, but they were covered in the same cramped, archaic script they had found in the first two journals—the Old Tongue.

Benjen shook his head, looking up at his brother. Lord Eddard Stark looked like a man who had suddenly realised the roof of his house was on fire.

"You might want to call your banners, brother," He said, his voice grave. "The Night's Watch is a shadow of its former self. We cannot fight these things alone. If the Queen is awake, the Long Night is no longer a legend. It's a prophecy."