Bran closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. Into the roots, he thought. Into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he could see the cavern in its black mantle, could hear the river rushing by below. Then all at once he was back home again. (A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 34, Bran III.)

Chapter 20

"Must you go?" Sansa's eyes were lowered, her voice almost plaintive.

Arya didn't answer her, looked at the eaves, as though they contained an answer which would make Sansa happy.

Ever since Bran returned to Winterfell, he had wondered at the changes in his sisters, though in a way, they were the same as they'd ever been: Arya, adventurous and daring, Sansa, regal and commanding. Still, Sansa was not as cruel as she had sometimes been, in the way of young maidens, while Arya had learned to think before she acted. The old Arya would have vanished one night, leaving a note behind.

Arya cleared her throat, catching Bran's eye. They were in a room which had a fireplace, so it had been assigned as a study for him, not that he needed such a thing. But the chill of winter had not yet left the North - even though winter's king was gone - so they were all glad of the fire. He was glad to be home again, and even happier when they allowed him to visit the Godswood and rest against the great Weirwood tree at its centre.

Meera had left to visit her father and tell him what had happened to Jojen. She would be back though, insisting on accompanying him on his future travels. Because travel he would.

Jon had told him everything about his final confrontation with the Night King, which was interesting enough. Also, Bran knew something that Jon didn't - they could have easily failed. When the Children of the Forest first defeated The Night King, they relied on an element which did not exist anymore. The weirwood trees, which had once covered the land, and were now mostly gone in the South, had been a means of communication for the Children. The trees were like links on a chain, now broken. Bran had woken up one day with a thought in his head – the trees needed to return. He would do all that and more, and he would accept Meera's help, though he felt that he didn't deserve it. But for now, he needed to be with his family.

"Where are you going?" Bran asked.

"I thought I'd visit Bear Island, first. Lady Mormont asked me - I think she's just happy to meet another woman who can engage her in a swordfight. Then . . . perhaps . . . might go to Braavos. Look in on an old friend." Arya wasn't meeting their eyes. "After . . . I don't know. Maybe I'll just come back here." She shrugged again.

Bran nodded. He too felt trapped, sometimes, but at least he had his abilities. Arya couldn't be locked in a castle anymore, not after what she had been through. Besides, the king's cousin would be much sought after for marriage arrangements, and while Jon wouldn't want to force Arya into anything, he' be coming under much pressure.

Sansa sniffed again, then folded Arya into a bear-hug. "Write to me! And if you get tired of wandering, come back! Remember, this will always be your home. Understood?"

The look in Sansa's eyes was fierce. Arya nodded, eyes gleaming. She then threw herself at Bran, and he hugged her back.

Sansa and Arya wandered out, still talking. Bran was able to follow their conversation, and his lips twisted in a small smile. Apparently, Jon had insisted on setting up something he called a Great Council with a difference – the difference being that while in the time of the Targaryen kings, the Great Council was only for the gentry, he wanted to include all walks of life in the North, the merchants, farmers, men and women. Sansa's main complaint was that after putting all this into motion, he then buggered off to Moat Cailin to meet Queen Daenerys, leaving her, Sansa, to deal with all these different people who never agreed on anything. Arya giggled at Sansa's unladylike term and proceeded to tease her.

Moat Cailin, then, Bran thought, and settled deeper in his furs in front of the fire. They had told him to rest after the harrowing journey from the Wall to Winterfell, which he had every intention of doing. But while his body recovered, his mind could fly, and fly it would.

As a raven, it didn't take him long to reach Moat Cailin. He could see two great camps facing each other - the one flying the new standard of the North, the white wolf and dragon entwined, and the other with the now familiar three-headed red dragon. He flew, as unobtrusively as he could, to the largest tent, where Jon and his advisors were meeting with Queen Daenerys . He moved from the raven to a small ferret one of the Queen's ladies had decided to keep as a pet, but this time only hid there without the animal even noticing him.

It was hard, though, to focus on the conversation as an animal he'd never used before. While he heard words, it was hard to distinguish tone, and nuance. They seemed to be discoursing without saying much, and soon, when their meal finished, they split up into various groups, with Queen Daenerys declaring she wanted to see Viserion again, and many of her household, including a Dothraki and one of the Unsullied, following her. When Jon left the tent in the company of Tyrion Lannister, Bran decided to move back into his raven.

"So, how are things in King's Landing, then?" Jon was smiling as he spoke - apparently, in the years Bran had been gone, Tyrion had become something close to a friend.

Lannister grinned. "Oh, fine, fine. It's going to take us a while to repair the enormous hole Viserion made in the Throne Room, though - you couldn't have used the door?"

"I needed to make an entrance," Jon said, laughing. "But you can't blame me for what happened to the Iron Throne - it was already gone by the time I arrived!"

"Maybe we should send a bill to the Night King," Tyrion added, giving Jon what even the raven recognised as a sharp look.

Jon shrugged. "Send it care of 'the puddle in the Throne Room, the Red Keep, King's Landing."

Tyrion laughed, but it seemed forced. "You speak as though it was no feat to kill him."

"I wouldn't say that," Jon said. "I wouldn't say that at all."

Tyrion seemed to sense that Jon wouldn't be drawn any further on the subject. In fact, Jon turned to other things.

"Does the Queen have a someone to rule for her when she's away from the city? I would have thought you would be there, as Hand of the Queen."

Bran almost fell from his branch. He hadn't noticed the small brooch on Tyrion's chest, and truly, would hardly have understood its significance.

Tyrion smiled. "Have you ever heard of Ser Jorah Mormont?"

Jon frowned. "His father was the Lord Commander when I joined the Night's Watch. In fact . . ." He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, as if to keep it safe.

Tyrion raised his hands. "Don't worry - your sword is safe from him. In a nutshell, Ser Jorah spent a long time at the Queen's side in Essos, somehow contracted greyscale, and was cured, just as mysteriously."

Jon's brows drew together.

"Fine, fine, it involved having the infected arm chopped off by a White Walker's blade."

Jon's mouth hung open. "And he didn't die of it?"

"No." Tyrion smirked. "The maesters are very impressed. And fascinated. Every week, there's a new petition for the Queen to send Ser Jorah to the Citadel to be studied. Poor Ser Jorah complains that whenever he leaves the Red Keep, he's always being followed by studious-looking young men, wearing clothing they're clearly not used to, and whipping out paper and quills if he so much as coughs."

Jon snorted. "So, he's the new . . . ?" His voice trailed off, clearly not knowing what to call Ser Jorah.

Tyrion shrugged. "Who knows. Maybe even Prince Consort, one day. But the Queen's in no hurry. We've set up a small council, and the Queen has made it known that if one more person speculates about the contents of her womb, she will have them all walk naked in the streets while the smallfolk pelt them with anything that comes to hand."

"I wish I'd brought Sansa with me - I think they'd have gotten along like a house on fire!" Jon said, grinning.

"What, with people running about, screaming and jumping out of windows?" Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Anyway, there was something else I wanted to ask you. Your Grace."

Tyrion's change in demeanour stopped Jon in his tracks, as well as his choice of address. Tyrion cleared his throat.

"I heard that my brother, Jaime, joined you in Winterfell and then fought in King's Landing . . . " Tyrion stopped, anxious eyes studying Jon's face.

Jon rubbed his eyebrow, a habit Bran was learning to recognise. "Lord Jaime Lannister fell in the battle for King's Landing. He fought bravely till the end."

Tyrion's eyes widened, and his fists clenched.

"But," Jon continued, "but." He seemed to be choosing his words with great care. "The heir to Tarth, husband to Lady Brienne of Tarth, is alive and well on that island. I have not met him, myself, even though Lady Brienne is one of my Queen's closest attendants. They say . . . he has a metal hand," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Tyrion covered his mouth with one hand and seemed to visibly pull himself together, and Jon put a gentle hand on his shoulder, and squeezed.

"You know he can never return. Queen Daenerys might be understanding, she might even pardon him. But a court is full of people fighting for power, and what better way to get the Queen's favour than to kill the man who killed her father?"

Tyrion nodded, knuckling the tears away. Jon cleared his throat – he wasn't unfeeling, Bran thought.

"I have sent the Lannister armies to various castles in the North for now - it's up to you whether you want to take them as your own. I must warn you, many of them have settled down and would rather farm than fight - of course, those who want to return to the Crownlands will be allowed to do so."

Tyrion frowned. "It's up to me?"

"Yes, Lord Lannister," Jon answered, a touch of humour in his voice. "It's up to you to carry on the family name, now!"

Tyrion's jaw dropped, and he burst out laughing, snorting, in between giggles, "My father must be rolling in his grave!"

Bran decided he'd seen enough. He'd been worried about any possible conflict between the King in the North, and the Queen of- how many kingdoms was it again? Six, or even five? He'd have to enquire. So much for resting. Even though there seemed to be no underlying tension now, Bran was still uneasy. What kind of king would Jon become?

Then there was the issue of the Unsullied. And even more so, the Dothraki. Two huge armies – even though they had lost many in the battles with the undead, they still had formidable numbers. Bran clung to a branch and pondered his options. He could go back to Winterfell, and wait, or he could fly straight into what used to be the lions' den.

It took him some hours to fly to King's Landing, jumping from one bird to another. When he arrived, he immediately entered the body of one of the many pigeons nesting in various parts of the city. He flew around for a while, observing the way parts of the city were being rebuilt. Queen Daenerys and her new council had even managed to quench the wildfire burning in the ruins of the Sept of Baelor, by burying it in sand. If the appearance of a large sand dune in the middle of the city was unusual, the smallfolk seemed to have become used to it, not even sparing it half a glance.

Finally, his attention was caught by a strange gathering on one of the many streets of stairs in the city.

There was a group of Unsullied, all listening to another of their number, who seemed to have them enthralled. The problem was that the man was speaking in High Valyrian, and Bran understood none of it. He did not feel comfortable entering a living mortal, so he preened his feathers instead.

Eventually, he noticed two men watching the proceedings - one Unsullied, and one Northerner. In fact, he thought he recognised Black Dog from Winterfell, and after turning his head this way and that, saw, to his shame, that the other man was in fact Dolorous Edd, come all the way to King's Landing from the Wall.

"So, what is he saying to them?" Edd asked.

"Well, Snail-" Black Dog started, only to be interrupted by the Lord Commander.

"Snail? I thought his name was . . ." Here Bran heard another word in High Valyrian.

"Yes, exactly. It means Snail. He likes snails. Do you still want to know what he's saying?" There seemed to be a certain sharpness to Black Dog's words, though Bran couldn't be sure.

"Go on with you, of course I do!"

"So. Let me see: "Brothers! I see you here, wandering around without a purpose, ready to go back to a life lived for others, not for yourselves. Well, what should we do, I hear you ask! Let me tell you about a place where you can live with your brothers and guard something worthwhile, guard the living from the dead! Free meals three times a day, a cot to sleep in, and all your friends with you! Come to the Night's Watch and help defend humanity, guarding the realms of the living!"

Black Dog paused, as one of the Unsullied asked a question. Snail didn't seem to have an answer, so he called down to Edd.

"They're asking about the Nightfort, Lord Commander! They've been hearing dreadful stories."

Snail's common was excellent, Bran realised. He even had a Northern burr to his words. But his thoughts were interrupted by Dolorous Edd cursing.

"Bloody buggering Nightfort. That's it, I don't care how historically relevant that thing is, it's gone." To Snail he said: "Tell them it'll be walled shut and closed off, never to be used again."

Snail relayed this information to the Unsullied, and added, according to Black Dog, that they would also get warm clothing, any type of clothing, as long as it was black. The group broke up into smaller groups, all discussing quite excitedly. Bran wondered what Jon thought of this and didn't have to wait long for an answer.

Noticing Black Dog's questioning eyes, Edd shrugged. "It was Jon's idea - the King, I mean. He said we couldn't expect the Night's Watch to keep to their vows if they were almost exclusively made up of thieves, murderers and rapers."

Black Dog raised his eyebrows.

"I said almost exclusively, didn't I? Both Jon and I were volunteers, the more fool us."

"So, what will happen to criminals now?"

Edd scratched his head. "Thieves, frauds . . . they will still be given the option of the Wall. But murderers, violent men, rapers - they will be put to hard labour. Again, the King's idea, and he'll suggest it to Queen Daenerys too. He says the Wall's part of his lands, part of the North - he doesn't want all the scum in the land to be sent there ever again."

"Does the Wall really need defending from the dead anymore?" Black Dog sounded sceptical, and Bran didn't blame him.

In fact, that wasn't why Jon wanted to repopulate the Wall, and Bran knew because Jon had told him; though he'd never mentioned the Unsullied. The truth was that Jon wanted the North to have a proper standing army, made out of trained soldiers. He intended to pay them a wage, too. Also, they'd have the option to leave after a number of years or renew their stay. He wanted to get rid of the idea of the Wall as a prison and defend the North, in one fell swoop. There were enough empty forts to house all these new brothers of the Night's Watch, even taking the Nightfort out of the equation. Bran shuddered at the thought of that place. He'd spent a few nights there – that had been enough to last him a lifetime.

When Bran's attention drifted back to the two men, he saw that Edd avoided Black Dog's question with one of his own.

"What about you, eh?" Edd said, elbowing the Unsullied. "Want to become a brother in black?"

A larger than life figure swooped down on the two, braided hair and beard shaking with laughter. The Dothraki - and if Bran wasn't mistaken, it was Vrelo - slapped Dolorous Edd on the back and slung his arm around Black Dog's neck in one go.

"Don't you try and tempt him, Lord Edd!"

Was Black Dog blushing?

"Khal Jon gave us a good piece of land near the Wall, in a place called . . . ?"

"The Gift," Black Dog continued, "Brandon's Gift. We will raise horses, and perhaps farm a little." Yes, that was a reddish tinge around the man's cheekbones and ears.

Edd's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. "Just the two of you, then?"

Vrelo laughed even louder, squeezing Black Dog closer to him. The Unsullied didn't protest, though, just looked at Vrelo with a tiny smile on his face, a look that was almost possessive.

"Oh well," Edd said, seemingly grappling for a change of subject. "What about the other Dothraki, are they going back to Essos?"

"Some," Vrelo answered, not letting go of Black Dog for a second. "Others go exploring, some join the free folk." He burst out laughing, again. "One of my Dothraki brothers challenged the - what do you call them, the spearwomen? Yes, them. He picked one to fight, certain he would win. After she won, she pulled him to her tent and no one saw him for three days." He squeezed Black Dog even tighter. "A lucky man, but not as lucky as Vrelo."

Bran was quite sure that if he hadn't been inhabiting a bird, the look of envy on Edd's face would have mirrored his own. He felt like he'd seen enough in King's Landing too, and decided to head back North, using many different birds again. In no time at all, he was back in Winterfell, in front of the fire in his study.

It didn't take long for Sansa to notice that he was awake, so to speak, and she had lunch with him, chatting about the Great Council Jon was trying to establish. Once again, he heard her frustration at the gentry not wanting to listen to the smallfolk, and the smallfolk refusing to understand why they should take any decisions, because it was the work of their betters, wasn't it?

Bran tried to console and advise Sansa as best he could, before she was inevitably called away for some squabble or other. The truth was that Sansa loved this - she loved being asked her opinion, she loved running a household, she loved running a country. And she was good at it.

As the day shaded towards evening, Bran found himself getting sleepier. A thought struck him before he dropped off: when he travelled, he needn't restrict himself to what was happening in the present. He had travelled to Winterfell in the past before. Why could he not do so again?

Carefully, so carefully, he retreated into a small place inside his mind, picking at the glowing threads of time. He didn't use animals this time, didn't need to be holding onto a weirwood tree anymore, wasn't even sure if they were roads or branches that he travelled. He went back, long before any of this happened, before he fell from the Broken Tower.

There was a Harvest feast, many years ago. The Great Hall was full to bursting. Jon, for once, did not sit alone and brood, but laughed and told jokes with Robb and Theon. His mother and father were at the head of the table, heads together, fond smiles on their faces as they watched Arya play with Rickon. Sansa was close by, with Jeyne and Beth, giggling and admiring the ribbons in each other's hair. When he approached, all heads turned to him, and his mother beckoned, face glowing.

"We've been waiting for you, Bran! Come, come, where were you?"

"Right here," Bran answered, keeping his voice light. "Is there still anything left to eat?"

His father laughed and threw a roll at him, which he caught, with ease, amazed at the way he was just walking around, like he'd never been crippled. But why was he amazed? He was back. He was home.

oOo

The End

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This is it, the end!

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