A/N: For chapter 27: The Hunters and The Hunted, Leia's pov has been updated relating to her pregnancy. If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a power stone :D
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Craster's Keep, Beyond The Wall
The hall reeked of old smoke and unwashed bodies. Robb lay on the packed earth floor, wrapped in his cloak, listening to the Smalljon's thunderous snoring compete with the wind rattling through gaps in the walls. Sleep wouldn't come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those pregnant girls, those hollow-eyed children. Through the Force, their fear pressed against his consciousness like cold fingers.
A floorboard creaked. Robb's hand found his dagger's hilt as a shadow moved between the sleeping forms. The figure stopped, trembling, then took another step forward.
"Please, m'lord." The whisper barely carried over the wind. "Please."
Robb sat up slowly, recognizing the pregnant girl from the well. Gilly. Her whole body shook, though whether from cold or terror he couldn't tell. Through the Force, waves of desperation rolled off her, mixed with something else. Something fierce and protective that reminded him of his own mother.
He rose carefully, not wanting to wake the others, and gestured toward the door. She shrank back, then seemed to gather what little courage she had left. They slipped outside into the bitter night.
Snow fell in thick curtains, muffling sound. Robb led her to the lee of the goat pen where they'd have some shelter from the wind. "What is it?"
Gilly's teeth chattered as she spoke. "You asked about his sons. About my father's sons."
The darkness in her voice made Robb's skin crawl. "What happens to them?"
"The cold gods take them." Tears froze on her cheeks. "That's what he says. But I've seen it, m'lord. I've seen what takes them."
Robb waited, sensing through the Force that pushing would only terrify her more.
"Blue eyes in the dark. Shadows that walk like men but ain't men at all." Her hand went to her swollen belly. "He leaves the babes out in the cold. Just... leaves them crying in the snow. And they come. The white shadows come and take them away."
The pieces clicked together in Robb's mind with horrible clarity. The figure he'd glimpsed at the tree line. The women's terror when he'd asked about sons. Craster wasn't just surviving out here beyond the Wall. He had a pact. A bargain with the Others themselves.
"How long?" His voice came out rougher than intended.
"Always. Long as I can remember. My brothers, my... my son will share their fate." Fresh tears spilled down her face. "This one's a boy. I can feel it. Strong, like he's already fighting."
Another offering for the cold gods unless...
"When are to give birth?"
"Soon. Mayhaps a moon. Mayhaps less." Gilly grabbed his sleeve with desperate strength. "I heard you're the son the Stark. Heard the Starks keep their word. Please, m'lord. When my time comes, when Craster takes him out to the cold..."
"I'll stop it." The words came out before Robb could think them through. But once spoken, they felt right. This was what his father would do. What honor demanded.
Gilly's legs nearly gave out with relief. Robb caught her arm, steadying her. "Get back inside before he notices you're gone. We leave for the parley tomorrow, but we'll return. Can you hold on that long?"
She nodded frantically. "I'll try, m'lord. I'll try."
As she hurried back toward the hall, Robb remained in the shadows, his mind racing. They couldn't act now, not without losing their guide to Mance's camp. But after...
"Interesting conversation."
Robb spun, hand on his sword. Qhorin Halfhand stood three feet away, so still he might have been part of the darkness itself.
"How long were you listening?"
"Long enough." Qhorin's scarred face showed no emotion. "Walk with me, Lord Stark. We have much to discuss."
They moved away from the buildings, out where the wind would carry their voices into nothing. Qhorin stopped near a half-dead pine, its branches heavy with snow.
"You know." Robb said. Not a question.
"I've suspected for years. Never had proof. Never could afford to look too close." Qhorin's voice held bitter self-recrimination. "The Watch needs this place. It's the only refuge between Castle Black and the Frostfangs. Without it, our rangings would be impossible."
"So you let him feed babes to the Others?"
"What would you have done, boy? Killed him years ago? Then what? The women starve or freeze. The Watch loses its foothold beyond the Wall. And the Others still come, with or without Craster's offerings."
Robb wanted to argue, but the tactical part of his mind, the part Luke had trained to see beyond immediate emotion, understood. It was the same horrible arithmetic of war his father had taught him. Sometimes there were no good choices.
"But now we know for certain," Qhorin continued. "And now we have the strength to do something about it. Your lords, your men. We can take the women somewhere safe."
"After the parley."
"Aye. Can't risk him warning Mance or signaling his... patrons. We go to the parley, learn what we can, then return as promised." Qhorin's hand moved to his sword. "Then we do what should have been done long ago."
"The women will need protection. Food. Shelter. They will have to adapt south of the wall."
"It won't be comfortable, but it'll be better than this."
They stood in silence for a moment, snow gathering on their shoulders. Through the Force, Robb felt something watching from the darkness beyond the trees. Patient. Waiting. Hungry.
"There's something else," Robb said. "When we fought those wights three nights ago. They were organized. Purposeful. Someone or something commands them."
"The Others." Qhorin's voice dropped even lower. "If Craster truly has a pact with them, he might know more than just where to leave the babes."
"You think he knows how to summon them?"
"I think a man doesn't survive this long beyond the Wall without knowing things that would freeze your blood." Qhorin turned back toward the keep. "Get some sleep, Lord Stark. Tomorrow we ride north, and I suspect we'll need our strength."
As Qhorin disappeared into the darkness, Robb remained by the tree, staring out at the forest. Somewhere out there, Uncle Benjen might still be alive. Somewhere out there, Mance Rayder gathered the largest wildling host in memory. And somewhere, in the cold between the trees, blue eyes watched and waited for their next offering.
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Dawn came grey and bitter, the sun a pale suggestion behind heavy clouds. Robb sat at Craster's table, forcing down black bread that tasted of mold and thin porridge that might have been paste. Around him, his lords ate in tense silence, their disgust carefully controlled.
The hall stank worse in daylight. Robb could see the dirt ground into the walls, the suspicious stains on the rushes, the fear etched into every female face. One girl, perhaps twelve, refilled his cup with trembling hands. Her belly showed the early signs of swelling.
Bile rose in Robb's throat. He forced it down, keeping his expression neutral. They needed Craster for three more days. Just three more days.
"You're quiet this morning, Stark." Craster gnawed on a piece of meat that might have been rabbit. Or might not. "Your southern stomach not liking my hospitality?"
"The food is... sufficient."
Smalljon shifted beside him, tension radiating through the Force like heat from a forge. Robb pressed calm toward him, a subtle manipulation Luke had taught him. The Umber heir's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his knuckles stayed white around his cup.
"Sufficient." Craster laughed, spraying bits of meat. "Hear that, wives? Lord Stark finds our feast sufficient." He grabbed the nearest girl, one who couldn't be older than Sansa, and pulled her onto his lap. "Maybe this one ain't serving you proper. Should teach her better manners."
The girl went rigid with terror. Robb felt her desperate wish to disappear, to become invisible. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
"The service is fine," Lord Glover said carefully. "We're grateful for your generosity."
"Generous. Aye, that's me." Craster's hand moved along the girl's side in a way that made Robb's skin crawl. "Share everything I have, I do. Food, roof, wives if you've a mind..."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Robb felt his lords' rage building like pressure behind a dam. One wrong word, one wrong move, and blood would flow.
A younger girl, perhaps eight, approached Harrion Karstark with a bowl of porridge. Her hands shook so badly she stumbled, the bowl slipping. Porridge splattered across Harrion's boots.
The girl went white. Every woman in the hall froze.
"Useless bitch!" Craster shoved the girl off his lap and stood, his hand rising. "I'll teach you to waste food!"
Robb acted without thinking. Through the Force, he pulled at Craster's ankle just as the man stepped forward. Craster's foot caught on nothing, sending him stumbling into the table. Cups overturned. The porridge pot tipped, spilling its contents across Craster's lap.
"Gods damn it!" Craster roared, pawing at the hot paste soaking through his breeches.
"Accidents happen," Robb said mildly, though his heart hammered. "No harm done."
Craster's eyes narrowed to slits. For a moment, violence hung in the air like a drawn blade. Then he laughed, harsh and ugly. "Aye, accidents. Seem to be having a lot of those lately." He looked at the girl who'd spilled the porridge. She hadn't moved, hadn't even breathed. "Get out of my sight."
She fled and Robb felt her relief blanket her.
"We should prepare to leave," Qhorin said, standing. "Long ride ahead."
"Eager to meet the King-beyond-the-Wall, are you?" Craster settled back into his chair, still wiping at his breeches. "Well, don't let me keep you. Sooner you go, sooner you come back. And we'll have such a feast then. Might even have something special to celebrate."
His eyes found Gilly, serving at the far end of the hall. Her hand went instinctively to her belly.
"We shall return soon." Robb said, standing while starring daggers at Craster.
"I'll be counting every moment, Lord Stark."
They saddled their horses in tense silence. The Smalljon's face had gone purple with suppressed rage, while Harrion muttered prayers that sounded more like curses. Even Qhorin's rangers, men who'd seen the worst the world could offer, looked sick.
Robb checked his saddle straps for the third time, using the repetitive action to center himself. Through the Force, he felt movement in the hall. Multiple presences, one terrified, one angry.
Gilly emerged from a side door, a thin bundle clutched to her chest. She looked around frantically, then started toward the horses.
"Where do you think you're going?" Craster appeared behind her, his face twisted with fury.
"I... I just wanted..."
"You wanted what? To run off with these noble lords?" He grabbed her arm hard enough to leave bruises. "You're mine, girl. Bought and bred. You go nowhere."
The Smalljon's hand went to his sword. The sound of steel sliding an inch from its sheath rang like a bell in the cold air.
Robb caught the Smalljon's wrist, holding it firm. Not yet.
"A misunderstanding," Robb said aloud, his voice carefully level. "The girl was likely just curious about the horses."
"Curious." Craster yanked Gilly back toward the hall. "Curiosity's dangerous beyond the Wall, Lord Stark. Gets people killed."
As he dragged her past, Gilly's eyes met Robb's. Desperate. Pleading.
Craster paused at the door, looking back. "Lord Stark, you and yours are always welcome in my hall." His smile was all teeth and malice. "The gods themselves will celebrate your return."
He disappeared inside, pulling Gilly with him. The door slammed shut with finality.
They mounted in silence and rode from the keep. No one spoke until they were well into the forest, the palisade lost behind snow and trees. Then the Smalljon exploded.
"We should go back! Now! Cut that monster's head off and burn the whole festering place!"
"And accomplish what?" Qhorin asked. "Alert every wildling in twenty miles? Lose our chance at this parley while Benjen is behind enemy lines? Start a war with Mance before we even know his numbers?"
"You saw what he is! What he does!"
"I saw." Robb's voice cut through the argument. "We all saw."
He pulled his horse to a stop, turning to face his lords. Through the Force, he felt their rage, their disgust, their desperate need for action. His own fury burned just as hot, but Luke had taught him to use emotion, not be ruled by it.
"Craster feeds his sons to the Others." The words fell like an avalanche. "That's what the girl Gilly told me last night. He leaves the babes in the snow, and the white shadows come for them."
Stunned silence. Then Wendel Manderly spoke, his voice hollow. "He's helping them. Building their army."
"Every son for generations," Qhorin confirmed. "That's why they don't attack his keep. He's useful to them."
"Then he dies." Galbart Glover's voice held the promise of violence. "For treason against the living."
"Yes," Robb agreed. "But not today. Today we find my uncle. Today we meet with Mance Rayder and learn what we face. Then we return, as promised. We end Craster, we save those women, and we burn that cursed place to the ground."
"And if Gilly gives birth before we return?" Lord Glover asked quietly.
Robb thought of the fierce protectiveness he'd felt from her, that mother's love already burning bright. "She'll hold on. She has to."
They rode north in grim determination, following the Milkwater's frozen course. Behind them, Robb felt something in the Force. A darkness waiting. Watching. Patient as winter itself.
The parley with Mance Rayder awaited, but his thoughts remained with a terrified girl and her unborn son, counting the hours until salvation or damnation.
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Winterfell, The North
Bran sat cross-legged in the godswood, eyes closed, reaching for the Force as Master Luke had shown him. The weirwood's presence pressed against his awareness, vast and ancient, filled with whispers he could almost understand. Around him, Winterfell bustled with its usual activity, but here beneath the heart tree, everything felt distant, muted.
Breathe, he reminded himself, mimicking the rhythm Jon had taught him before leaving. Feel the connections.
The stones before him trembled. Just a fraction, barely visible, but enough to send triumph surging through his chest. He'd been practicing every spare moment since Robb rode to the wall, determined to prove himself as capable as his brothers. Arya made it look effortless, lifting pebbles and sending them skipping across the godswood pool. Even Sansa had finally succeeded after her initial fear, though she still approached the Force with cautious uncertainty.
But Bran wanted more than pebbles. He wanted to be strong. To be useful.
The stones lifted an inch. Two inches. His concentration wavered with excitement, and it dropped with a soft thud against the earth.
"Better," Arya said from her perch in the branches above. She'd taken to climbing the weirwood despite Mother's protests, claiming it helped her feel the Force more clearly. "You held it longer that time."
"Not long enough." Bran opened his eyes, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Jon could lift three stones at once as high as he wanted before he left. Robb even picked up Rickon with the force."
"They're older." Arya swung down, landing with cat-like grace that made Bran's chest tighten with envy. "And they've had more practice."
"Robb's been gone for weeks." Bran stared at the stone, willing it to move again through sheer determination. "What if something happens? What if the dead things come here, and I can't help because I'm not strong enough?"
Arya's expression softened. She settled beside him, her hand finding his shoulder. "You're stronger than you think, Bran. You see things the rest of us don't. Those visions—"
"The crow." The words escaped before Bran could stop them.
Arya went still. "You're still dreaming about it?"
Every night. Sometimes multiple times, jerking him from sleep with images that lingered like frost on glass. The three-eyed crow had been a curiosity at first, strange but not frightening. Now its presence filled his dreams with increasing urgency, its voice a rasp that seemed to echo from somewhere deep and cold.
"It wants me to follow it," Bran admitted quietly. "North. Beyond the Wall. It says I need to learn, that there's power waiting if I'm brave enough to claim it."
"Robb told you not to listen." Arya's voice carried an edge of worry. "He said it might be dangerous."
"Robb isn't here." The bitterness surprised Bran with its intensity. "Father's in Braavos. Jon's in Oldtown. Everyone who could actually fight is gone, and I'm stuck doing nothing, like a useless sack."
He hadn't meant to say it.
Arya squeezed his shoulder. "You're not useless, Bran."
"Then why does it feel that way?"
Before Arya could answer, the world tilted. Not physically but his awareness lurched sideways into something else entirely.
Vision.
Snow. Endless snow stretching across a frozen wasteland beneath a sky the color of old bruises. In the distance, something moved. A banner, tattered and stained, bearing a flayed man that seemed to writhe in the wind. Blood spread across pristine white, impossibly red, impossibly bright. Screams echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Then Sansa's face, twisted in terror, her mouth open in a shriek Bran couldn't hear. Chains bound her wrists. Behind her, shadows moved with purpose, their eyes burning blue like frozen stars.
The crow descended, massive wings blotting out the nightmare sky. Its third eye opened, a vertical slash of red that saw everything, knew everything.
You could save her, it whispered, its voice like wind through dead trees. You could save them all. The power is yours, Brandon Stark. You need only reach for it. Come north. Come to me. Learn what you truly are.
Bran gasped, slamming back into his body so hard he nearly toppled sideways. Arya caught him, her face pale with alarm.
"Bran? What happened? Your eyes went white!"
"Sansa." His voice shook. "I saw Sansa. She was screaming, and there were chains, and those things with blue eyes—"
"The wights?" Arya's grip tightened. "Are you certain?"
"The crow showed me." Bran's hands trembled in his lap. "It said I could save her if I was strong enough. That I need to go north, beyond the Wall, to learn what I am."
Arya's expression hardened. "That's exactly what Robb warned against. These visions could be tricks, Bran. Ways to lure you into danger."
"What if they're not?" The question burst from him with desperate force. "What if Sansa really is in danger, and I'm the only one who can see it? What if everyone's counting on me to be strong, and I'm too afraid to do what's necessary?"
He thought of Robb, riding into the frozen north to face the walking dead. Of Jon, traveling to Oldtown to research ancient evils. Even Sansa had faced an assassin with nothing but her nascent Force abilities. Everyone in his family had found their courage, their purpose.
Everyone except him.
"I'm tired of being helpless," Bran said quietly. "The Force is the only thing that makes me feel like I matter, like I could actually help instead of just... existing."
Arya studied him for a long moment, conflict warring across her features. Finally, she nodded slowly. "Then we practice harder. Together. But we tell Mother about the visions, Bran. We don't keep secrets about things this important."
"She'll just worry more." Bran picked up the stone again, focusing his will upon it. "She already watches me like I might disappear."
"Because she loves you, stupid." Arya's tone carried affection beneath the insult. "But fine. We practice first, then we tell her. Deal?"
"Deal."
The stone lifted smoothly this time, rising to eye level and holding steady. Bran's concentration sharpened, the Force flowing through him with greater ease than ever before. Perhaps the vision had shaken something loose, or perhaps desperation made him stronger. Either way, he felt the power responding to his need, his fear, his determination to never be helpless again.
Good, the crow's voice whispered in the back of his mind. Very good, Brandon Stark. You're learning. Soon you'll be ready.
Bran pushed the voice away and focused on the stone, on Arya's encouraging smile, on the warmth of the weirwood at his back. But even as he practiced, part of him wondered if the crow was right. If real strength required sacrifices he wasn't yet brave enough to make.
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That night, the dreams came with renewed ferocity.
Bran stood in a vast cavern carved from ice and stone, its ceiling lost in darkness above. Roots thick as tree trunks snaked across the walls, pulsing with a dim red light that cast everything in shades of blood and shadow. At the cavern's center, a figure sat enthroned upon a weirwood stump, so ancient and withered he seemed more root than man.
The three-eyed crow perched on the figure's shoulder, its red eye fixed on Bran with terrible intensity.
You see me now, the withered man said, though his lips didn't move. His voice resonated directly in Bran's skull. You see what you could become. What you must become, if you wish to save those you love.
"Who are you?" Bran's dream-voice echoed strangely in the cavern.
I am the last greenseer. The three-eyed crow. The watcher in the dark. The figure's one remaining eye opened, milky and blind. I have waited a long time for you, Brandon Stark. Waited for one strong enough to take my place, to see what must be seen and do what must be done.
Images flashed through Bran's mind. Robb, surrounded by wights in a frozen forest. Jon, facing men with swords drawn in a southern castle. Sansa, chained in a dark cell while something inhuman approached. Arya, running through shadows with terror on her face. Rickon, small and alone, crying for help that wouldn't come.
They will all fall, the greenseer said. Unless you become what you were meant to be. The power is here, waiting. All you need do is come to me. Come north. Come home.
"This is a trick." Bran tried to back away, but his legs didn't work even in dreams. "You're trying to lure me away from Winterfell."
I am trying to save you. To save your family. To save the world of men from the long night that comes. The crow spread its wings, and suddenly Bran saw through its eyes. Saw an army of the dead stretching to the horizon, their blue eyes burning with cold fire. Saw the Wall crumbling beneath their assault. Saw Winterfell's towers burning, its people fleeing in terror.
Saw his mother's face, frozen in death, her eyes turned that terrible blue.
No! Bran screamed.
Then stop it, the greenseer commanded. You have the gift. The sight. The power to change what will be into what should be. But only if you're willing to sacrifice comfort for strength. Safety for purpose.
"I don't know how!"
Come to me. I will teach you. I will show you how to save them. All of them.
The word resonated through Bran's entire being as the vision shattered.
Bran woke gasping, his bedclothes soaked with sweat despite the room's chill. Moonlight streamed through his window, casting silver patterns across the floor. For a moment, he simply breathed, trying to separate dream from reality.
But the images lingered. Sansa's scream. His mother's dead eyes. The Wall falling. All of it felt too vivid to be mere nightmare, too specific to be random fear.
What if the crow was right? What if he really could prevent those horrors, but only by going north? Only by claiming this power the greenseer promised?
Bran's hands clenched in his blankets. He thought of Master Luke's warnings about the dark side, about how fear and desperation could lead to terrible choices. But Master Luke was gone. Everyone was gone. And if the visions were true, they'd all die unless someone did something.
Unless he did something.
Bran moved through Winterfell's corridors like a ghost, keeping to shadows and servant passages. His heart hammered against his ribs and not from exertion, but from the weight of what he was about to do. Every distant voice sent him pressing against cold stone until it passed.
He couldn't let anyone see. Couldn't let them stop him.
The kitchen passage led him out through a door servants used for hauling water. Cold air bit his face the moment he stepped outside.
Come to me.
The godswood's ironwood gate stood open and Bran slipped through, and the world changed. His breath misted as he approached the heart tree, each exhale a small ghost dissolving into nothing.
Then he saw the face.
The carved features wept. Red sap streamed from the eyes, thick as blood, pooling in the bark's deep grooves before dripping to roots below. The mouth hung open in a silent scream or prayer—Bran couldn't tell which. More sap welled there, staining the wood like a wound that wouldn't close.
This isn't normal. Even for a heart tree.
But his feet carried him forward anyway. Some force pulled at his chest, reeling him in like a fish on a line. The air grew colder with each step. His breath came faster.
The sap gleamed black-red in the starlight, still flowing, still weeping as Bran's hand rose without conscious thought. His fingers trembled as they stretched toward the trunk.
Don't. Master Luke and Robb warned you not to do anything foolish. But… But the dreams…
His palm met wet bark.
The world exploded into white light and screaming wind.