Garrett Greenspear was big, burly with a beard redder than fire, and for someone who spent years at the Night’s Watch, extraordinarily cheery. The other twenty men in black, Bran was thankful to know, were anything but. They walked like solemn omens, behind and in front of him, determined to avoid conversation, while Garrett did his best to pass the time with tales that could not conceivably be true.
He claimed to be born from detached frozen leaves of weirwood trees, impregnated by rain and snow chaste as citrine. Garrett’s blood was originally leaf green, of course, but after being found and raised by wildlings, it gradually turned crimson, as did his hair.
On other days, Bran would have delved into the past and endured head and heartache simply to prove the falsity of Garrett’s claims, but the fever had worsened, preventing him from doing so. He felt dreadfully uncomfortable, Meera heaving him forward from behind while he lied there, covered in cold water and soaked clothes, with nothing to do but sleep. Bran had tried warging into nearby ravens to pass the time, but when he came back the fever would have worsened.
Sleep gave no respite either. Since the fall, Bran was never certain if his dreams were genuine or the product of confused visions – recently, he saw that he was a brave knight with legs healed, charging at King’s Landing to face Jaime Lannister in single combat. He was close to victory, slicing away the Kingslayer’s sword hand, but before he could thrust steel between his shoulder blades, relentless downpouring of hail and snow brought him back to his withered, mangled state.
Bran was dreadfully uncomfortable. The thought that their grueling journey had hardly begun made him want to cry. Yet he kept his misery to himself, tolerating the jests of Garrett, who mayhaps thought them to be on a hero’s quest and would be rewarded by gold and women at its climax.
Sleep found him from nowhere, and before long he was standing on functional feet. He was at the top of the Wall, but it was not as cold now. Indeed, Bran felt warmth stemming from below, his legs feeling nice and cozy. Bran felt his toes again, realized his fever had disappeared and supposed that, were he to jump from the height of the Wall to its foot, he would have cashed in on the happiest he felt in years.
Then the heat became barbaric, torching his feet and setting it to flames. Bran gasped and hopped on them, suddenly cherishing the cold which never was. The great structure of ice and stone rang out cracks loud enough to shatter ears, and before he knew it, Bran was falling into its bowers. The Wall had collapsed upon itself… and arising from its icy depths was the giant winged monster, screeching from its mouths fire and fury.
Brandon Stark woke up, wailing.
*
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