There was no time to lose.
Bran had begun slowly, hoping that a few creepers or roots would have been enough. As they gently wound around him, the visions had become clearer, but he felt no stronger.
He was flying in a frigid torpedo, and from his mouth spat ice. On his back was a tremendous chill, as if he were supporting an iceberg, a piece of the Wall. In front of him danced the dragon, spewing fire his way. The jolts and jerks made him switch from the intense battle of ice and fire to the pink leaves of the weirwood tree. Every time he came to the now, Bran closed his eyes and tried harder.
It was of no use. The weeping eyes stared at him harder than ever, speaking to him through the barks, through time, through thousands of years. They told him it must end one way, that a millennium of machinations had converged to this moment, that it cared not for a boy’s whims. It was only a matter of being dragged to a battlefield or entering it with a head held high.
If I am to do it, it has to be done right.
When Meera and Wolkan placed him among the branches of the weirwood, Bran felt the warmth surround him. He remembered the Three-Eyed Raven, branches sprouting from his hairs, from gaps between his toes, trapped in his own supreme magic, not half a man nor half a tree. Bran thought of his lost dreams of knighthood, the women he’d never touch, and suddenly, the task of saving the realm felt unimportant, something that could be put off for another day.
The branches grasped him firmly as Bran felt the fever dissolve, his mind clear. He was swooping to the remains of Castle Black, the winds becoming colder the quicker he flew. Bran felt the presence of another as he wrestled to gain control.
He saw Jon rolling among bloodred snow. When he felt his mouth open, drawing in a cold rattling breath, he knew it was now or never.
The Night King had fought him all he could, but as the weirwood tightened around him, Bran knew he was much stronger. He forced the dragon’s mouth shut. Barely registering Jon’s bewilderment, he shook violently until the Night King on his back fell.
Bran took the ice dragon away from the war. He flew high and fast, sailing west of the Wall, above clouds so cold they may as well be blocks of ice. As he went farther away, Bran felt the Other’s presence dwindle, until it disappeared with a whimper. Bran looked below at frozen forests and blankets of white, and realized for the first time that no human would enjoy the view he did.
As the Bay of Ice neared, he allowed himself one last view of the sights before the plunge. His breaths were heavy as frozen waters came nearer. If the old gods were good, he hoped, no one would find the beast, sleeping soundly on the icy bed, thousands of years after the Long Night became legend.
As the ice dragon’s eyes faded to blackness, Brandon Stark heard the old gods call his name, the ravens rest on his arms. He knew it was time for him to bid the mortal coil its farewell.
*
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