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The ravens would not sleep.
Bran Stark sat alone in the high tower of Winterfell, though it was not truly Winterfell anymore. The stones felt strange beneath his skin, every chamber both familiar and foreign, as if rebuilt from memory. In truth, he sat in the roots beneath the weirwood, but in dreams, he wandered halls long burned, long broken. And always the ravens.
They perched upon broken beams and crumbling windows, black eyes bright as obsidian. Their wings beat like drums. Kraah, kraah, kraah.
They see what you see, the voice of the three-eyed crow whispered from somewhere deep, or perhaps from nowhere at all. But only you can weave it.
Bran closed his eyes. The visions came harder now, sharp as knives.
A ship burning on a black sea, men screaming as molten fire poured from its mast.A pale hand grasping the Wall, its fingers sinking into ice as if it were clay.And far away, a city of pale stone rising from smoke — towers twisting like dragon's teeth, gates carved in the shape of serpents.
Valyria, reborn.
Bran gasped, the weirwood's roots tightening around his legs like chains. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt carved of stone. Only the ravens screamed for him.
Kraah, kraah.
"Tell them," Bran whispered. "Tell Jon. Tell Tyrion. Tell them the storm is rising."
But the ravens only scattered, wings blotting the sky, leaving him alone in the ruin of his dream.
Tyrion's Doubt
In King's Landing, the air was thick with smoke from the blacksmith's forges, the cries of peddlers, and the buzz of rumor. Tyrion Lannister heard it even as he crossed the Red Keep: whispers of letters, of crippled Starks dreaming doom, of ships aflame at sea.
He had read the bastard Frey's copy, weighed every word, and scoffed. Yet the words followed him as stubbornly as his shadow.
That night, he dined alone, candlelight flickering across his mismatched eyes of wine and parchment. He reread the letter Bran had never meant for him.
The sea burns. Winter stirs. Come south.
"Damn you, boy," Tyrion muttered, draining his cup. "Do you know how many lies already choke this city? And you send me more."
But his thoughts turned — as they always did — to dragons. He remembered Daenerys, her beasts blackening the sky over Meereen. He remembered smoke, wings vast as sails, fire hotter than any forge. Could Bran Stark's visions be tied to hers? Could some shadow of Valyria truly crawl back from the grave?
He laughed bitterly into the wine. "And if they are, who listens to dwarfs and cripples?"
Still, when he rose, he tucked the letter beneath his cloak instead of burning it.
Whispers in the South
In Oldtown, maesters bent over their chains whispered of strange fires upon the Summer Sea.In Sunspear, a raven carried Bran's words to a Martell prince who smiled like a viper at the thought of northern chaos.In Riverrun, the Blackfish spat upon Frey seals and called them lies, yet even he set extra guards upon the gates.
The realm stirred like a beast in restless sleep, pawing at shadows it could not name.
The Boy and the Crow
Bran dreamed again. This time he stood not in Winterfell, but atop the Wall. Snow lashed his face, though his body felt warm, burning almost, as if fire ran in his veins.
A crow perched upon his shoulder, black as night, whispering in his ear.
The Wall cracks. The sea burns. And blood runs south. Will you speak, boy? Or will you sleep?
"I've spoken," Bran whispered. "They don't listen."
Then scream louder, the crow hissed, its beak snapping near his ear. Or all will fall to ash and shadow.
Bran woke screaming, his cry echoing through the cavern of roots. The ravens stirred, a thousand wings beating, their shadow swallowing him whole.
The Ashen Coast
The sea stank of ash.
Jon Snow stood upon the broken pier of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the wind clawing at his cloak, his boots crunching on blackened timbers. Where ships had once bobbed like gulls in the harbor, there was now only wreckage — charred spars, cracked hulls, sails torn into ribbons. The tide dragged the ruin in and out with a groan, as though the sea itself mourned.
Ghost padded beside him, fur as white as the snow, eyes red and restless. The direwolf's ears twitched at every creak of timber, every splash of water. Twice already, he had loosed a low growl into the fog, as if some shape prowled just beyond sight.
Jon's men were less quiet. They muttered as they sifted the wreckage, pulling free bodies swollen with seawater, faces half-burned, half-drowned. Too many wore black. Brothers of the Watch, charred where they stood at their posts.
"Seven save us," muttered Tormund Giantsbane, spitting into the ash. His beard stank of salt. "Ships burnin' on the water? That ain't no wildling trick. Nor no storm neither."
Jon crouched by the body of a boy no older than Bran had been when he first left Winterfell. The lad's hands were clawed, his mouth twisted as if still screaming. His black cloak was gone to cinders, but upon his arm the flesh had melted into strange, bubbled whorls.
Jon brushed his fingers over them and drew back quick. They looked too much like scales.
The Captain's Tale
That evening, they found a survivor.
He was half-mad, half-dead, dragged from the surf with lungs full of salt and skin blistered red. They laid him by the hearth, and Jon himself knelt to hear his words.
"They came out of the fog," the man rasped. His tongue was split and swollen, his teeth black with blood. "Sails… black as night. Their hulls burned, but the sea did not quench them. Fire upon water, yet they sailed still."
Jon leaned close. "Whose ships?"
The man's eyes rolled white. "Not men's. They sang… gods help me, they sang as the flames took us. A tongue I never heard, but it clawed my mind. Like knives. Like dragons."
He convulsed, spitting black water, and was gone before dawn.
The Men's Fear
The tale spread quicker than any raven. By the next day, the yard was full of whispers. Black sails. Burning ships. Voices like knives. Some called it the Targaryens returned. Others muttered darker: Valyria itself had risen from the sea.
Jon heard them all. He had no words to quiet them.
At night, he walked the frozen wall of Eastwatch. The sea stretched endless before him, grey and swollen with fog. Ghost paced at his side, hackles raised, growl low and steady.
Jon's hand fell upon Longclaw's hilt. The steel was cold, but less cold than the dread in his belly.
He thought of Bran's letters, of warnings scratched in a cripple's hand. The sea burns. Winter stirs. He had dismissed them as visions too vague to guide men. Yet here was the sea, black and smoking. Here were the ships, burned but unbowed.
Perhaps Bran had not seen far enough.
The Messenger from the Waves
On the third day, as the fog pressed thicker than wool, a horn sounded from the watchtower. Not the alarm, but the long, low call of sighting.
A shape came through the mist. A single ship, black-hulled, its sails tattered but intact. Fire still smoldered along its prow, though no wind fed it. It glided closer, unnatural smooth, the water hissing beneath.
Jon's men rushed to arms. Bows strung, spears leveled, oil poured. The wildlings muttered charms, the old gods' names on their lips. Ghost bared his teeth, hackles bristling as if the very air offended him.
"Hold," Jon commanded, though his own voice rasped like iron on stone.
The ship eased against the ruined pier with barely a sound. No crew upon its deck. No oars in its water. Only a single figure at the prow.
A man — or something like one. His hair streamed silver in the salt wind, though his face was shadowed by a hood. His cloak was charred at the edges, yet whole, as if fire had kissed it and let it live. When he raised his head, eyes like molten coin glimmered in the fog.
He spoke, voice carrying clear though no wind stirred. The words twisted the air, sharp and strange, a language Jon did not know — and yet some part of him did.
Ghost snarled, lunging against invisible chains of dread. The men behind Jon crossed themselves, some falling to knees.
The figure smiled thin as a blade.
"Tell your king," he said at last in the Common Tongue, voice low as embers. "Valyria remembers."
And then he was gone, the fog swallowing him, the ship with him. Only the stink of ash remained.
Jon stood long upon the pier, his men murmuring, fear thick as smoke. Ghost pressed against his leg, growl low and endless.
Jon's hand fell heavy upon the direwolf's head.
Valyria remembers.
But what did it mean to the living?
The Bastard's Feast
The Twins were a hive of scheming, the stone corridors buzzing with whispered plots. Ryman Rivers, the Bastard of the Crossing, paced the chamber atop the eastern tower, candlelight flickering against the walls, casting jagged shadows like claws across the floor.
In his hand, he held another letter — a copy of Bran's vision, carefully altered. Words shifted, warnings of fire and shadow made to suit his own ambitions. He had sent these missives to lords in the Riverlands, Westerlands, and Reach, each copy flavored with fear, greed, or both.
The North stirs. A wolf seeks vengeance. The sea burns, and fire rises from the East. Do not wait, act now.
It was not Bran's warning anymore. It was Ryman's blade, honed from ink and ambition.
The Southern Lords Convene
In the red-gold halls of Harrenhal, lords and knights sat uneasy, drinking wine thick with spice and mistrust. Tyrells, Hightowers, Velarys of old, and minor lords of the Reach — each had received a letter, and each debated its meaning.
Lord Harlan Tyrell, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, slammed his fist on the table. "A Stark boy's dream? A cripple's threat? Are we fools to quiver over shadows?"
"Shadows that burn ships and kill men," countered Lord Samwell Velaryon, his voice trembling, "and dragons? The words say dragons. Fire and ash. The seas themselves remember the old powers."
"Old powers are gone," sneered Lord Redwyne. "Burnt to cinder in the Doom of Valyria. What folly is this?"
Tyrion Lannister leaned back in his chair, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. His mismatched eyes watched every lord, reading the hesitation, the greed, the fear. He had been sent a copy, too. Bran's words had not reached Jon — yet the bastard Frey's mischief had reached every council table from the Twins to King's Landing.
"And yet," Tyrion murmured, voice low, "the North is restless. The Wall reports burned ships, strange fires at sea. Is this folly, or truth masked by ambition?"
The lords exchanged glances. Each wondered what they might gain if the Stark boy's warning proved true — or what they might lose if ignored.
The Poisoned Words
Back at the Twins, Ryman Rivers smiled thinly as he added flourishes to another letter. A phrase here, a subtle change there. "Act before the wolf rises," he wrote. "Do not wait for the North to march. Strike first, and gain honor and lands."
He dipped his quill in ink mixed with a subtle venom — not enough to kill, but enough that anyone who lingered too long over the words would grow feverish, anxious, and paranoid. Letters like these could ruin alliances, destroy friendships, pit lord against lord.
He folded them neatly, sealing them with Frey wax. Each missive would travel by raven, by rider, by bribe. Each would sow a thread of chaos through the southern courts.
Bran Watches in Shadows
Far north, Bran Stark's consciousness drifted across the weirwoods. The ravens circled, wings beating like drums of warning. He could sense the letters being read, the words twisting minds. He saw lords wringing hands, whispering suspicion, growing fearful of shadows that might not exist yet.
They play with fire, the three-eyed crow murmured in his mind. And fire breeds monsters.
Bran struggled to send his visions farther south, to Jon, to Tyrion, to anyone who would act. But every attempt was intercepted — falcon, raven, even the currents of thought twisted by those who desired power. Ryman Rivers had blocked his reach, using ambition and deceit as a shield.
The North will pay if he succeeds, Bran thought, his mind tightening like ice.
The Feast of Shadows
At dusk, the bastards and minor lords gathered in the great hall of the Twins. Ryman Rivers appeared among them, silver cloak flickering in torchlight. The feast began, spiced meats and roasted fowl, the scent heavy as a curtain over the room.
Ryman raised his goblet. "To ambition!" he cried. "To acting before others dare!"
Some cheered. Some hesitated, glancing at one another like wolves considering prey. The letters had reached them, whispered tales of Northern wolves, of burned ships, of dragons remembered. Fear and hope tangled in the smoke-filled hall.
Ryman's smile was sharp. Each toast, each cheer, was another stitch in his web. Soon, he thought, every lord would dance to the tune of his poisoned letters, bending to his ambition, blind to the truth of Bran's visions and Jon Snow's coming march.
The Shadow of Betrayal
The night ended in whispers. Lords retired to chambers, clutching letters close, minds racing with suspicion and envy. Some wondered if their neighbors plotted against them. Some debated marching north before the Starks could gather strength.
Ryman Rivers lingered in the hall, alone now, listening to the distant crash of waves and the soft sigh of the river beyond the walls. He folded Bran's original letter neatly into his chest.
"The North will fall," he whispered. "Or burn. Either way… power is mine."
Outside, the wind howled through the towers, carrying the scent of ash, sea, and fire. Somewhere far north, Jon Snow and Ghost waited, unaware that the threads of chaos had already begun to twist the realm.