The Wolf Who Could Fly
Bran felt like he was flying, that feeling of weightlessness. The snow from the storm whipped his cheeks, yet he didn't feel the cold. The wind caused his hair to ripple as he fell towards the Haunted Forest, beyond the Wall. He fell and flew, until finally he landed on the branch of a weirwood tree on the edge of a clearing, its face serious and ancient. Blood-red sap, the same color as its leaves, seemed to drip from its wooden eyes. Was this a dream? It must've been, for the winter snows seemed to have fallen, and had still not yet come. No, it was not yet time for the Stark words to ring true. And for the lands beyond the Wall, the Land-of-Always-Winter, the snows were especially harsh, even by Northern standards.
The ground of the clearing was covered in freshly fallen snow, and a light snow flurry fell from the sky. The Haunted Forest was silent and peaceful, yet the air smelled like blood and violence.
"Caw."
Bran whipped his head to the side, the sound of fluttering wings landing beside him. On the same branch sat a raven, its feathers as red as the sap of the weirwood tree. It cocked its head at him, curiously.
"Hello there." Bran said. He had never seen a red raven before, only black ones and the Citadel had white ones in their rookeries, for when the seasons changed, but he had yet to see one. The raven ignored him, turningits head back towards the clearing.
Bran followed the raven's gaze and looked down at the clearing below. At first, he saw nothing but snow, a smooth and unbroken blanket of white under the faintly falling flurry of flakes. But as he stared, a shape began to emerge from the shadows. A girl, wearing a dress as black as Shaggydog's fur with a red trim, in a style that Bran had never seen before. Her skirt was short, falling several inches above her knees, clearly not made for such a harsh winter and frosty snow. Yet, she seemed unperturbed by the chills that had to be affecting her, not breaking her stride or even breathing heavily.
A red hood and cloak hid her face, the cloak appearing to be her only source of protection from the flurry of snow. Yet it seemed also not well suited to keep her warm, without any fur lining or even appearing very thick. It was a miracle she hadn't frozen to death yet. Bran narrowed his eyes, leaning forward on the branch to get a better look. The cloaked girl moved through the clearing with a strange, fluid grace, her queer black boots leaving faint impressions in the snow. She carried something in her hands—long and thick, almost like a staff, but with a faint glint of steel at its end. And underneath her red cloak, a sheath with a sword could be seen hanging on her back, whose handle Bran couldn't see.
The raven cawed again, sharper this time, as if urging Bran to pay closer attention. The Girl stopped in the center of the clearing, her head tilting slightly, as though she were listening to something distant, something only she could hear. The red hood obscured her face, but there was something familiar in the way she stood, her shoulders squared and her stance firm despite the chill of the harsh weather.
A chill went down Bran's spine, as more shadows emerged from the forest, first one, then another, and then dozens more, until hundreds of them seemed to surround the girl. Below him, he could see them advance toward her, slowly, not in any rush, and yet, the Girl seemed to be unconcerned by their presence. The shadows entered the clearing, revealing rotted flesh and blue eyes that looked like stars. Bran gasped in shock at the sight. Were these the wights that Old Nan had told him about in the tales of the last hero? Bran's heart raced as he watched the wights creep toward the girl, their grotesque forms shuffling through the snow, slowly, menacingly, with an air of inevitability. The clearing, so silent and serene moments before, now pulsed with an unspoken menace. Despite the overwhelming odds, the girl stood her ground, unmoving.
"Run!" Bran yelled and begged, his voice breaking the silence. The Girl stood her ground, tightening her grip on the shaft of her long weapon. At the end of it was a blade, slightly curved and made for cutting, a war scythe, with an opening in the shaft at the head. That was an unusual thing to have on a weapon. Maybe it was intended to put a spearhead in it?
The raven cawed once more, as if it was laughing. He glared at it, the thing was mocking the poor girl's imminent death. Its red feathers seemed to glow as the snow flurry started to slowly turn into a storm, the wind howling in his ears as it sped up. The Girl in red aimed her scythe towards the closest wight, a long dead member of the Night's Watch judging from the uniform, as if she was going to try and jab it, when suddenly-
A thunderous bang cracked the silence as the tip of the war scythe seemed to explode, sending a plume of white smoke from the hole and, weirdly enough, near the end of the war scythe. The noise sounded like thunder in the distance and parchment ripping, it seemed. White smoke mixed with the flurry of snow, as the wight's head exploded, staining the once pure white snow black with its blood. Its headless body toppled to the ground, reminding him of a tree that had just been cut down by a woodcutter.
"Magic?" Bran questioned the Raven, just to be ignored once more. At least several dozen more wights approached the Girl, uncaring that one of their own had fallen, when she suddenly started to move, as she darted towards them. Her hood falling back at the base of her neck as she rushed forward, revealing her face underneath. Her hair was dark, almost pitch black like a raven's feathers, yet the strands turned a shade of crimson red at the end. And her eyes! Silver! Lighter than the Stark gray, yet just as beautiful. They looked as if they had held up the entire world, tired but determined to push forward.
The Girl sprang into action, her movements so fast and fluid they seemed almost inhuman, as if she was from the Age of Heroes. The scythe was no longer just a weapon, but an extension of her very will and soul. Red rose petals seemed to follow her as the Girl tore her way through crowds of the undead. Wights fell one after another, their blue eyes dimming as their bodies were reduced to shattered bones and severed limbs. Others saw their heads flying in great arcs from their bodies after her blade had split their necks, or had their skulls sliced in half from her blade. Yet more poured from the edges of the forest, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm her.
"She won't be able to do it alone!" Bran muttered to himself in horror. He was sure not even Aemon the Dragonknight nor Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning himself could stand against such a horde of monsters. Still, the Girl did not falter as she ran along the edge of the clearing in a circle, appearing like a blur. More and more rose petals joined the bodies of the fallen as the storm seemed to intensify, whipping up around her.
The girl fought like a whirlwind, her every movement precise and deliberate with its placement. A wight lunged at her from behind, but she twisted her body, her scythe spinning in her hands until it nearly became a blur of steel and wood. Its blade tore into the frost covered wight, separating its limbs in seconds until it was nothing but a pile of meat and bone on the ground. The storm continued to intensify, the winds causing the trees to howl as if they too cheered for her victory, or death. The sap of the weirwood tree started to drip even lower, still remaining connected to the tree despite stretching a great distance.
Snow, limbs and roses whipped through the air as it formed a cyclone, a giant cylinder of wind as the Girl ran through the clearing. Bran struggled to hold onto the branches, holding on as tight as he could. The Raven beside him cawed loudly, flapping its wings in anticipation of something. Soon, the cyclone disappeared, leaving the Girl standing alone in the clearing, surrounded by the carnage she had torn through, her black and red dress appearing untouched and unharmed. Yet around her, lay the bodies of the wights, torn and battered into piles of viscera that dotted the clearing like leaves after a storm.
The Girl formed a small smirk as she spun her war scythe, cleaning it of the black blood that coated it with the air. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small sheep's horn, and appeared to pour something from it into the rear of her scythe, before removing it and dropping something small down the hole of the scythe at the front. It seemed very ritualistic, as she then followed it up with ramming something down the front hole with a metal rod, and then manipulating something at the back.
By the time she was done, another shadow emerged from the edge of the clearing. The air in the clearing seemed to somehow grow even colder as it rode into the clearing. Its eyes were pale blue, and in its hand was a sword that looked as if it had been carved out of ice. Bran's eyes widened in horror at the sight. This must be one of the Others from the Long Night!
It looked like it had walked straight out of one of Old Nan's tales. It was tall and gaunt, riding on a giant spider that looked as if it was made out of ice as well. The Other's bright star blue eyes stared straight at the Girl. Its armor looked like it was forged of ice, the same as its razor-thin blade. More wights appeared beside it, though they remained frozen in place, unmoving.
The Girl spun her war scythe above her head, her beautiful silver eyes growing hard in response to seeing the Other. She aimed her weapon towards the Other, and the head of the scythe exploded once more. The Other reacted quickly, moving its crystal blade in front of its body, and with a loud screech, the heads of two wights, both on either side of the cold shadow, exploded, their undead bodies falling to the ground. Two more stepped up to replace them from the shadows, taking their place.
"What is that weapon?" Bran questioned, knowing that the Raven would not answer. It was transfixed on the scene below, though, so it likely wasn't paying attention to him. It cawed, softly, almost melodiously.
The Girl puffed her cheeks with air in frustration, and suddenly launched herself forward with a blur. Rose petals followed her as the Girl charged the Other, her boots pounding against the ground as she ran forward. The Other followed suit, urging its mount forward to meet her head on in a countercharge of its own. The Girl jumped into the air at the last second, swinging her war scythe with an impossible strength. The Other raised its sword made out of crystal, and the two blades met.
The sound of an animal screaming filled the air the moment steel met crystal ice, and the blade of the Girl's scythe shattered. Metal shards flew everywhere, some embedding in nearby trees, and a wight lost an eye to one of them. The Girl rolled into the grass behind her, and backed off some more with several light steps. The Other simply took a step forward, it's steed appeared to be drooling at the sight of her as it advanced towards the helpless Girl. The Girl looked annoyed at her broken weapon, and dropped it onto the snow covered ground to her side with a light thud. The Girl reached for the blade hidden beneath her cloak, and pulled it out with one swift motion that caused the steel to ring as it rasped clear of the sheath.
It was a longsword, thin and slender, as if it was made for a woman warrior. The blade itself was covered in ripples, and the hilt fabulously decorated with a red gem and a black crossguard in the shape of a dragon's wings. The pommel was shaped like a dragon egg, with scales and on the end, it looked as it there were flames on the end. Bran's eyes widened even more at the sight. He knew Valyrian steel when he saw it, Father's Ice was made out of such metal. There wasn't many Valyrian steel swords, and even fewer would fit this one's description, so it could only mean one thing.
This was
Dark Sister, the legendary blade that was once used by Queen Visenya during Aegon's Conquest, and by Daemon Targaryen during the Dance of Dragons. Even Prince Aemon the Dragonknight was known for wielding the magnificent blade! The Girl wielded the blade as if it was an extension of her very arm. Moving the sword into a combat ready position, she formed a deep and dark smirk on her beautiful, pale face. It didn't seem to fit her, and yet, at the same time, she did it all the same.
The Other on its ice spider charged forward, and the Girl answered with a wave of rose petals, meeting the mythical creature head on. She jumped to avoid the spider's ice fangs and legs, swinging Dark Sister with both hands. Spinning in the air, she sliced into the ice spider's head, killing the beast with a single blow. The Girl pushed onward, meeting the Other's swing. This time, her blade sang true, and smashed the Other's crystal sword with a sound reminiscent of glass shattering. The Other's eyes widened slightly at the sight of its blade breaking apart. The Valyrian steel continued onward, until it was buried in the Other's chest, right where its heart would be.
The Other stared at the Girl with cold eyes, until it melted away, like ice in a forge's fire. And with that, the wights that had surrounded the girl fell to the ground, their pale blue eyes fading with the defeat of their undead master. The spider reared up, bucking very much like a horse would, as the Girl jumped from its back, before rolling onto it's back, it's legs curling up as it died. She landed on the ground with a flourish, her face now showing a joyous grin in place of it's darker cousin. Placing Dark Sister back in its sheath, the Girl returned to her fallen weapon, gingerly picking up the broken scythe. She examined it, seeing the damaged blade and appearing to tut to herself, before slinging it over her shoulder.
With a serious and dark expression back in place, the Girl pulled her hood back over her head, and walked into the Haunted Forest without a care in the world. The red cloak soon disappeared into the darkness, fading like a fire dying. Bran's lips felt cold and dry as he stared at the aftermath of the fighting. What insane power was this? Who was this Girl? Hundreds, no, thousands of questions poured into his young mind.
"Tell me, Young Wolf." A strange voice spoke up, feminine and young, yet despite its youthful tone, it sounded tired and worn, reminding him of old Mikken in the forge. Bran whipped his head to the side, to find the Raven staring at him, almost seeming to stare into his soul. Its feathers remain as red as the sap of the weirwood tree, the shade of blood.
"Do you want to learn to fly?" The Bloodraven spoke.
A/N
Krieg: One of our favorite chapters so far. I told y'all that a reveal wasn't too far off.
Night: Full props to TheGoodOne over on SB and EmilyisGay on AO3 for being the first to twig to this. Seriously, half you guys managed to guess who it was.
