Helaena POV
The Dragon princess ventured into the mystical crypts of Winterfell with her fellow greenseers. Bran -she was determined to call the younger Stark sibling to avoid confusion- was atop the giant grey wolf Ivar. The two took a liking to each other. Bennard's familiar was left without a bonded for years. And Bran's Summer was killed defending the three-eyed crow. So their connection was opportune. Both for their sense of inner peace and because a special chair hasn't been yet made for Bran.
Brandon, heir to the Last Hearth, was also with them. Bran wanted only those with the gift to join him on this occasion.
The air grew colder as they descended deeper into the subterranean chambers. The flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows on the stone walls.
The three of them moved cautiously, their footsteps echoing through the cold silence. He wasn't mistaken in claiming to feel a strange pull. As if an unseen force was guiding them further into the depths of the crypts. She knew there was something waiting for them. A hidden secret that needed to be unraveled.
As they reached a particularly ancient section of the crypts the Umber lordling spoke in a hushed voice, "Bran, are you certain about this? I've been down here dozens of times. I would've sensed anything ... unnatural."
With a distant and all-knowing gaze, her ghost replied "There is power here, cousin. Ancient magic that has been dormant for centuries. Just by being here, Helaena's amplifying its signal like she did for me. We must uncover its secrets."
The dreamer felt proud at being the source of such power. Many times she's resented her fate. The loneliness of her existence. But being with kindred spirits. It soothed the aches of her heart.
"I do sense a pull. A connection to the past. The blood of the First Men flows through our veins. And it may be the key to unlocking what lies ahead."
As they pressed forward, the shadows seemed to dance around them, whispering secrets in hushed voices.
Bran's eyes glowed with a peculiar intensity, his connection to the weirwood trees guiding him. He extended his hand and touched the cold, weathered stone behind a particular statue, a likeness of a long-deceased Stark ancestor.
She was certain they're had to be a reason why they were down here. Brandon the builder and his great-grandson the Breaker had battled the Others. They knew of the importance of cremating their dead. But it is the Targaryens who follow that practice. Despite seemingly having no contact with the lands beyond the Wall. The kings of Winter preserved their fallen in this macabre never-ending tomb.
The only question is why.
Suddenly, Bran produced a dagger from his cloak and made a cut to his hand. The blood spatters landed on the wall. A hidden mechanism was triggered, for the spot glowed in the dark.
The ground rumbled beneath their feet, and a section of the wall slid open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit tunnel. The air buzzed with an otherworldly energy as if the passage itself was alive.
Brandon exchanged a wary glance with Helaena, but they steeled themselves and followed Bran and his wolf into the secret passageway. The tunnel wound its way through the depths of Winterfell, leading them deeper into the castle's hidden underbelly.
They must've traversed a long way. She won't be suprised if they crossed into the center of the earth. It was chilling cold that sprung forth. But she always ran a little too hot. Perks of being a dragon rider.
As they walked, the winged wolf spoke softly, his voice filled with a mix of anticipation and caution. "I saw this passage when I was with Bloodraven. It is said to have been created by the ancient Starks. A means of escape or concealment in times of great peril. But it has been lost to history, until now."
"Your mentor right? What happened to him anyway? He had time to talk about these hidden tunnels but couldn't explain the principles of energy leaching." Brandon scoffed unceremoniously. You would think she should be angry more than him. It is her life that was in jeopardy.
Before she can dismiss the provocative remark, Bran stunned her with his nonchalant answer.
"I killed him."
What.
"Bran?! I'm sorry, I must've misheard you." She had perfectly heard his reply, but chose to refuse acknowledging it. Imagining this young boy barely fourteen years of age, as a cold blooded murderer seemed wrong.
"You didn't. And you have no reason to apologize. He was a monster. Now he's gone. Forever."
The walls seemed to pulse with a faint glow, and the air grew thicker, charged with an ancient power. Bran took her silence as a sign she accepted his account and moved on. So he made to bid his bonded to leave.
She sure as hell wasn't satisfied.
"What did he do?"
She didn't know why it was so important to her to know. Maybe to rationalize her own recent killing. Mysaria was no innocent. She co-wrote the worst crime Helaena had ever suffered.
But still. Taking that blade. Slitting her throat in an instant. She realizes something dark and twisted was within here for feeling no remorse. Not even a shred of guilt.
Is it the curse of all seers? Or is she simply heartless?
Is Bran like her?
Does she want him to be like her?
"It doesn't matter. It's in a future that will now cease to be." Ivar was growling, picking up on his bonded's distress. She respected such close affection.
"Please. Tell me." But if her soul is rotten, she needs to learn that now. To release herself from this phantom pain.
Brandon looked with concern in her direction.
"Princess, are you alright?"
She waved her hand feigning everything was normal. Her eyes were watery so that masquerade wasn't ideal.
Bran apparently found the resolve to share his own tale with her. To comfort her. Or to speak the truth that gnawed at him for ages. She's grateful either way.
"My friend ... Jojen. He ... fed him ... to me."
She stuttered in her suprise. She cried now with him. Whatever heinous crimes she made up in her mind about the mysterious Targaryen-Blackwood bastard, cannibalizing his own pupil never occurred to her.
A monster isn't the word she would use. He was a worthless demon who deserves the most horrific punishments in the seventh hell.
"Weirwood paste. You've had weirwood paste." Brandon started mumbling incoherently. He was disgusted same as her. Until some idea flashed to his eyes and he looked expectedly as her ghost -he was finally haunted enough that the name made sense in this era- took quick breaths to calm a bit.
She did this. Dug up the crevasses of his nightmares to ease her own consciousness. Could she be more selfish.
"Bran. It's alright. Everything is alright. I'm here with you. You're safe." Living with panic attacks has made her somewhat of an expert on how to handle the situation.
The Stark lordling regained his normal countenance. His throat felt too dry to say a thing but he replied to the Umber's inquiry, which had interested her, but she couldn't impose further.
"Yes. He ... he ground up Jojen's remains. Mixed it with weirwood sap and offered it to me. I was told it was a potion to make me stronger. When I found out what it truly was ... I ... well I just lost control. When I came to, he was a dead husk tied to a tree." Bran didn't strike her as a vengeful type. But in this case his retribution was entirely warranted. And if his monstrous mentor was so obsessed with power, teaching him about possible casualties didn't really fit his description. He couldn't bother with the lives of others when his own interests were achieved.
"I always thought it was a myth." Brandon laid his right hand on his future cousin's back in a supportive manner. "You shouldn't blame yourself kid." He placed his left on her own arm. Silently addressing her too. She valued his implicit message more than any fancy declarations.
**
The trio continued their journey, their footsteps echoing through the hidden passages. It was as if the blood that pumping through their veins had granted them access to this long-forgotten realm.
Guided by the whispers of the wraiths, they pressed on, knowing that whatever awaited them at the end of this path would forever change their understanding of Winterfell and the Stark legacy.
The chamber they entered was bathed in an ethereal glow, casting mysterious shadows across the stone walls. In the center of the room, a mesmerizing stone carving depicted a map, revealing a connection that transcended the realms of Winterfell and the Hightower.
As their eyes traced the lines and symbols on the map, a profound realization washed over them. It was as if the very fabric of fate had woven a tapestry that linked the ancient stronghold of the kings of winter and ice with the distant noble lords of the Hightower.
She knew the Builder was famed with constructing both his family's seat, her maternal House's, the Baratheon's and the Wall.
Though that connection never resonated deeply within her.
Bran's eyes were the first to turn pale, his voice filled with the weight of prophecy, spoke in the old tongue. "Behold, a convergence of paths, where the Wall, Winterfell, and the Hightower intertwine. The mystical union by which the threads of destiny are woven."
Helaena barely had time to process his words for her voice was overtaken by foreknowledge. "In this union of ancient forces, lies both peril and salvation. The fate of our houses and the realms they represent may hinge upon the secrets we uncover."
Brandon was the last to fall prey to celestial intervention. "The convergence of our bloodlines holds the key to the mysteries that bind fire and brimstone."
She knew the feeling of a vision. It was intimately familiar to her in her lifetime. But this was something different. Primordial. And it chose them to manifest in their realm.
"Three bloodlines entwined, destined to walk the path unseen. From Winterfell's heart to the Hightower's height, secrets revealed, and realms alight. Together they must tread, for in their unity lies both doom and the dawn, a prophecy yet unwritten, as the world awaits its final pawn."
She knew not the full meaning of the words her mouth spewed. But she had to understand them.
Everything is at risk if she fails.