#greenseeing

Hi anon!

I have no theory about the specifics, or if Bloodraven himself is even the main villain in that scenario rather than, say, a different kind of pawn.

I imagine it's going to mirror Arya to an extend, in that he will use an ability he had previously kept hidden. Arya hid her warging from the kindly man, and I think it will be a factor in her escape, whichever form that takes.

Bran's ability to influence the past is likely that key factor - in my estimation. 

Finally he looked north.

He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal.

It took to the air, flapping its wings in his face, slowing him, blinding him. He faltered in the air as its pinions beat against his cheeks.

Its beak stabbed at him fiercely, and Bran felt a sudden blinding pain in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he shrieked.

The crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of fear, and the grey mists shuddered and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil.

And he saw that the crow was really a woman, a serving woman with long black hair, and he knew her from somewhere, from Winterfell, yes, that was it, he remembered her now, and then he realized that he was in Winterfell, in a bed high in some chilly tower room, and the black-haired woman dropped a basin of water to shatter on the floor and ran down the steps, shouting,

“He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s awake.”

He saw Winterfell as the eagles see it, the tall towers looking squat and stubby from above, the castle walls just lines in the dirt.

He saw Maester Luwin on his balcony, studying the sky through a polished bronze tube and frowning as he made notes in a book.

He saw his brother Robb, taller and stronger than he remembered him, practicing swordplay in the yard with real steel in his hand.

He saw Hodor, the simple giant from the stables, carrying an anvil to Mikken’s forge, hefting it onto his shoulder as easily as another man might heft a bale of hay.

At the heart of the godswood, the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind.

A face swam up at him out of the grey mist, shining with light, golden. “The things I do for love,” it said.

Bran screamed.

The crow took to the air, cawing. Not that, it shrieked at him.

Wings unseen drank the wind and filled and pulled him upward.

The terrible needles of ice receded below him. The sky opened up above.

Bran soared. It was better than climbing. It was better than anything.

The world grew small beneath him.

“I’m flying!” he cried out in delight.

It seemed as though he had been falling for years.

Fly, a voice whispered in the darkness, but Bran did not know how to fly, so all he could was fall.

Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was hard and brittle, dressed him in Bran’s clothes, and flung him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. “But I never fall,” he said, falling.

The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he could feel how fast he was falling, and he knew what was waiting for him down there.

Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up in the instant before he hit the ground, he knew. You always woke up in the instant before you hit the ground.

Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible knowledge.

Bran looked down.

There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears.