Chapter 165 — A Shared Pain
"Have you actually encountered the White Walkers?"
Bran's words startled Jon.
He hadn't expected Bran to know anything about their movements—let alone speak of them with such certainty. More than that… how had they survived?
Bran simply nodded, calm and composed.
That calmness unsettled Jon more than anything.
The boy before him no longer felt like the lively, curious Bran he once knew. There was something different now—something distant, almost unfamiliar.
And beyond the Wall… what had he been doing out there?
Why was he traveling with the legendary Children of the Forest?
Questions piled up—but this was not the time.
Jon decided he would ask later.
Inside the hall of Castle Black, word spread quickly that Bran had brought news of the White Walkers.
Stannis Baratheon arrived with Davos Seaworth and the Red Priestess Melisandre.
"You claim they're coming. How do you know?" Stannis asked, eyeing Bran's crippled legs with skepticism.
It was hard to believe this boy had truly seen them.
Bran turned his head and answered—though not directly.
"I know more than that. I know why your daughter left you."
Silence.
Stannis stared at him for several seconds.
Bran didn't flinch.
In the end, Stannis looked away—and said nothing more.
Melisandre, however, watched Bran with a different gaze.
She hadn't expected Jon's half-brother to be—
A greenseer.
In an age where even wargs were rare, a greenseer—one born among thousands—was almost mythical.
She did not doubt him.
Nor his words.
The Children of the Forest only followed a greenseer—and they despised mankind. If Bran were not one, they would never stand beside him.
And more than that—
She could feel it.
The presence of the Old Gods.
Bran turned his gaze toward her as well.
He sensed something in her too—something foreign.
Not the Old Gods.
But something else.
From the knowledge passed down by Brynden Rivers, he could roughly guess her nature.
Neither spoke.
But something passed silently between them.
Watching this exchange, Jon felt increasingly lost.
He didn't understand what Bran had become.
But standing between Bran and Melisandre, he could sense it—
A similarity.
Something ancient. Something beyond ordinary men.
"The Night King will reach the Wall in less than half a month," Bran said at last.
"Even the Wall… may not hold them."
The hall grew heavy.
"To kill White Walkers and wights, we need large numbers of Valyrian steel weapons—or dragonglass."
"Wights? Dragonglass?" Jon frowned.
Bran looked at him and explained calmly:
"Wights are corpses reanimated by the Night King and the White Walkers. Any dead thing can become one."
"And the White Walkers themselves… are created by the Night King."
He paused.
"The one you killed—with your Valyrian steel sword Longclaw—that was a White Walker."
Jon stiffened slightly.
So Bran knew.
He remembered then what Bran had said to Stannis.
Bran… could see things.
Things that had already happened.
Bran continued:
"To kill a White Walker, you must use Valyrian steel—or dragonglass."
He took a black dagger from Meera Reed and held it up.
"This is dragonglass."
Jon stepped forward, took the dagger, and flicked it lightly.
It gave off a sharp, brittle sound.
It looked fragile—too fragile.
As if it might snap with a little more force.
"Dragonglass… is obsidian," Bran added. "Brittle—but one of the most effective weapons against them."
Jon frowned.
"There aren't even twenty Valyrian steel weapons in all of Westeros," he muttered. "And this… isn't exactly plentiful either."
He thought of the endless army of the dead beyond the Wall—
And felt a rare sense of helplessness.
"Can wights only be killed by these as well?"
Bran shook his head.
"Wights fear fire. Sustained burning can destroy them."
That, at least, was something.
A small relief.
From beside Stannis, Davos spoke up:
"Is there no other way to fight them?"
Bran hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Then said:
"Some say… dragonfire can destroy both wights and White Walkers."
His voice was calm.
But the uncertainty in it lingered.
Bran was about to continue—his thoughts drifting back to the black dragon that had filled him with both fear and frustration—when he suddenly noticed the strange expressions on the faces of Jon Snow and Stannis Baratheon.
Sensing Bran's confusion, Jon spoke first.
"The Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen, has already arrived at Dragonstone with three dragons and an army of one hundred thousand. She's likely to march on King's Landing—not come north to the Wall."
"Three dragons?" Bran blurted out, stunned.
One had nearly killed him—twice.
Now there were three?
His mood darkened instantly.
"You didn't know?" Melisandre asked, genuinely surprised.
In her eyes, a greenseer like Bran should have known something this significant.
Her question struck directly at Bran's weakness.
Of course he wanted to know.
But after nearly being killed twice by that black dragon, he hadn't dared to look again.
And the black dragon…
Wasn't just Bran's sore spot.
It was Melisandre's as well.
Once, guided by visions in the flames, she had urged Stannis to march to Slaver's Bay and destroy the black dragon.
But Robb Stark had not yet fallen, and Stannis had begun to doubt the Lord of Light. Following Davos Seaworth's counsel, he had instead come north to the Wall.
Now—
Daenerys had crossed the Narrow Sea with three dragons and a vast army.
With Stannis's current strength, going against her would be nothing short of suicide.
So Melisandre could only continue following this "chosen king"—
Step by step.
Hoping.
Bran's silence cast an awkward stillness over the hall.
Davos glanced around, then finally broke it.
"The Night King… he's the leader of the White Walkers, isn't he? How do we kill him?"
Bran hesitated.
Then answered slowly:
"The Night King… we don't know exactly how to kill him. Valyrian steel… or dragonfire, perhaps."
Most of what Bran knew came from the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest. He had asked the same question himself—
And received no clear answer.
Jon's heart sank.
He had seen it with his own eyes beyond the Wall—
The Night King raising the dead.
If the source could not be destroyed…
Then no matter how many they killed—
More would rise.
An endless army.
Unstoppable.
Bran looked around the hall and asked:
"Do any of you know where we can find large amounts of dragonglass? What we have now isn't enough to stop the army of the dead."
He already knew Valyrian steel was nearly impossible to come by. Ever since the fall of Valyria, the art of forging it had been lost.
Jon frowned slightly, still holding the obsidian dagger.
He didn't know.
Bran turned to the others.
Silence.
Then—
Stannis spoke.
"There's a dragonglass mine beneath Dragonstone."
Jon's eyes lit up instantly.
Just moments ago, he had felt despair creeping in—
Now, hope flickered again.
Bran, however, fell quiet.
Dragonstone.
That was where the Mother of Dragons—and her three dragons—now stood.
As for mining dragonglass…
That was no longer his concern.
That burden belonged to Stannis, who called himself king of the Seven Kingdoms—
And Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
Bran had done what he could.
He had brought the truth.
About the dead.
About what was coming.
The rest—
Would be up to them.