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The twilight hangs heavy with the stony scent of coming autumn snow. Here in the godswood is mottled red and gold as the sun drifts off to sleep, casting long fingers of light through the red leaves to try and grasp the earth a little longer. Here he feels the energy resonate inside him, with no sound but his own heartbeat and the soft rustle of the wind, the gods speaking back to him.
"The King in the North," he whispers. It feels rough on his tongue, so alien. "Brandon the First." The wind swirls playfully through his brown Stark locks. He pads slowly through the holy light, and kneels to the face in the heart tree, stern and unseeing. "I thought you had forsaken me long ago." He can feel the tears in the corners of his eyes and bows his head.
"I am the last Stark. I was born to lead in your light, to protect your creation, to defend the sacred traditions." He sighs, and feels the power drain from him as the unseeing eyes drill through the plain crown of silver set with brown diamonds. "And I swear by my blood, by my crown and by my bow my realm shall be free, prosperous and ruled by reason." He drops his other knee and stretches his arms out over the pond, his eyes closed as the peace flows through him, a warm and soft ebb against the flow of the breeze.
Bran knows the padding footsteps behind him, and he opens his eyes to the noise as he returns to his kneel. "Your grace." Jojen bows swiftly, his soft straw hair swept sideways in the unsteady breeze.
"Please, don't," Bran whispers as Jojen lights beside him, staring deep into the snowy, cracked bark of the heart tree. "I was never meant to carry the crown. I'm not Robb, or my father, or--"
"Your family has long been avenged for." Jojen shoots his piercing green eyes into Bran's soft brown. "The gods have shown their favor in returning your legs to you. You're the rightful king, suited to sit on the throne and dispense judgment as scores of other Starks here at Winterfell have, for thousands of years." He sets a hand on Bran's knee, testing the waters. "The Reeds have sworn fealty to the Starks for just as long." Bran feels his heart aflutter. "You will always be my king," the lord of the crannogmen whispers as he draws close enough to mix brown with silky straw.
Bran cups the freckled face tentatively, but pushes away. "Your sister is my queen, Lord Reed. We cannot go on like this. We have our duties." He blushes deeply and his cheeks are cast pink in the golden sunset. Never before had Bran ever said something so opposed to what he felt inside.
"And she approves." Jojen snakes his hand through Bran's locks and laughs softly. "And my name is Jojen. If such things could be--" he cups the brunette's chin and tugs him gently closer. "I would be your husband, your lord, more than just your Hand and your clandestine lover, hidden in the shadows."
His lips are too close for Bran's resolve to stay steady. He stumbles over his own whisper. "I love you, Jojen."
"I know."
And then their lips are touching and setting fire all through them, as the reds of sunset streak into purple. Here, in the holy light, the wind gusts around them, the gods speaking back in roaring whispers of approval as the two pant and blush in the warmth of their kiss.
Bran pulls away as Jojen nudges deeper into his mouth. "Did you see it in your dreams?" Bran whispers hoarsely. "Is this a dream?"
"Maybe. But I don't want to find out for sure just yet." The strawhaired lord dips into Bran's mouth once again, grasping his hand tightly. "Don't let go, my king."
But Bran feels himself slipping. "I'll meet you on the other side, my love."
The world goes black as the greendream slips through his fingers like water. But the wholeness of the love doesn't drain from him. The chorus of crickets tinkles through his ears. Hodor snores, but he doesn't pay that any mind. He feels the same tight grasp over his hand as the strawhaired boy snuggles close to him, nuzzling his nose deep in the brown locks, sending chills through the little lord.
He's jealous of his love, still lost in the wonder of the greendream. Bran curses himself for not learning to control it sooner.
But the greendreams don't lie. Every one of Jojen's soft, humid breaths that race across his neck lets him know the future is far brighter than he could ever conceive.