Chapter Text
Bran is performing in a tavern when it happens.
It’s ironic—he’s singing about all the inherent magic in the world, and then suddenly the world has too much. There are these booming sounds overhead like the crash of heavy machinery, and he can hear distant screams. Everyone in the tavern goes silent.
The barkeep huffs. “None of our business,” he says gruffly. “Keep playing, bard-”
The doors, quite suddenly, are ripped off their hinges. The silhouette of something big and bulky stands in the door frame, the late-day sun shining around it. Then the thing reaches out one arm, and there’s an explosion of magic; Bran finds himself flung across the room, and as he lands behind the bar, he hits his head against something, and-
The world goes dark.
☼☼☼
When he wakes up, it’s night. He groans as he lifts his head off the ground, trying to catch his bearings; the tavern is quiet, and there’s wine spewed across every surface.
The scent of iron reaches his nose just as he catches sight of the barkeep’s head, rather detached from his body. It isn’t wine.
The whole room is scattered with bodies, some missing heads or limbs and some just crushed, as if stepped on by a giant. Bran must have been spared only by the fact that he was hidden behind the bar.
He picks through the gore for his lute and finds it trapped beneath a woman’s mangled body. It’s unbroken, thank god—the lute, not the body, that is. He hugs it close to himself as he moves closer to the door frame, having to step over splintered pieces of the doors themselves. Peering into the darkness outside proves it wasn’t just the tavern that was affected; the streets are littered with bodies, and many of the nearby buildings are totaled.
Something moves in the darkness. With a shiver and some quick reflexes, Bran moves fully inside the tavern again and presses himself up against the wall. For a moment, he holds his breath—and thanks himself for it as he hears the sniffing of what sounds like an animal just outside the tavern. It sticks its head—not an animal, not an animal— through the door frame, and Bran holds himself as still as possible as it looks around.
By some miracle, or perhaps by the mercy of the darkness, the creature doesn’t see him. It snorts, shakes its head, and lumbers away.
Now much more aware of his own movement and noises, Bran tip-toes towards the staircase and slowly climbs up it, on all fours to try to balance his weight and avoid creaky floorboards. When he makes it to the top, he desperately checks every room, but there are no survivors up here, either.
At least certain that there are no threats to be found on this floor, Bran locks himself in one of the rooms and backs away from the door, eventually falling against the bed. There, he curls into a ball with his head between his knees and he breathes, trying to make peace with whatever has happened to his town—perhaps even to his world.
A good night’s rest is about to become much rarer, Bran realizes, and so he double-checks that the door is locked (whatever good a flimsy lock might do him) and sets his lute on the bedside table before curling up in the bed.
When he closes his eyes, all he can see are images of the senseless death that now surrounds him. He takes in a shuddering breath and tries to think of anything else.