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I.[Without the bedchamber he’d been thrown all was dark. It was as if he had landed within the secret passages of Storm’s End once more. But there was neither breeze, nor sound to reassure him of his position. And so, he could only stumble blindly about in hopes that someone or something would appear at some point.
Deciding that it would be best to be sure of at least one matter, the boy lowered himself down upon his knees and felt the ground, for he supposed that was what it was, beneath his feet. To his consternation, however, beneath him was nothing, a void.
And down Jon fell. Not a sound was heard throughout the vast emptiness though. The world he had landed in did not seem to follow the rules of his reality. The boy has understood that quickly enough and all that was left for him was fear. Fear of the unknown, this strange reality he had departed where neither creature nor man resides, but him. He was the only one. And how lonely an existence that was.
Jon felt tears fill his eyes and, despite trying to hold them back, the very fact that he hadn’t anyone but himself and knew not how to reach his mother, left him drowning in salty water. For how long he went about weeping, the child could not tell. It might well have been years, month or mere minutes. Yet when he stopped, he was still falling, endlessly plunging through the blackness.
It was then that Jon concentrated himself. Mayhap if he willed it, he could somehow transport himself back to mother. Or at the very least make himself heard. If not, it was beyond him what course to take. Never in his entire life, short though it be, had he faced such a dilemma. Never had he been so alone. Jon drew in a shaky breath and thought of home, mother’s smile and whatever else he could summon to mind that might calm him.]
Simultaneously a case of terra incognita and terra nullius, the great void is not a physical place. It’s not somewhere you can reach, but actually a state in itself. A state of nothingness, where nothing ‘exists’ materially, as we understand existence. Think of it as the primordial chaos. In a sense it’s much like Faust’s regressus ad uterum, in that it brings Jon into pre-existence, where he is no more than undefined essence.
But having already been imprinted upon by real-life experiences, he is a perverted essence. Therefore he cannot exist in this vacuum of existence anymore than he can understand it. The urge to review his own memories is a defense mechanism, meant to anchor him into a ‘real’, tangible world.
This is a veil reachable only for short period of time and one cannot linger in it without becoming nothingness.
Slowly but surely the memories came, not only of mother, but many of Renly, uncle Benjen, and even father. And the stronger they became, the slower he was falling, until his body came to a standstill, stopping upon what seemed to be a patch of grass.
Despite the fact that only a few feet away from him, a thin layer of snow had fallen, and the father he looked the thicker it became, Jon felt little in the way of cold. The suggestion of it lingered, as if to tell him he ought to be shivering, but after running until he was knee deep in snow and not becoming chilled, he could only shrug and begin wandering about in search of someone.
Only after he had cleared quite a bit of a path in his wake did Jon realise that he was walking uphill. The very thought sent a shiver of excitement through him, for up upon hills rested keeps and within keeps resides lords and ladies. Surely his mother could be contacted if only he reached the keep. So the boy marched forth, lighter than before.
From time to time he would look behind him, to make sure the trail had not been lost. Since there was no snow coming down, he could clearly make out the trail. Pleased with that, Jon returned to his advancing with the certainty of success on his heels. A broad smile pasted itself upon his face.
He could recall very little of how he had managed to land himself in this place and could only suppose as to what had led to Renly leaving him. He recalled going with his uncle into the hidden tunnels and even remembered the skeleton with its earring. They had started climbing down and somehow, his foot has slipped. Jon recalled having attempted to catch onto something and then there was nothing. No pain, nor any other manifestation to give him a clue.
He had simply woken up within the darkness and at first assumed he and Renly had been found and carried back within Storm’s End and that it was nightfall. But the night never lifted. And he was still alone. He had tried, for the very first time to speak, to yell out. Nothing but a sad croak came. It was all he seemed able to produce, even when he strained. Jon had been practicing upon it though. If he tried hard enough, he could whisper whole words.
It might well be that his voice had gone rusty as unpolished swords did. If he took care to practice, no doubt he would be as good as new. And then he would speak to mother and she would be happy. That was, when Jon found her.]
Given the opportunity, he does manage to re-enter the stream of tangible worlds. As such, he is transported into a sort of waiting hall, if you will. The wintry imagery is pretty arbitrary. It’s an association Jon makes for ‘indefinable’ reasons. Now, the climb up the hill is meant to call to mind the Sisyphean myth. I will not rehash the plot here, but you know the task of Corinthian king is as hopeless as Jon’s search for a keep and seemingly for a voice. His progress in the face of his current situation seems negligible, even though we all know where it’s headed.
[But instead of a keep atop the hill, it was something else the child had found. A small group of trees, circling a tall-looking weirwood, its braches poking the clouds themselves. Slightly uneasy, Jon walked towards the tree, peering at the carved face. The menacing visage stared back at him unabashedly.
Upon one of the braches, a might raven stood, its beak opening and closing noiselessly. The bird flapped its wings a few times and croaked and then it looked down at him with three eyes glowing like burning embers.
He approached with utmost caution, putting one foot in front of another. Jon knelt at the roots of the mighty tree and, doing as his own lady mother had taught him, bowed his head in supplication. There was little enough around the tree to suggest that other worshipers had been about, but a very distinct energy emanated from within the bark. The child reached out, his fingers touching the rough surface. The bark scratched his tender skin.
“Please,” he said softly, his voice atremble. “Please, help me find mother.” The prayer was met with no reply from the wizened face before him. Jon closed his eyes and repeated once more, in his thoughts, the earlier words.
He had not expected it but just as soon as he was done, the bird above him let out a savage screech and the weirwood seemed to let out a hum, a sort of sound caught somewhere between a groan and a whisper. Reflexively, the boy stumbled back, falling into the snow blanket, losing himself in the bed of white.
Once he managed to find his feet again, he gazed angrily at the black feathered pest. If only he could shoo it. Alas, it was too far away from him. Instead, he climbed back onto his feet and approached the tree’s carved face. Before he could kneel, however, something sounded out from behind him, making the child turn around with such a quick movement that he made even himself lightheaded.
A man stood there. Jon did not recognise him. Tall and lean, the silver haired man wore a large black cloak, trimmed with fur. He regarded Jon with an intense curiosity that had him unable to move. It was as if he had been bewitched. The stranger continued to gaze at him through one eye. It was the most unusual colour Jon had ever seen. A single bright red bead burned straight into him.
“Are you lost?” the man finally questioned, his voice smooth and deep, seemingly at odds with his somewhat frail appearance.]
What is being asked of Jon does not have to do with spatially-lost as much as with existentially-lost. Jon, of course, does not understand it and takes it to mean he’s somewhere in a reality, But at this point he’s just entered the stream of consciousness, his own that is. What he is experiencing is a first contact with the Three-Eyed Crow (or the Brynden-reiteration).
[A shy nod was Jon’s response. His throat worked convulsively as he struggled to form the words. But the stranger was already at his side, picking him up with surprising ease, only to stare straight into his eyes. Only he had just one eye. The other spot, where the second garnet orb should be resting was but an empty socket, left bare for all the world to see. Though Jon could not imagine who was out in these wastelands to see.
“You have come from far away,” the cloaked individual noted. “This is too farther, child. You should return while there is yet time.”
“How?” Jon demanded. “How do I return?” He had tried.
“I can aid you in that. But I wish something in return.” The words had Jon stilling in the man’s hold. He gave a soft nod. “There will come a time, someday soon, when I shall have need of you, young warlord. Promise you shan’t turn me away then.”
He was no warlord. Jon nearly protested, but then he thought that if he did, the man might not aid him. A small lie could not hurt anything. Thus, deciding that finding home was the most important matter, Jon once more acquiesced. “I swear.”]
Tying in with my earlier assurances that there is no singular saviour in this universe, Jon actually has to verbally accept his position in order to access this possibility of his future. Of course, from the get-go it’s clear that Brynden is not being entirely sincere. He never explains to Jon what it is that he’s actually accepting.
You may wonder why that is. The answer is that an out and out introduction to all the knowledge Jon would need in order to make an informed decision would drive him mad, much in the manner the Greek sibyls went insane at their first contact with the ‘future’. This has to do with human limitation, more than with anything else. All seers when faced with an influx of information of this nature essentially give up their humanity. They already have certainties about the future, which by its own definition is ‘veiled’. Humans are meant to exist on the plane of the present-time, with a thorough knowledge of the subjective past.
This is why Jon seals his own fate by accepting. In a sense, his spiral towards madness begins here.
N.B. I am not referring to the clinical madness. We are talking about a lucid, methodical madness. One that has an aim.
[“A vow has been made,” the man warned, though his voice retained its pleasant quality. “And now, young warlord, it is time for you to find your way home.”
“Wait,” Jon suddenly interrupted, just as the man opened his mouth to speak again. “Have we met before, ser?” There was something awfully familiar about the man. Not in the way other people seemed familiar, but something rather like looking into a mirror. It was difficult to explain.
But when Jon had fallen, he might have found more than just emptiness. This stranger that stood before him was as familiar to him as the grandfather he had never met. Something was tying them. And he wanted to know what it was. The child stared into the one burning eye with rapt attention.
“Mayhap we have,” came the answer. “Or I, at least, have known about you, young warlord, since the very moment you slipped into existence.” He laughed. “Indeed, your parents I know, and you siblings.”
“I have no siblings,” Jon corrected impatiently.
At that, his partner in conversation merely smiled. “You could say that we have met before, little lordling. And we shall meet again.” It struck Jon that this man would probably be very, very old by that time. “Would you like to know a secret?”
“What sort of secret?” the boy question, although his head was already nodding.
The stranger leaned in slightly. “When we meet again, you shall understand that between us and those of our kind there is a bond, a bond not many understand.”
Confused, Jon pouted. What manner of secret was that? It made no sense whatsoever. “Those of our kind,” he repeated slowly. It stood on the tip of his tongue to ask who those of their kind were. As far as Jon knew, he was just a human.
Mayhap the man was not right in the head. After all, he had spoken of Jon having brothers or sisters when he had none. And he claimed that they had met before, although Jon could not remember it. If anything he said was to be believed, then Jon could expect to wake up to numerous changes in his life. Which was simply not possible.
Convinced that the stranger was pulling his leg, the young lord crossed his arms over his chest and demanded that he be helped to reach home. “I have given you my words,” he reminded the silver haired man.
“And now it is my turn to keep a promise,” came the answer. “To reach home, here is what you must do. Follow these steps as I given them to you.” A small silence settled between them, allowing Jon to prepare himself.
What was said after became only a blur, a quiet sort of background noise that flittered about Jon in all directions. Despite not knowing what was being said to him, the child found himself working through strange motions. He completed sets upon sets of them and ever so slowly, his form became light6er and lighter until he took flight, lifting himself from the ground.
Jon looked down, and to his great surprise, where the man had stood, now there was only blackness.
Above him a strong light shone.]
Since Jon has barely been introduced to this ‘madness’, his understanding is limited, as evidenced by the many questions he has. Brynden’s lack of response is a shield. He knows he would lose Jon by telling him everything, so he does his utmost best to sweeten the blow and get his prey used to the sort of exercise he proposes.
II.[There were always corpses about in these dreams. Not the kind that he’d found with Renly. Those were prone bodies, unable to lift themselves. Nay, he dreamt of different corpses, creatures that stood up from thick banks of snow, rising to the surface in all their ghastly glory, to shine a light of malevolence upon anyone who saw them with those small, beady, ice blue eyes. Like two coals ripping through the darkness, if what Jon thought with an eerie wintry glare. They were frightening.
Bloated forms moving about, they looked human at a first glance. But once one got closer to them, it became apparent that while the covering might have been borrowed from other men and women, there was nothing remotely human about them. Some had open wounds that did not bleed. Instead the blood had congealed around the cuts and raw meat could be seen, bared proudly to the world. The skin was pale for most of them, a sickly, milky colour.
For the older ones, however, the skin had gone darker. Not the sort that was brought on by the sun. Nay, it was the rot that had started to set, disfiguring already grotesque visages. Those were the old ones. They moved slower, but they were the more dangerous ones. It was in their smell. Jon had felt it filling his nostrils, making him choke upon his own breath. It was a deceptively sweet scent for the very first moments, nearly inviting, only to turn sour after. The younger creatures had no scent, not a discernible one. They simply smelled of snow. Faster than their partners they were, but less resilient and more dependent on instinct, on a hunger that burned within them, a hankering for fresh, warm blood.
All of them fed on blood. Jon had seen them.]
This marks Jon’s first encounter with the Wights. The Wights are helpers of the White Walkers, in a sense they are the thrall-class, the slaves, used for menial tasks and coming in large bulks, they are disposable and pretty worthless. Also, they are undead, animated by magic and feeding on blood and flesh.
Where does the magic emanate from? The Night’s Queen was the first to successfully rise the dead, since she herself came back from the realm of the deceased. Suffice to say her children inherited this magic.
[There had been a babe. A small boy, not much older than him, with light locks of gold and fierce grey eyes. He had been frightened, crying out for his mother, trying to get flee. It was to no avail. He’d been tied to the thick trunk of the tree. He did not speak the tongue of the kingdoms, was what Jon found strange, and yet he could still understand.
And then they came, the creatures. Bursting out from between a gate of tall trees, they poured out as puss would from an infected wound, grimy and hungry, crying out for blood. The boy had screamed and Jon had cried out with him. But he dared not approach. Something told him that he should not.
He could not save the other. That much was apparent even by looking at the sheer number of opponents he would have to face to do so. Instead, Jon had hidden behind a tree and watched as the first of the undead grabbed at the child, heavy, wide fingers wrapping around a small hand, dragging the boy up, shaking him violently.
Others followed suit, grabbing at the young thing like a pack of beasts, tugging and pulling, The sickening crunch of bones tore through the silence. The child had not even screamed. Jon looked upon the snow, noting the pinkish colour that continued to darken. Blood, he told himself, stomach squeezing painfully as nausea took over.
Feeling oddly detached, he remained still, attending the monstrous mummery that played out before him with as much courage as any child’s mind would dare muster. A small voice within him was thanking the gods that it had not been him tied to that tree, that it would never be him. He realised that what he was seeing was rather a figment of his own imagination, not as much as something taking place before his eyes.
Done with their feeding, the monsters of the dark retreated away. It was then that Jon first made out among them a youth. Not young by the age of these creatures, he smelled ancient, but he was a young boy, mayhap Renly’s age. The only one of these fiends that was not garbed in boiled leather or chainmail. Specks of blood lingered around the crack skin of his lips, small droplets frozen on his chin. He looked at the world through a pair of those unnerving blue eyes, but, unlike others, there was no emptiness lingered there. Not mere emptiness.
Jon could not tell what manner of thought might litter the brain of such creatures, but to him, in that moment, it was undeniable that they did think. In some manner. The youth turned around towards his peers. They all turned around ever so slowly and retreated back into the shadows, returning the darkness that had spawned them.]
The First Child: The young boy Jon sees among the Wights is the so-called First Child. He is the not himself a Wight but an early White Walker, as suggested by his blue eyes which show a spark of intelligence. If the Wights are zombie-like, the Others are a people in their own right. They are defined by a culture their human counterparts have yet to make contact with. But to be brief and concise: they are to the Westron people what the Vikings were to the Anglo-Saxons. A raiding horde meant to strike terror in their hearts.
Why a child? As I said, he is the first of his race and in much part an experiment led by the Night’s Queen.
[A chilling cold swept over Jon. Apprehension gripped him tight and fear ran rife as a second flicker could be seen from within the line of trees. He half expected that one of those beings would come crawling after him. But nay, what made its way into the clearing was far, far worse.
A rider galloped into the moon light. A mountain of a man, if that was what he was, with light blue skin and snow white hair. It was not silver, not even in the moon light. The colour lacked the shine of silver, it was lighter, it had no vitality.
The child would have retreated, he would have hidden somewhere in order to escape the sight, but just as he was about to move, the rider’s eyes found him.
Pinned and frozen, the boy opened his mouth in a silent scream as the half rotten horse the man rode rose of its hind legs, hooves beating through the air. Something glinted in the moon light and the newcomer kicked the steed into the flanks.
Jon’s heart dropped into his stomach and his eyes closed tightly, waiting for the impact. With baited breath and more fright then he’d ever felt.
And then there was nothing. No cold, no horse snorting, no man.]
Now that that the prototype is out of the way, Jon meets his first actual White Walker. As any species, the Others evolved during a long period of time. I will not go into detail here as at a later point there will be a more detailed history of their race explained. Keep in mind though that he sees a different reiteration of the same race’s example. In essence, he’s getting a first taste of what his enemies will be like.
He had been enveloped by darkness, hovering over the deepest crevice, with nothing before him and behind him. He waited to wake and rub the sleep from his eyes. But when Jon did not wake, he knew that he was being looked for.
In confirmation, the scenery abruptly shifted, bringing him before an old, familiar weirwood tree. A crow sat perched upon a thick, gnarled branch, cawing to its heart content. It sang its grim song in repetitive thrills, small red eyes roaming about the winter wasteland.
“Why do you show me such things?” the child bust out angrily at the bird. “I do not wish to see any of this.” He wanted to sleep without nightmares, visions or whatever they were called.
Laughter, bitter and thin, spread to the point of shattering, rang in his ears. “You made a promise, you took a vow,” the reminder came. Not from the raven. Before Jon’s eyes, the unknown man materialised. “You promised aid.”
Foolish he had been for having done so, but Jon was not about to give in so easily. “Aid,” he pointed out. “I cannot aid in any way though.” He thought of the small child, chained to the tree. “You could have.”
“I did,” the stranger answered. In a way he had. Jon reminded himself that he, despite having the knowledge that he dreamt, could not control these visions. But this man standing before him could. “I spared you injury, little warlord.”
“What of the other boy?” the child questioned, burning embers of anger settling into his stomach. That one had needed aid. No one had saved him. Jon grimaced. “He could have been spared injury as well.” Yet he hadn’t. He’d been left to die, like an animal.]
This is here to give a taste of the extent of Brynden’s powers. While he is definitely not human ( but rather an Übermensch), he is not yet one of the great powers, that is one of the leaders of this particular debacle. Again, the full extent and ramification will be explored later.
[“Not all creatures can be saved.” The stranger sat down in the snow. “You shall learn some day. In this, you are the one I could save and you are the one I snatched from the grip of death.” He was failing to point out that he’d been the one to place Jon in that grip in the first place. “Do you know what it is that you have seen?”
“Monsters,” came the swift reply.
“Aye, monsters. A special breed of creatures.” The one-eyed man held one hand out. “Come, there is aught you must see.”
Distrustful yet curious at the very same time, Jon did not resist the impulse of taking the man’s hand.
A shock the likes of ache spread through him, from within without, corrupting every small veins until Jon thought he’d burst into flames. He struggled to swallow a gulp of air, fighting the onslaught of sensations. To no avail, for the next he knew was the most intense pain he’d felt, like someone was tugging on his flesh pulling it form his bones, yet it was not that. It was not the flesh being torn from the bones but the soul pried from the body.
When next he opened his eyes, Jon stood upon the edge of a wide opening, looking over to the other side. For some reason the ground was much closer than it ought to have been. For a moment, the boy thought he might have fallen to his knees, yet as soon as he glanced down, a paw caught his eye. Light fur covered it.
Panic gripped him.
“Nay, fear not,” he heard the stranger’s voice ringing in his head, yet also next to him. “Look. Tell me what you see.” When he did not rush to follow the command the order came again, louder, stronger, bending his very will.
Unable to refuse, his head rose and the eyes landed upon what looked to be mounds on the other side. Not mere snowbanks, but small hills, covered in snow and frost. Their shape gave them away though. The pattern that was being followed became obvious almost immediately.
“What are these?” Jon questioned, moving his attention to a much wider structure far away. It could barely be made out through the fog that seemed to settle over it. The scent of death clung to them. “What are they?” he questioned once more.
“Hope.” One words and only one, yet its power was tremendous. Jon soaked in the feeling, the beast he inhabited lolling its tongue. How at odds. But it still made little sense to him. Hope of what? The mounds gave no answer even as he stared insistently at them.
“Hope?” the was forced to ask in the end of his companion.
“Aye. You likely know the story not, but when peril is close at hand, hope beckons from far off. Remember this place, child. When you are grown, here it is that succour will await.”Once more, Jon was confused.
“You speak in tongues,” the accusation came. “Tell it plainly or else not at all, what am I seeing?” When silence greeted his question, the young lord thought he might have been abandoned.
“The heroes of old.” It was by far the plainest response yet. “Here they sleep the heavy sleep of the departed and within their homes lies the only true aid.” Jon’s gaze was guided to the largest mound. “And there, the mighty mountain waits to come to life. Remember this, remember it all.”]
You may or may not have noticed that Jon was brought to a cemetery. The exact location of this is at the border between the land of the Night’s Queen and those of what is called the North. When Westeros was in its ages past, those who have faced the long night before were revered as protectors, and thus gathered in one single place so they could be found when the threat returned.
Without going into too much detail, here you have a gathering of all the men and women who’ve faced the perils of the long night, which has not always been White Walkers. It all started out with the Wights, of course, and a mishap by which a woman who was supposed to return as a mere zombie, somehow managed to transfer her soul into a life-after-life. That done, she took over to exact revenge for what she felt was murder.
Now the Wights themselves, in their first version were a fallen race. As ever, that’s all you get on that for now.
[So he would, Jon thought, for he doubted one could forget such an experience.
“What heroes?” It occurred the him that the man did not speak of Lann the Clever or Bran the Builder or even of the well-known Aegon the Conqueror. “Who are they?” Jon, who had always enjoyed a good story, was more than agreeable to hearing of whoever waited upon the other side. Was it not better to have whatever knowledge could be had?
“The nameless ones,” the other began his story. “It is a long time past now, when the world was young and men still fought for the lands they now hold. Among the fiercest of enemies were creatures the likes of which you’ve seen beneath the moonlight slivery. Many a hero rose to match swords and spear with them, some with the use of magic, others with their bare weapons. Many long years war raged between them, kingdoms rose and fell, bloodlines ran dry and the world wore on.” To Jon’s eyes the mounds fell away to release from within trapped bodies of might warriors, he listened with great curiosity. “Until one day, a man thought to put an end to it. He wished not only to win a battle, but to rid the world of war.” The words conjured before Jon the image of an averagely built man, looking very much like his mother’s brothers. Like him, even, a face of the North. “And this man, whose name history had forgotten as soon as life fled him, strove to succeed. It was the gods he begged for aid many a time and to them he dedicated his work.” The ghost before them began pounding upon steel, thin black steel. “Inspiration came to him, whether by way of some demon, no one knows, and he worked with might to forge them ultimate weapon, the weapon that would slay the enemies of mankind.”
Suddenly, another person appeared. A woman, a young creature with curling locks and thin, bared limbs. The stranger continued his tale. “This demon from which he drew inspiration required a price, a blood price, for there is go gain to be had otherwise. And the man, who held most dear of all his wife and son, was put before a decision.”
The spectres embraced, sliver lines running down the woman’s cheeks. Dark foreboding rent the atmosphere. “There is no life without death and no death without life. And so, the demon’s price was paid.” The man’s swords slashed through the air, embedding itself into the soft breast of the woman, flesh splitting. A scream tore through the air. The blade burst into blames.
It was far less gruesome than the fate of the boy in the woods, but something told Jon is was worse for it. The confirmation followed swiftly. “What the man did not know, was that the sword he’d crafted had done more than pay a tithe. It had stolen the very soul out of his woman and had left her an empty vessel.” The corpse of the woman lost all colour, hair bleeding into a blanket of snow, eyes becoming that same eerie blue. “His worst enemy was born from his woman’s death.”
Certainly, the corpse shambled to its feet as a third figure appeared. It was one of those creatures, the one riding a horse. It took the corpse of the woman and, by some sort of dark magic, created her into a maiden of cold, celestial grace. “And well he might have defeated the being of ice with his flaming steel, yet he could not cut her with the blade again.”
Two spirits faced off before them. One was the man, the other a creature so cold one froze at the mere sight of her. And indeed, she broke the steel in two, using a dagger of her own. The hero fell to the ground and blood gushed out from some invisible wound. “She had slain the one who had her killed, yet the empty creature feasted nowhere near enough on vengeance to feel sated.”
A myriad of spectres came out before the wolf, all bearing marks of frost upon them, all bleeding. “By and by she walked the earth in search of descendants to slay.” It became quite apparent that the number of victims would have easily been able to form an army. Jon watched in awe.
“There came a time when from these seeds of the great hero one was born whom managed yet again to stem the war. They call him Bran the Builder now and he found protection from the gods of the trees and lakes and storms.”
“He was the one who built the Wall, and Storm’s End, and Winterfell,” the boy said excitedly. The story he knew from his own lady mother.
“Aye. For he saw this creature and knew her to be impervious, he built a wall that might stop her. It worked for a time.” That other story Jon knew as well. She had been brought behind the wall once.
“They still defeated her in the end,” he hurried to say. “She was thrown without.”
“Not defeated, stalled,” the unnerving correction was delivered. “These humans, they know naught, and think to have killed her when she yet lived and bides her time for another attack. She is mother to them all, these fiends and their devotion to her knows no bounds. You see now, you must remember.”
“But,” Jon began, suddenly uncertain, “why? If this steel cannot cut her, what use is it?”
“Her children, her army can be cut down with it. As for her, nothing burns as ice does.” Once more Jon felt compelled to stare at the tallest mound. “When it comes the time, climb atop the mound and from there, you shall know what to do.”]
This seems pretty simple to me, but just in case: yes, they are speaking about Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa. Basically what Brynden points out with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer is that the line of the Starks is descended from Azor Ahai, the first known hero. According to what we know at this point (going by this story’s canon, not GRRM’s), the line is no longer a direct through the Stark blood itself, but through a combination of it with Wildling princiary lineage (Brandon the Daughterless’ daughter and her Wildling lover => male issue).
If there are anymore questions, I’ll do my best to explain below.