Why wouldn't he feel? He ought to, everything he knew, which was quite a lot by now, told him to. Fleeting silhouettes of memories bearing emotion kept appearing in his mind; the disgusted pride when Father executed the deserter, the sorrow and pain when Theon took Winterfell, the dread and hopelessness when Karl Tanner threatened to kill them and rape Meera and the joy when he failed to. He remembered all this. He knew these memories to be true; he knew that he felt something. But these had become mere facts to him: much like which banner belonged to which house, he knew which feeling belonged to which memory.
But the struggle was to no avail. They refused to be replicated. Even when he continued to relive moment after moment he'd had with Meera, nothing began to swell up inside him. That was the only thing he could remember about feelings – that they swelled up in your body, like a pitcher filling a cup till it was all full. Only, this cup had a lid. It was a useless cup, unable to be used for its purposes. Who would build such a cup? Had it always been like this? Had the lid been added? What an unnecessary attachment – it only kept people from drinking.
He had not known the words coming from his mouth. It was as if he wasn't in control of them, they just came past his lips with no further regulation or thought. And yet they had hurt her – he could tell. He hadn't meant to, of course. It just happened. And he didn't care. Her tears ought to have evoked something within him. They desired to be brushed away and dried, never to return to her cheeks again.
Women tears came easier than men's, Theon had 'taught' him once. They were allowed to cry, unlike men, lords and knights, who ought to be strong and determined. But Bran had seen many men cry, Theon included. Many people cried all over Westeros all of the time, men and women alike. There wasn't anything wrong with crying. Meera had, unlike many others, had the dignity to stand tall while she did it. Many fell to their knees, pleading. But she didn't. She was strong and determined which didn't stand in the way of crying, whether Theon disagreed or not. But Bran didn't want to be strong; he didn't want to be a knight or a lord. He wanted to be touched by tears, have them falling from his own eyes as well, like the rest of Westeros – like Meera. He desired to be unmanly, to cry openly and unashamedly. He wanted to show her that, but there was nothing in him that granted him his wish. He wanted to shake from sorrow and regret, to be sleepless because of worry and sad at Meera's departure. He wanted to be broken.
The fireplace crackled slowly, almost timidly. A servant girl had entered his room with a tray of food for him. He had requested to be served dinner in his room, as to avoid the troublesome way to the Great Hall each night. Of course, everyone, himself included, knew that wasn't the case.
"Milord," the girl said, lightly gasping. "I shall bring a moist cloth immediately." She placed the tray on a table and left the room.
Bran lifted his arm. It was covered in sweat, as was his face. It had been a very long time since that had happened. It was uncomfortable, his clothes sticking to his skin. Luckily, the girl was quick to return and dry his face and subsequently his body, after she had undressed him. She has asked if she should change his clothes for him, to which he had agreed. Once all done, and the sweat was gone, he didn't feel one bit better. But she didn't notice.
"Do you want me to dampen the fire a bit, milord?"
He nodded. Not that it mattered much, not at all in fact, but he'd seen her pity him. Meera always talked about how she hated not being useful. Bran could remember feeling so too and maybe some servants felt the same.
Bran had followed Meera all the way back to Greywater. Howland wasn't surprised by learning about the death of Jojen, but sad nonetheless. The three remaining Reed family members had held a quiet, peaceful ceremony in his remembrance. A few words were said, and a waterlily with candlelight was sent down the stream, and they had returned to the castle.
She hadn't told her father all of what had happened. She had told him that she was forced to kill Jojen herself, that she had to drag Bran all the way to Castle Black, but no mention of their goodbye. "He thanked me, and then I left" she'd told Howland. He seemed satisfied with that and didn't ask much further into it. But Bran didn't understand why she hadn't just told him the truth. He would have done so himself.
He'd often keep a vision of her within his mind. Accumulatively, she probably occupied more of his visions than anything else combined. Sometimes, he'd wonder if Meera knew he kept watching her. If so, she didn't seem affected; Meera kept on with the casual life of a person in the Neck. But she was very quiet and didn't speak to many besides her parents. Some of her liveliness had vanished.
He made sure to never watch her in her sleep, when she was undressed or taking a bath. He had learnt that would be most inappropriate. And while he convinced himself that he wouldn't have done it if he had, Bran was simply was not interested in seeing her naked. It was common for boys his age, and slightly younger, to be interested in such. Robb, Theon, Father, even Mother, had all told him that he'd one day notice girls. But that day never came. He had only noticed her, and now he hardly did.
Hours passed. Bran only ate small bites of bread and cheese and swallowed it with wine. His throat detested the alcohol, but it helped blur his visions. It wasn't always he wanted to be a spectator to the rest of the world. The servant girl came and took the tray and wine, but didn't return immediately afterwards as she used to. She had spotted Arya sneaking to the forge, an endless source for gossip around Winterfell. It was becoming fairly common knowledge that Arya and Gendry at least were more personally attached than most ladies and smiths.
What most probably didn't know, though, was that she'd lost her maidenhood to Gendry a few weeks past. Not that Bran minded. But he had continued to view their relationship from afar. He'd seen it all across Winterfell, but being his sister, it was something else to see that passion for one another in her. Bran could see how they desired each other's company, how badly they wanted one another. Knowing both their lives, it was odd to see them genuinely happy. Bran wondered what that was like.
The servant girl returned to his chambers and apologised for the delay. Her name was Illa. Ramsay had raped her multiple times, threatened to kill her. She was glad to be serving the Starks instead of him now. She put Bran to bed and blew out the candle and wished her lord a good night's sleep. But Bran wasn't going to get that.
His dream visions began revolving around the Neck. His vision zoomed to one of the streams near the castle. Meera was wandering downstream with a torch in hand. She almost limped forward. Tears were crawling down her cheeks and onto her leather clothing as she made her way forward. She was running to a watchtower, a scroll of paper folded inside her purse. Her face was a sad affair; mouth refusing to bend the happy way, watery eyes, and the tears burning her face in the cold. She seemed frustrated and desperate, like she didn't know what to do. Bran didn't know what to do either. Maybe if she was still at Winterfell, he could've comforted her.
She finally approached the watchtower and went to the ravens. She took out the letter from the purse and knotted it to the feet of the one that went to Winterfell. But she suddenly stopped in her tracks to stare at the raven. Her eyes suddenly met his, for the first times in several moons. Bran cocked his head in response, as ravens often did. She then began mumbling things, horrible things that he didn't want to hear. He could tell that her voice was broken, that it needed comfort. He pointed at her arm with his beak. Meera hesitantly stretched it and Bran jumped onto it. After staring into each other's eyes for minutes, her other hand began gently stroking his feathers. Her fingers were softer than he had remembered, warm and comforting. It reminded him of all the times she had run them through his hair and over his cheeks and forehead. The tears stopped flowing. Meera smiled deep and long into his eyes. She patted his head and sent him on his way to Winterfell.
Then it happened. He felt.