Author's Note: This is for the fifth variation of the 100 Themes Challenge, for number eleven, 'run'. This is a fanfiction site, so it's fairly obvious that I don't own these characters. If you think you have found original content on a site for fanfics, you probably aren't the brightest bulb. I think disclaimers are kind of dumb on fanfiction sites can you tell?
As Bran drifted off to sleep, it was not long before he felt himself step into Summer's skin.
It was a long, cold journey to find the three-eyed crow, and sitting in the basket on Hodor's back did not make it any more interesting. He had quickly grown bored, and Jojen and Meera were not the most interesting companions as of late with regards to conversation. Everyone was too cold, tired, and hungry to do much of anything besides continue onwards. Bran had once thought that it was cold in Winterfell, but nothing compared to the cold north of The Wall.
And so it was that he sat shivering in the basket that Hodor's rhythmical steps caused him to drift to sleep, and almost instantly he found himself as a wolf, trudging along behind the group.
Though Summer felt the cold almost juts as harshly, despite his thick coat, Bran could not resist a good run. He often found that he desired but one thing from his time in Summer's body, above all other things; to have what he couldn't have in his own body. He, with his broken, crippled body, could not run. As a younger boy he had often run, he and Rickon had been a wild pair of boys, often joined by their sister Arya as they ran wild through Winterfell.
No longer, he had thought when he had woken from his sleep, his endless dreams of falling. No longer will I run with Rickon and Arya, and the wolves.
But he was wrong, on some level. A part of him mulled this over as he slipped into Summer's skin, scenting the wind and searching for prey to soothe his hunger.
He was wrong. He could still run so long as he was Summer.
There was a part of him, though he had been warned against this many times by the Reeds, who wanted to remain Summer. Being a wolf was much less complex, and he still would live a most joyous life. He could run, something he could never do as a boy. He could hunt, and was more likely (these days at least) to find food, less likely to go hungry. And he could have a family again. He could, if he slipped into Summer's skin and never left it, spend the rest of his days with a pack, perhaps finding a mate and raising a family of his own.
He darted ahead of Jojen and Meera, the ice spurting up around his paws – Summer's paws, he reminded himself – as he ran. Some of it must have splashed against the siblings, for he heard Meera giggle and mutter something to her brother. They probably knew, Bran mused. They knew it was him in Summer's skin, the wolf was much less playful and wild than the boy, who often took to running, jumping, and generally romping amongst the group.
He scented the air again, this time tasting a hint of rabbit on the wind.
Instantly, he leapt into action, feet pounding against the layers of ice and snow as he rushed towards the prey animal. He caught it quickly, tasting the warm blood seeping into his mouth, painting the snow in pink and red.
Feeling his hunger sated, Bran ran again, feeling the muscles in his legs, Summer's legs, as they worked hard to bring the wolf, and the boy within him, to his destination, wherever it may be, as fast as they could go.
As once again he rushed past Meera, Jojen, and Hodor, their faces grinning all the while, Bran felt quite contented despite the cold, the hunger in his own form, and the fatigue he felt as both.
This, Bran thought, was the beauty of being a Warg.