It was that night that Bran had a dream.
In the dream he was flying over the ground on black feathered wings, and the ice gave way to snow and then to dirt ground, but there was no grass on it, not anymore, because it had been burned away. (He didn't know how he knew it had been burned. He just did.)
Bran-with-wings swooped lower, the ground sliding away below him like water, and ahead he could see two towers, on either side of a broad river, and around them a mass of carrion crows squawking and flapping in a great black cloud.
The dream flashed and vanished, and he was hiding in the crypts in Winterfell again, but this time Robb was there with him, though his head was bowed as though he were praying, and he seemed older. Bran tried to get his attention by calling, but Robb wouldn't listen. Then he reached out to take his hand, and passed right through the seemingly solid wrist.
But at last his elder brother seemed aware of his existence, and looked at him, sadly. "No, Bran," he said, quietly, in that stern Robb the Lord voice he'd heard a few times, but all grown up for real now, "You can't come here. Not yet." And the crypts melted away, and he stood staring at the ruins of Winterfell, hearing the cries of a thousand crows in his ears.
He began to understand.
The shaking woke him, crying, tears wet on his cheeks. "What is it?" Meera asked him, urgently. "What is it, Bran?"
"Robb's dead," he managed to choke out, "He died. They killed him." And he couldn't have said who 'they' were, but he still wanted to howl, and Summer did, a sound of heartbreak and grief that Bran couldn't make.
All his family – all the pack. One by one. The thought was grim, but he couldn't chase it away.
One by one.