A/N: Has anyone else been seriously missing Bran this season? Because I certainly have! This fic has kind of become my coping mechanism for his absence - hope you have as much fun reading it as I have writing it. My heartfelt thanks go out to my amazing beta Ledi, who is a real life saint. Without her help, this story wouldn't exist.


CHAPTER 1

He remembered how flying felt. He would never forget the sensation of boundless freedom that overcame him when he stretched his arms out wide as wings to catch the air. The gentle rays of sunlight caressed him like tendrils, inviting. The wind was more insistent, pushing eagerly at his back to encourage him onwards. The real joy was in that next step, straight off the precipice and out into open space.

He remembered falling too, and he liked that memory far less.

"Bran? Seven hells, you just let that Creeper walk right up to you!"

He awoke just in time to see the walls of his fortress shatter inwards, and the heart containers at the bottom of the screen trickle down to two. It was an accident he could have easily prevented, had he not been lost in a waking dream. He grimaced at the other boy, apologetic.

"Sorry, Walder. I must have zoned out for a minute."

"I should bloody say so." Walder growled with frustration. He was jabbing a sharp finger at his own screen, already correcting Bran's mistakes. "Looks like we're starting again. Again."

Bran didn't really know why Big Walder bothered to play the game with him when he could hardly seem to focus on even the simplest of tasks. The freshly gaping hole in the wall of their new stronghold screamed of his failure. Dejected, he rested his iPad gently on his broken lap and tried to rub the delirium from his eyes.

He went on until the garish colours of the playroom mural blurred into one. The sun with the lopsided smile morphed into something altogether more sinister, a sadistic grin on its neon yellow face as it smirked down on the painted, frolicking children below. Bran decided that the children in the mural were having infinitely more fun than the neonatal babies who stared at them, wide-eyed, from their bouncers, or the toddlers with tubes in their noses fumbling with building blocks nearby. Across the far wall, a gnarled tree was painted from end to end. The swollen knuckles of its branches were decorated with red leaves, each one scrawled with a wish from one of the sick children who played beneath it.

The eerie quiet of the playroom was broken only by the clink of wood on wood as two of the other kids played a silent game of cyvasse. Bran noticed that more than a few of the ornate pieces were missing from the communal set. Here and there a dragon was substituted for a button or coin, the horse for an actual, plastic horse. The girls playing were younger than Bran but already had a much better grasp of the game than he ever had. They probably had half a life spent in an ICU to thank for that – all that free time they might have spent running and climbing and generally being children was devoted instead to mastering bed-bound board games. Better that than to lay there and think about death, he supposed.

They'd even allowed a couple of kids from the psych ward in today. Most of those poor souls never saw the gaudy playroom and its treasure trove of broken toys. When they did visit, Bran saw how the nurses tip-toed around them as though terrified of setting off some violent outburst, and to him it seemed ridiculous. He would probably lash out too, if people kept talking to him like a baby, the way the nurses did to the psych kids. Deemed fit enough to play today was Della, a fiery little girl who bit everything she could find. She liked to bite wood best of all, like the corner of the cyvasse table she currently had her teeth clamped into. She watched the game wordlessly, occasionally sucking the table as though deep in thought.

Accompanying Della had been Hodor, a giant of a boy who was as big as a man but had the brain of a five-year old at best. He was drawing alongside the kids from dermatology, looking ridiculously oversized on his tiny plastic chair. In his fingers, the crayons looked no more than matchsticks.

All around the room were never-changing faces, and Bran had grown accustomed to seeing them over the last three months, for better or for worse. If he didn't know their names, he knew their ailments, and sometimes that was all the label you needed in this place. There was Ronas the mute kid, and Jaena, who had the hole in her heart. There was Elrie, who was waiting for a transplant, and half-blind Little Walder, who gave Big Walder his name. Among them all, Bran was the crippled boy, the broken boy, but he would have given anything to just be Brandon Stark again, the boy who loved to run and fight with his brothers and climb until his head span from the height.

There was only one face today that Bran didn't recognise. A dark teenager with sandy hair was glowering over a tablet in the corner nearest the door. He sat with his long legs drawn up against his body, as though he might be ready to pounce at any moment. Every once in a while, the tinny sound of music would escape from his earphones, and the boy would nod his head along with the muffled beat. Bran was watching him with interest, vaguely envious of the little world he was wrapped up in, when the boy suddenly looked up to meet his gaze. Bran stared back for longer than he meant to, trapped by that judging, green glare.

"Are you gonna help me with this or just sit there staring at everyone like a crazy person?"

Flustered, Bran turned back to Walder, stuck for a long, dumb moment before he remembered what it was he was supposed to be doing. "Right. Material gathering. Got it."

Walder's bald head shone like a polished egg as he dropped his attention back to his screen. "Keep that up and they're gonna lock you up in psych too," he mumbled.

It was difficult to focus on the blocky world behind the glass while he could feel someone watching. The strange teen still had his eyes on him. He tried not to think about it, and focused instead on the screen, where his avatar punched some trees.

A shadow fell across his view. "Alright, boys. I think that's enough screen time for now."

Standing over them was Osha, one of the nurses that frequented Bran's ward. Her dark hair was falling out of the bun on top of her head and her eyes were black pits of exhaustion, but she was still the friendliest face Bran saw on a daily basis. She had a habit of appearing whenever he needed a helping hand, regardless of whether or not he had pushed that dreaded 'nurse call' button. Once she had found him snuffling into his pillow, overwhelmed with pain and frustration, and she had cheered him with nothing but a pat on the back and a silly nickname. She was an ally, although she seemed an unlikely one.

Obediently, he quit the game, but kept the device clutched close to him. Walder, however, was incredulous. "Not fair! It's not like there's anything else to do in this shit-hole anyway. Ow!"

Osha flicked his ear. It was a playful gesture, but Big Walder always had to over-react. He scowled up at her from beneath eyebrows he didn't have. "How come he gets to use his tablet all he wants?" He jerked a spare thumb towards the teen in the corner, who was once again absorbed in his own business.

Osha cut Walder a dark look. "You just leave him be. Go on, go and play. Try being real kids for once." As Big Walder shuffled away, muttering something idiotic under his breath, Osha gave Bran what he assumed was her kindest expression. She never smiled, but he always felt like he was on her good side. "Hodor needs a colouring partner. Go help him, Brandon."

He nodded, casting one last glance at the strange boy in the corner before tugging loose the brakes of his wheelchair and setting his wheels in Hodor's direction. Before he'd even gotten five paces, he'd managed to clip the side of the cyvasse table, causing several pieces to topple and Della to grind her well-worn teeth in annoyance. He mumbled apologies and struggled on his way, feeling as impatient with himself as everyone else obviously was. The wheels of his chair were cumbersome and heavy to turn. Once he found a rhythm on the linoleum floors of the hospital corridors, he could travel a good hundred yards without tiring. But fighting against the coarsely carpeted floors of the playroom had him breathless and dispirited by the time he reached Hodor's side.

"Hodor," said Hodor, in greeting. He turned back to his paper happily. Bran studied his chaotic drawing for a moment and thought it looked a little like a horse, if you looked at it from the right angle anyway.

He picked up a crayon and immediately felt a rush of colour to his cheeks when he realised he was once again being watched. How ridiculous he must look, thirteen years old and colouring in with a man-child. But Hodor looked pleased when he joined in, so Bran carried on regardless.

"I didn't know you liked animals, Hodor," Bran said, conversationally. He started to draw the straight sides of a castle. After a moment's thought, he added in some tall battlements and grey turrets. It looked good. Maybe he would try recreating it in Minecraft later.

"Hodor," Hodor beamed cheerfully, but that brought sniggers from their tablemates.

"That's no animal," a red-faced boy from dermatology said. Bran thought his name might have been Arnolf. "Just an idiot's scribble."

Hodor's expressions might have been simple, but even Bran could tell he was hurt. "Hodor," he mumbled, sullenly adding more colour to his masterpiece.

Arnolf grinned stupidly. He had a lot of nerve for an eight-year old, Bran thought. He tried not to give him the attention he was so desperately angling for, and carried on with his castle drawing instead. That strategy worked quite well until he noticed Arnolf's little sidekicks had moved every crayon to the other side of the table, well out of his reach. They were watching him now in childish suspense, waiting to see how the cripple boy was going to handle the situation. Bran turned his dark thoughts inwards, and put down the only crayon he had as he geared himself up to lean out of his chair. But before he found the strength, Arnolf lifted the corner of the table briskly, knocking the last crayon to the floor with a clatter.

"Oops," Arnolf shrugged, a smirk creeping across his cracked red lips.

Bran stared after it in dismay as it rolled beneath his wheelchair, and Arnolf's friends tittered behind their hands. To say some of these kids were staring the Stranger in the face on a daily basis, they were awfully bold about their cruelty, Bran thought. His helpless situation only lasted half a heartbeat though, until Hodor noticed what had happened. Pleasantly, the giant rose from his chair, muttering his cheerful 'Hodor' song to himself as he walked, and bent to pick up the runaway crayon.

"Oi!" Came a sudden cry from Arnolf. "You kicked my chair, you big oaf!"

Bran had been watching – Hodor hadn't come anywhere close to the other boy, let alone his chair. But that didn't stop Arnolf from reaching across and skimming Hodor's drawing papers clean off the table in revenge. The scribble-horse fluttered to the ground, and Hodor watched it go with large, sad eyes.

Then something flashed across him, something dark and primal. Hodor erupted suddenly. He roared like a beast, and his enormous arms flew up into the air.

Bran wheeled backwards clumsily, away from the rampaging boy. Paper flew into the air, crumpled by Hodor's angry fists. Splinters of wax rained down as he snapped the crayons in two.

"Hodor!" Bran appealed to him, but Hodor was lost in his anger. The table upended, and Arnolf's friends scarpered away as fast as their frail legs could carry them. The nurses came scurrying like mice from doors on every side of the room, but none of them would be there in time. Hodor had already grabbed Arnolf by the scruff of his neck and was about to jerk him backwards into arm's reach. The smaller boy scrambled, and Bran instinctively tried to dash forwards to wrestle him free. His legs wouldn't move of course, and he was met instead by a vicious pain that shot up his spine. He watched on, powerless, as Hodor lifted Arnolf clear of the ground. The giant's eyes were glazed like mist, his huge body trembling with a rage his mind didn't seem to comprehend.

"He's gonna kill me!" Arnolf squealed, writhing to escape.

Bran's body was broken, but his mind was whole. With all his attention on Hodor, he cried out again, "Put him down! Stop, Hodor!"

Hodor froze. Bran would have rejoiced, if he had been there to watch, but his body was crumpled in his wheelchair and his mind was flying free. He got a brief impression of a huge, blank landscape, a minefield of confusing thoughts and feelings that bubbled just below the surface. He saw Arnolf's terrified face through Hodor's eyes, and felt Arnolf's sweat dripping on to Hodor's hand. It would be easy to snap the bully's neck in two with just a simple twist of his fingers. He toyed with the idea, and then loosened his grip.

Arnolf fell to the floor, finally freed, and in the same moment, Bran was reeling back into his own body like a fish hooked swiftly from a lake. A screech of something otherworldly – a bird, maybe – deafened him completely. He felt as dizzy as the time his brother Robb had grabbed him by the forearms and spun him in wide circles until he screamed to be put down. The sudden memory was a welcome one, something to seize on to that was his own and not something of Hodor's. For a confusing moment, he could almost believe he had been Hodor.

The nurses converged upon the scene. Arnolf was sniffling like a baby as they bundled him up back to his ward. Hodor looked nothing but blank, arm still outstretched as though seizing Arnolf's phantom. Two of the psych nurses were talking him down with their quiet, soothing voices as they led him out of the playroom. He towered over them by at least a foot, but in that moment he seemed nothing but a lamb; meek and compliant, but most of all, afraid.

"You alright, little lord?"

That nickname. It was Osha; she touching his hand gently and bending to check on him more closely. He tried to reply but his tongue felt numb, as though he couldn't quite remember how to make it work. He nodded instead, and with a reassuring pat, she disappeared to help the other victims of Hodor's tirade.

The room was in so much turmoil that he didn't notice someone else approach him. The first warning he had was the sight of his iPad being slid gently back on to his lap. He stared at it, still half-absent.

"You dropped this. Lucky it didn't break."

Stood over him was the dark teen from earlier, his earphones finally tucked away. His moss green eyes were wildly intrusive, and the way he half-smiled at Bran suggested he had somehow seen what Bran had just done, in the landscape of Hodor's mind.

"Oh, um… thanks," Bran managed to stutter.

The older boy gave an effortless shrug and strode away without another word. Bran watched him leave the room, marvelling at how he swanned through the ensuing chaos without so much as flinching.

When he turned back to his iPad, lighting up the screen to check for any cracks, he noticed the iiiRaven app was open. On the bottom of his contact list was a new addition:

User: DreamInGreen
Location: Riverrun Children's Hospital
Contact name: Jojen Reed.


A/N: Next chapter coming soon! Please take the time to review/follow if you can. I'd really appreciate it!