Bran stands in front of his target in the courtyard of Winterfell, right arm drawn back as he holds an arrow in place, squinting as he focuses on its center. He thinks about what his older brothers tell him: Relax your bow arm. Don't think too much. The bowstring grows taught beneath the arrow.
This morning he was up with the sun. He'd run out the doors of Winterfell long before his brothers and sisters had risen from their beds, drinking in the chilly morning air as it bit at his cheeks, its freshness further invigorating him. He had stopped only to grab a bread roll for his breakfast on his way through the kitchens and could've been out earlier, he thinks with regret, had he not bumped into his mother there. Lady Catelyn Stark, an early riser, had made him sit down at the table and eat a proper breakfast with a plate and fork and napkin, much to Bran's annoyance. Only when he had scarfed down all of his meal did Catelyn let him continue on his way.
Bran is ten years old and, as she likes to say, all boy. At any hour of the day he can be found running, climbing, or horseback riding. Wherever he goes he, rarely is he ever seen without his wooden sword tucked into his belt. He loves nothing more than to play games of war with his friends, best his little brother in mock duel, or lately, practice archery, a skill Jon and Robb have begun to teach him. Dreams of knighthood fill his head. He is going to be a soldier when he grows up and become a great warrior and win many battles. He knows he will. Already fast and strong for his age, there's nothing standing in his way.
Except for one thing. Bran is terrible at archery.
His brothers began teaching him two weeks ago, and although it seems he's done nothing but practice, he hasn't made a bull's-eye once. Except for when he doesn't hit the target at all, which is most of the time, the only thing he has managed to hit is its outer rim. It frustrates Bran to no end. No one's ever heard of a knight who can't shoot.
So this morning he woke early, his mind made up. Today he will shoot a bull's-eye.
All morning, Bran fires away, loosing arrow after arrow after arrow. At first, determination fills him like an unquenchable fire. But now the sun is high in the sky, resting at its noontime zenith directly above the world, and not a single arrow has made it to the target's center. Bran is beginning to lose steam. Still, as he stands aiming what feels like the thousandth arrow at the wheel of coiled straw, he can't suppress the tiny bit of hope that tells him that just maybe, this will be the one.
He takes a deep breath and releases.
Smack! The arrow flies clean over the target, hits the wall behind it, then falls to the ground, where it lies snapped in two like a broken bird suddenly arrested in its flight. Bran drives the toe of his boot into the dirt and curses.
"Hey, pipsqueak! What's wrong? Can't even shoot an arrow proper?" comes a voice from behind. The second voice that follows it comes in short, broken spurts because its owner is laughing so hard.
"That's the worst shot I've ever seen! My little sister could do it better!"
Bran turns around, although he doesn't need to to know who it is. There they are, Cedric and Wendell, laughing at him as though they have just witnessed the most ludicrous sight in Westeros. Bran might as well have been standing out in the courtyard wearing a dress.
The children of some servants of Winterfell, Cedric and Wendell have been tormenting Bran for five years. The former, a stocky and impossibly tall boy for his age is always munching at some sweet he has stolen from the kitchens. He is constantly accompanied by the latter, a lanky, squirelly thing who follows Cedric like a dog, parroting everything the other says or does. They are older and bigger than Bran, and although he doesn't like to admit it, they scare him.
"Look at 'im trying to shoot! He shoots like a girl! " Cedric jeers.
"Maybe he is a girl. Look at his hair!"
"Shut up!" Bran cries, his fists clenched.
"Ooh, Stark's little girl is getting cross! What's he going to do to us? Shoot an arrow at us that'll miss us completely? I'm scared!" the bigger boy whines in a parody of fear, which makes Wendell hoot with laughter.
"He couldn't do a thing to us even if we put a sword right in his hands!"
"I said shut up!" Bran's voice is rising. A tinge of red has risen to his cheeks. "And I can shoot!"
"Then prove it!" Cedric leans in intimidatingly, his large shadow falling over the younger boy. Today it's a slab of iced pumpkin cake he has in his hand, and Bran can smell it on his breath. He stutters for a moment as he struggles for something to say. But in the end he falls silent and looks down at his feet. He knows he can't prove it. For a moment Cedric's expression remains serious as looms over the Stark boy and stares at him through narrowed eyes. Then he and Wendell simultaneously collapse into another fit of laughter.
"He can't prove it!" Wendell exclaims between guffaws.
"I'd trade in all my sweets for extra chores for a year the day I see him shoot a bull's-eye!" says Cedric before continuing to taunt his victim. "And listen to this! I heard him saying to the blacksmith's boy the other day that he wants to be a knight. A knight! Just imagine, a little sissy shrimp like him. He actually thinks he can be a knight! How stupid can you be?" Now the two bullies really are doubled over.
Bran feels his cheeks grow hotter as they continue to laugh, though this time with shame and embarrassment instead of rage. For a few more seconds he remains there, looking at his feet.
Then he throws down his bow and runs.
"What's the matter, sissy? You going to cry?"
"What a baby!" The boy can hear them continuing to make fun of him as he runs away. How dare they make sport of him like this! How dare they make sport of his most cherished dream! But what makes him feel the most ashamed is that they're right. He is trying not to cry. Now he really does feel stupid. A soldier doesn't cry.
He runs across the courtyard, his feet pounding against the dusty ground, away from his tormentors, away from everything. Tears that he refuses to let fall blur his vision. He bumps into a maid carrying a load of laundry as he goes. "Easy now, little lord." Bran doesn't even look at her. He only continues to run. He runs until he comes to the wall of the First Keep and begins to climb.
The boy has climbed these walls a thousand times before. Every stone or beam that juts out for him to hold on to, every little cleft that provides a foothold, he knows them like the back of his hand. They are there ingrained in his muscle memory, and it takes over as he climbs. He doesn't have to think, doesn't even have to look, an ability that allows him to make his way up the tower quickly and nimbly as a young squirrel. He knows his mother would have a fit if she saw him up here again. Catelyn is always telling him not to climb. He thinks she worries too much. This is second nature to him. He'd never fall.
He climbs until he reaches the Broken Tower and tumbles inside.
Once the Broken Tower was the tallest watchtower of the castle, until it was hit by an unlucky bolt of lightning during a storm many years ago. It was deemed beyond repair, and now, with its walls jagged and broken, the once proud tower is only a skeleton of what it used to be. Debris and pieces of crumbled wall cover the floor. Ivy that has long since creeped in climbs the walls and hangs from the ceiling. Save for the crows that have made their nests within the tower, no one comes here anymore. Except for Bran.
His breath coming quick and shallow, Bran brings his knees to his forehead and curls into a ball. He will not cry, he will not cry. Crying is for little boys. Ten is not a little boy anymore. As he remains there with his eyes squeezed shut, he suddenly hears the sound of a bird chirping sweetly. It sounds very nearby, so he lifts his head. There in front of him, perched in the window, a robin sings a warbling tune. Bran stares at it in awe. There are always crows here in the tower, but he has never seen a robin so close up before. Funnily enough, the bird seems to be staring right back at him with its little black eyes.
He listens to its song a little while longer, then watches it fly away. The little bird glides past the castle, past the green moor where in the distance the Kingsroad winds, and finally over the cloud-kissed hills beyond. The view is beautiful from up here, and Bran stops and admires it. Just now the sunlight shifts and frames it so that it could not be more perfect, and warm rays stream into the tower.
This is his place. He comes here when he is sad, when he wants to be alone, when he wants to refresh himself, when he is happy. It is his safe place, a hidden refuge that only he knows, away from the hustle and bustle of castle life. Looking out at the pleasant scenery, the bird's song, the refreshingly cool breeze that rushes to meet his face- it all calms Bran and he begins to feel better.
The raucous laughter of two boys disrupts him from his reverie. He looks down. Wendell and Cedric are still there in the courtyard, only now Bran sees that they have his bow, his precious bow that his father had made just for him. They are pretending to shoot arrows and are very obviously mocking him, which makes them shout with laughter. Why those little⦠Anger creeps back into his heart, but is quickly replaced by something else. Determination sweeps over him anew, more powerful even than before. Dimwits. I'll show them, he thinks, and with no further thought climbs out of the tower.
That evening at dinner there is a toast to celebrate Bran's first bull's-eye. But even better are the looks on Cedric and Wendell's faces as they stand slack-jawed at Bran's victory. For once they have nothing to say to him. Even as he lies in bed that night, the memory still makes him smile.
