Because the gods are cruel, Bran dreamt of his family before the war. The dream was so clear, so vivid that to him it was more than a reverie - it was a memory or moment of reality.

It was Christmas time, but the jews didn't celebrate Christmas really. But the relatives came over to annoy them with this anyway.

The twins of Frey greet them "Merry christmas" every year and they would reply that they had no Christmas. And the relatives would always reply "Oh, happy Hanukkah then." The twins knew they were wrong, they just wanted to joke about it. And the joke never gets old. The Starks didn't mind, usually the Freys only send cards or called anyway. It was impossible, even for the Starks' numerously roomed mansion, to accommodate all the Freys.

On that year, it was special. Bran was only seven then. He was told that the Reeds were coming to visit this year too, along with the usual Tullys and Arryns. And Robert Baratheon who was the only one on his rich family to visit. Maybe he wanted to get away from them. Maybe he wanted to pay respects to his Aunt Lyanna. Maybe both.

He'd never seen the Reeds before, but he's heard his father talk of them all the time. He talked of Howland Reed. A noble man who lived by the Greywaters. Though he was rich, he preferred his life to be simple and quiet. During the first world war, he and Ned met and became good friends. Net was providing meat and produce for the army while Howland provided them salt and fish from Greywater. As the two goodhearted men met during hardest of times, their relationship became the loyalest of friendships.

It was decided that they were to stay for three weeks including the new year.

When he met Jojen Reed, an older boy of nine at that time, he seemed to remember getting lost in his eyes. They were somber, deep and true. He wasn't sure. He couldn't describe it, so he decided to get lost in their mysteries instead. Every time they looked back at him, they seemed to say more. More than the words that come from his perfect lips. Though what he says is always kind, always so so gentle. His light golden hair was had gleam and luster, and his stature ideal without the slightest fault. And the rest of Jojen, of course would be just as glorious.

They would play by the wood, a little past the town. They would play chase, but Bran would always win. He was faster, he had wings.

Or maybe Jojen would let him win. Just because.

But Jojen would still try to catch up, he was fast enough too. But when he got too tired he would considerately say. "Wait, please, you shouldn't tire yourself," then he would look at him with those eyes "My prince." He would always call him that. And oddly enough he sounded like he meant it every time.

Bran's breath would stop, so his whole being would stop. And Jojen would catch up to him. Then sometimes he would carry him, or hold his hand as they walked to the heart tree. And they would talk all afternoon of their nightly dreams. He wanted to stay by the splendor that was Jojen forever.

In an instant, the sun disappeared and the sky tuned dark in the wood. In confusion he turned to look at Jojen.

But somehow he was different. He wore the uniform Bran dreaded so much. And his face was not his gentle face. It was the face of the tall Arian that came to torment him.

Once again he was dragged by the collar though the snowy path to his house, the same path he and Jojen used to run in. Now it was tainted with his blood and the muddy footprints of the Arian. He would scream for Jojen but he would not come to him, he would not hear him, would not protect him.

He got a dreaded feeling that maybe-

Maybe Jojen was the Arian.

Finally he was thrown to the marble floor with a resounding crack.

Bran's eyes shot open. He was panting and sweating, mouth in mid-scream. But somehow no sound came out. It was covered with the hand of his father, quieting him.

He looked like he aged a few decades in a short time. There was grime in his face, and bags under his eyes that were bloodshot. His lips were cracked and dry.

Bran realized the nightmare was not over just yet.

His father spoke, "You're awake? You've been sleeping for a whole day."

Bran tried to sit up but only winced in the pain.

"I had to quiet your screams at night or they might force you to be quiet." Ned explained getting a cloth to whip the sweat off Bran's brow. "Permanently."

Bran understood. He nodded.

Ned looked away. "I'm sorry, son." his voice was filled with dread.

Bran interrupted, he didn't like seeing hid Dad defeated like this. "It's not your fault, I shouldn't have ran-"

"No, let me say this." Now Ned was tender but firm. "I should have come to your aid earlier. But I didn't notice, with all the chaos. I was too busy making sure they don't hurt the others." the words came out in a hushed hurry.

Again, Bran understood, he nodded. It wasn't his father's fault, it was the Arian's.

"My legs-" he started but couldn't find the voice to end.

His father's face darkened. He did not wish to sugarcoat the truth. Bran deserved to know however hard it may be. "They are bent out of shape. I suspect your left ankle bone is broken." this part his eyes darkened even more. "And both your knees too."

Bran's eyes watered. No wonder he couldn't feel his legs from the upper thighs under. His leg nerves were clashed. Blended into disarray. But he couldn't allow himself to cry in front for his father who was also trying to be strong for him.

"Think I'll be able to walk again?" He asked after he gathered his senses.

What Ned said was grave and low. "Not without proper medical attention." that you won't be able to ever get in this war. The rest didn't need to be said. Bran already knew. There was no hope for his legs.

His eyes watered again, and he tried to force them down again. But it was harder this time. He turned his face away. Ned let him. He gave him some privacy and went back to his own bunk.

They were in a concentration camp now. He could see that in the numerous cramped bunks in the all too small room. He could see it in the hollow eyes of the other people there with the stars of David on their shirts and sleeves. He could even smell it in the dirt and rotting flesh scent that clung to the air.

This was hell.

He was in Hell now.

After a long silence he asked. "Where's Robb and the others?"

There was a pregnant silence. Ned didn't want to respond. He was too grief stricken. But he did, and when he did his voice came out as barely a whisper. "Robb is probably outside being forced to work for them." Even softer still, "Your mother, Sansa, Arya and Rickon were separated from us. Taken to a different camp for women and children."

It was pointless to hope, but he wished that wherever his mother, brother and sisters are, that they were in a better place and were being treated well. They were women and children after all.

He would whisper this to himself at night before he slept, but somehow he knew it was a lie.

Note:

Please again excuse any mistakes I've made. I'll try to speed it up starting now. He would meet Jojen in a while. For now, I tried to include him a bit to keep you going through the chapter.

Reviews would be much appreciated. Thank you for reading.