III. King of Winter

Summary: It has been seven years since the war of Five Kings. Queen Daenerys has recovered the Iron throne from the Lannisters, and the war has been over for almost a year, yet no one can truly call it peace. The dragons are unruly, the Dothraki and the Unsullied have nowhere to go and Daenerys' true people are too frightened of her. In the north, Winterfell is being rebuilt and the Kings of Winter have sworn fealty to the new Targaryen. But Cersei Lannister and Stannis Baratheon lurk ever in the fringes, Melisandre's shadows have darkened the lands, Dorn and the Ironborn are stirring, and the Wall has been breached by the Others. This is what Arya Stark comes home to.

A/N: Hello! I'm sorry to disappoint again, but this isn't an Arya chapter... But the next one is. ;) As per comments, I will limit Sansa, but she is a Stark though I dislike her I think there is still great potential in her character. I downgraded what would be chapters of Dany and Cersei in lieu of keeping focus on the Stark children. Please enjoy! And should you choose to favorite the story or put it on your "alerts" list, please drop me a line. I'd love to hear what you think!

BRAN

Bran's blue-green gaze was faraway, unfocused; posture so rigid one could almost believe he was a sculpture on the throne, unmoving. But then he blinked and his eyes regained their glimmer and brightness.

Winterfell's hall was bustling with all sorts of people and smelled of newly cut pine, sweat, mead, garlic, and the cold. Bran could never really explain how something could smell "cold", but it did, and it nearly froze his damn nose off, too.

He surveyed the surroundings. Bran had instructed that the great hall should be the first thing to be rebuilt so it could be utilized as a townshall, a tavern and a sleeping shelter for all the smallfolk around Winterfell. This new hall was larger than the first, thirty paces wide and fifty paces long. The wooden beams had just been hauled up and secured, and most of the mortar on the walls were already dry and sturdy. The cobblestone floor was new, temporarily piled with furs, cushions and quilts. He'd heard one of his bannersmen, Alric Hornwood compare the place to an indoor Tyroshi bazaar- cramped, noisy and chaotic. And it was chaotic even at the end of the day- a haphazard mix of soldiers carrying in equipment, carpenters in the corner drinking their mead, masons pouring over scrolls, drafts and arithmetic, children sewing new trousers by the fire and other servants trying to put things into order. Rhythmic thumping and pounding could be heard faintly from the other rooms of the castle.

Bran was seated on a large bronze and iron throne at the end of the Hall, touching the iron wolf heads snarling from each handrest. It was a seat elevated with several steps; heavy, guarded and rigid -characteristic of any northern man. If Bran felt uncomfortable, he did not show it. On the steps below him sat his castellan, Jojen Reed.

Bran shook his head at the man, "The falcons don't see 'nything more, Jojen."

Jojen sighed, rubbing the ache on the bridge of his nose while Meera stepped up beside them, "s'alright Jojen," she soothed, patting him on the head as if he were a pet, "We've done enough scouting anyway."

Bran smiled, thinking Meera looked five years younger than she had any right to be. In the time he'd spent with the Reed siblings, Bran had watched Jojen's heavy wisdom overpower his features, so that even if he was not more than twenty, his eyes had the look of a man past thirty, gloomy and troubled all the time. In contrast, Meera's tiny crannogman stature and sunny disposition made her seem like a child.

"I'm still Warden of the North, and they're close to Winterfell, Meera," cautioned Bran, brushing a lock of hair away from his face, "We have to monitor their movements."

He caught Meera glancing at the top of his head, where a tuft of his auburn hair had turned sandy-white. He'd had other changes too, Bran admitted. After being cooped up with Coldhands for nearly four years and then travelling across the north for three, he'd lost the last of his baby fat and gained many inches of length on his body. He would have been tall if he still had use of his feet. Bran had also developed sinewy muscles on his upper torso for all the effort it took carrying his lower weight. The strangest development though, were the strange green rings around the blue of his eyes.

Bran brought his hand down to where Summer lay sprawled beside him, and the direwolf began licking at his fingers enthusiastically. "And more troubling," Bran said, frowning, "I couldn't find Jon anywhere. He must sense the cold by now."

"Jon Snow has his dragonglass, his torches, his men. He can take care of himself," Jojen replied solemnly, "I am more worried about your people in the logging camp, Your Grace."

The title swiftly made the hair at the back of Bran's neck stand on end.

"Stop saying that!" Bran growled loudly, "You know I hate it when you say that."

Jojen blinked, but his face remained the same. "You should be glad I'm not calling you Summer."

Realizing how his outburst had probably frightened Meera, Bran looked away. His strange new temperaments were quite well known, but it still scared him as well as all who knew him. He was ashamed of his lack of self control, that he could not taper the unnecessary outbursts as often as he should, and also because he had no way of controlling them while he slept. He could never quite forget that night when he'd glimpsed Meera and Jojen's distraught, bloodied expressions as they shook him awake from all his growling, snapping, howling and snarling.

"Sorry," he said, "Y-you know it's difficult having so many skins."

An awkward silence prevailed until Meera ventured, "Speaking of your other skins, what of the falcon you sent to the Kingsroad, with those rangers?"

Bran's lips tightened as he leaned back, his blue-green eyes unfocused again. Remaining in his glazed state he spoke to them, "Almost here. They brought the Braavosi."

"No clue who he is?"

Bran focused on Jojen, "I missed that conversation. Still, best to ride out and greet them by the gate."

"You could wait for them here."

"What, in this grand reception?" he gestured to the packs of children and smallfolk walking about, "If this Braavosi is a danger, best he see me where I could be feared."

He did not have to tell Summer to get up. The grey direwolf simply stretched out on the steps at his feet. Bran easily pulled himself off his chair and settled on the furred back, rubbing the sharp shoulder planes of his wolf as if to thank him. He did not need any holsters or straps for Summer's back, and although it often took a minute to climb up and settle, Summer never minded. He felt complete on him, like his own limbs were returning. Summer felt that satisfaction too.

Summer had grown. The Three-Eyed Crow had told them mature direwolves reached the size of male boars, but Summer was different. He refused to stop growing. Now he resembled a shaggy, fully grown bear on all fours, than a wolf. When Summer stood, he towered over the crannogsmen siblings.

"Your coat, Bran."

Meera tossed it to him as Summer walked out of the hall with Bran astride, one hand on Summer's long fur and the other settling the coat on his shoulders. Nobody dared block the wolf's path.

Outside, the night wind blew solid icicles upon Bran's auburn and white hair. Large torches were roaring along the perimeter of the unfinished walls. Worksmen and troops who spotted him lowered their heads humbly, but Bran greeted one or two and asked after their work. Nobody could really feel at ease while he was on his favourite mount though, for Summer was almost as tall as any of the horses and twice as wide- a beast with jaws glinting in the torchlight. When they passed the makeshift stables and the kennels, the horses began to neigh and balk while the hounds whined. Summer ignored them, prowling languidly towards the mouth of the gate, Jojen and Meera walking on either side of him.

His rangers came first, making their way across the sprawling road. The Braavosi rode well enough, but along the pass his mare began to skitter and halt- seeing the direwolf on the other end was no small fright. The Braavosi chose to dismount and give his reins to another man before walking on foot the rest of the way. Harrow and two of his men followed on foot as well.

"Hail, King of Winter."

It was a woman's voice, Bran realized, and with such directness that he could not help feel the mocking tone underneath. He frowned coldly, looking down at her, but the woman only stepped closer to his direwolf and brought down her hood.

She was a pretty enough girl, a little older than him with a long face, thick eyebrows and slate-grey eyes. Her long brown hair fell down her shoulders in tangles. There was something about her face that was strange but he couldn't put his finger on it- and it troubled him, especially the way she was smiling.

She was at ease, he realized, and failed even to bow like so many of his visitors did. The glinting knives on her leg caught his attention. Bran felt annoyed at the sudden intrusion, at the small air of arrogance this woman dared. Linked to his emotions, Summer began to growl.

"Hail," he said, cold as winter, "Are you friend or foe, stranger?"