The darkness surrounded him, cradled him, and Bran took deep breaths in complete peace. Silence kept him company and he supported his head against the stone. The crypts were so peaceful, so calm. He enjoyed spending time down there, his soul mingling with those of the past, his mind standing still, standing eternal.

Down there time was no more. He floated in no light, no rush. A world of no judgement and no pressure, he was both powerless and powerful in the darkness. The ties keeping him in earth gone, his useless legs feeling weightless. He was free. To fly, to dream, to breath.

The crypts were his safe haven. A haven he shared with his blood, his ancestors; and they kept silence for him, they shared their freedom with him.

The faintest feel of warmth alerted him of the presence of another living person. He didn't feel alarmed, he knew only one living person that could be so silent, that could walk in the shadows as if it were her rightful place.

Arya sat alongside him in the tomb and rested her head against the stone of their father's statue.

"How did you get here, brother?" she asked quietly. Bran smiled.

"Flying."

He didn't see her smile, but he felt it. Her hand found his and he caressed her fingers soothingly. She was troubled, something was clouding her heart and he felt sorry; her heart had been so light lately, so bright.

"What is wrong?" he asked though he knew she wouldn't answer so easily.

"Nothing is wrong, brother. Why do you ask?"

"You come to the shadows again, sister. The shadows shelter you when you are feeling broken."

He heard her take a swift breath, her heart fluttered for just a second before she pulled it under her command, willing it to remain calm. He was fascinated by her self control, the power upon herself. Such discipline.

"Here, in the crypts, I feel like I'm sheltered against the living. I feel like the darkness understands me. It won't judge."

"I won't judge either."

"I'm sure you won't, brother. I heard you breathing down here, I could've walked away. There's a reason why I decided to go down anyway."

"You feel sheltered even with me here?"

"Yes."

The answer made him proud and he smile lovingly. Out of all his family, he felt like Arya understood what he had gone through the most. The secrecy, the magic, the blood. All their siblings had gone through terrible things, but only him and Arya had gone through power of similar natures.

"Is it hard to walk away from the Many Faced God?" he wasn't sure of her problem, of what troubled her, so he offered an option. Maybe her time with the Faceless Men was haunting her, maybe she needed shelter from the living because the dead had been by her side for so long she didn't know how to serve life anymore.

Apparently, it wasn't the right option.

"You don't walk away from the Many Faced God. It will get us all, in the end, and He'll always have me; I guess" her voice flowed easily when she spoke such dreadful words and he understood her feelings completely. The Gods, once they chose you, once they claimed you, they never truly let you go. "But death loses its grip. Life can too be a gift, and the God of Death knows my answer."

He turned his face to her with a questioning stare even though the darkness wouldn't let him see her, nor let her see him. She seemed to sense his question.

"Not today. If I feel Him too close, that's my answer. Not today."

"I see."

Silence swirled around them once more and Bran stared straight ahead. She was troubled still and he didn't exactly know what it was about, but she would tell him eventually; or share just the right amount of information. He was just being patient, like life had taught him to be.

"What do you think he would say? What do you believe he would think?" he could hear how her other hand was caressing the stone behind them and Bran knew what she meant. Father.

There was something in the tone of her voice, in the way she asked her question, that told him it wasn't about obvious things. It wasn't about what father would think of them as a family, or of the way they were ruling, or of the way they had rebuilt Winterfell. It was about something else.

This is about Jon.

He blinked lazily, the movement making no difference in what he could see, and she waited quietly for his answer. Back then, back when they were children, she wouldn't have waited. She would've demanded her answer or lose interest and walk away. She was so reckless back then.

The sister that was sitting at his side had too much discipline and confidence on her own abilities too lose control of the situation. Because he needed to admit that, she always had control of her situations. She was in control now and Bran had to mold to her rules to obtain the information he wanted. It was like a game of pushing the traits the other had acquired while being away. It felt right, it felt healthy. They were coming to terms with who they had become in the darkness and were pushing themselves to the light.

"I believe he would understand. I believe he would think us wise, strong. Our pack would make him smile."

Arya exhaled slowly, the air leaving her lungs taking the cloud off her heart on its way out. He felt her smile again-a small change in the air, in her energy; and he knew she was smiling.

"You always choose the right words."

Bran laughed. "It's a talent."

She squeezed his hand in what he took as a silent thank you and stood up.

"Do you need help going back up?"

He shook his head, even though he knew she couldn't see him. Or maybe she can see in darkness. The thought made him smile.

"Don't worry. I'll fly once I want to go up there."

Her laughter followed her out of the crypts and Bran closed his eyes again.

The crypts are such a peaceful place.


They were speaking in hushed voices, Arya and Jon.

Bran was watching them through the eyes of one of the crows that lived in the Broken Tower, studying their behavior. Arya was smiling and Jon kept caressing his nose against hers.

Suddenly, Arya pushed him hastily and sat on the stone instead of his lap. Jon looked amused. Shaggydog trotted into the godswood, followed closely by Rickon. Bran wanted to laugh; his brother was no fool and had commanded his direwolf to go first to alert them of his presence.

They are still not comfortable about telling us. They keep their relationship a secret still, but at least now they know the true nature of their feelings.

Rickon sat alongside Arya and started telling her something, his hands gesturing wildly. Arya smiled at his brother and Bran smiled at the scene, his eyes drifting to Jon. He was looking at Arya lovingly, warmly.

Bran knew and understood many, many things; but Arya and Jon were somehow still a mystery. Every word, every gesture and every touch was part of a complicated dance he failed to understand completely. They gravitated around each other, pulling closer to then push away, innocent smiles and heated stares; they denied themselves the truth just to play a little bit longer. They were caught up in the chase, both of them wolves always eager to enjoy a good hunt.

Bran knew where it would end, to what it would lead them to; and judging by Arya's question earlier, she knew too. Truth be told, their hearts had never truly parted from each other and now that they were back together, they would not deny themselves what the other wanted. Such luck, to desire the same thing. Bran knew this as he knew many things.

Arya would lose her patience first and Jon would comply because, truly, when hasn't he when it comes to her? The game would change slightly but, eventually, it would never end. It was set in stone, when it came to those two. For their souls to seek out the other and for their hearts to bend to the other's will. To belong and to own is such a curious thing. An eternal flame, forever lasting.

Bran marvelled at the strings of life and smiled when he heard Arya's laugh from afar. He didn't need to look to know it was Jon who had made her laugh in such a happy, carefree way. Nowadays it was only Jon who brought the old Arya back. The one that smiled more often, the one that still held innocence. Sometimes he thought Arya hid her old self on purpose, to hold her as a gift for Jon and only Jon. To have her as a glimpse of what they used to be, a contrast of what they now were and a promise of what they'd forever be.

Because there was no other word to describe them but soulmates, bound so strongly that the thought of them apart was unthinkable, improbable. Bran knew this as he knew many things. So he smiled and he let them be, and he prayed for them to always have each other and for the world to treat them kindly. After so much pain, they all deserved a little happiness.

He felt the bird's hunger and softly slipped out of its mind to let him feed alone. His attention drifted back to Sansa who was working on a new dress beside him in his room. They did this often, he warged somewhere to run or to fly, and Sansa worked with her needle or went through some letters. They shared the silence.

"Sister," he called to her and she hummed to let him know she was listening but didn't raise her eyes from her work. "I was thinking that Rickon could give her away."

Sansa raised her eyes, confused. "Give who away?"

"Arya, of course. On her wedding with Jon."

Sansa laughed so much her face turned as red as her hair.


A/N: Yes, I am obsessed with Bran and Sansa planning the wedding.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! And, please, please, please; tell me what you think about it! And, by the way, thank you so muchfor every single comment you've left in my works and every single word of support. I love you all and you make my day so bright and you make me so happy everytime you read what I write. So a big thank you to all of you.