Chapter 9
The Prince of the Nightfort
It was a cold night. In the distance, they could hear the rumbling of storms, coming from the north. When the stormy winds buffered against the Wall, sometimes it felt like the whole earth was trembling. They could hear the wind howling over the Wall, a constant, dull shriek above them. The sound made Bran shiver.
"You should eat your stew, Bran," said Jojen.
"I'm not hungry," Bran replied.
"You're lying," Jojen said. "We might not have rabbit again for a while. You should eat."
Bran stared at the bowl of rabbit stew. Bran had watched Jojen cook it. After they stripped the good meat off the bones, everything that was leftover went into a stew. Everything from bones to brain to organs, all mushed into the same stew with turnip and a sprinkling of herbs. A beggar's stew, Meera called it – for the times when food was so scarce that absolutely nothing could go to waste.
They were all wearing thin. The days and nights trapped at the Nightfort had not been kind. Bran had spent three days solid on the same patch of cold stone, staring upwards at the weirwood tree above him.
Meera kept busy hunting and scouting. Jojen meditated, or cooked. Even Hodor helped to clear the abandoned buildings, searching for old chunks of metal that could make ice picks, or stripping hemp that could be woven into rope. Meera had been talking for a while about crafting enough rope and a cradle to carry Bran up the Wall, and carry him down. Like he was some sort of infant that needed a crib.
Everyone kept busy, except for Bran – the useless little prince lying on the floor.
And, slowly, the thought that had turned from an idle curiosity began to loom larger and larger in his mind. He was obsessing over it, and he couldn't stop. Maybe I don't have to be Bran Stark anymore…
Jojen looked at him, as if he was reading his mind. "You can't take another body, Bran," he said.
"Why not?" Bran demanded. "I take Summer's."
"You borrow Summer's body. What you're talking about is stealing."
Bran didn't reply. "… I've been practising, you know," he said slowly. "On rats and crows. It's getting easier. It takes a while, but…"
"You think you could cross the Wall if you had another body."
Bran nodded.
"And what about your current body?"
"It's broken, isn't it?" he snapped. He remembered how Sansa used to throw out her old dolls when they cracked.
"If you take a new body," Jojen said slowly. "Then you wouldn't be Bran Stark anymore."
Maybe I don't want to be Bran Stark anymore, he almost said.
"Please Bran," Jojen continued. "You are a Stark, and that's important. You are important. Leave these thoughts behind."
Bran never did. The storm lasted for two more days. The rain scattered over the Wall, leaking through the broken roof of the Nightfort. The weather was so treacherous that they all huddled together in the dark kitchen, taking what little shelter the cracked ceiling offered.
In a way, Bran was the only one who was free. Bran could move into Summer whenever he wanted. He could even manage the rats or birds, if he really focused; but only to an extent. Those animals were difficult – they had to be forced. Squeezing himself into a rat's skin felt almost like crushing the animal in his palm.
One night, Bran found a rat – an old grey rat that lingered by his feet long enough for him to grab its skin. For the next day and a half, almost continuously, Bran skittered around rubble and dark passages of the ruined castle. He stared through the rat's beady, half-blind eyes, from a perspective that he hadn't even been able to imagine.
By the time Bran finally pulled himself out of the rat, he felt the creature just keel over as soon as he left. The rat gasped for breath, twitched, and then died. It was like whatever mind it had had been crushed when Bran entered it, and when Bran left its body died too. Bran might as well have stepped on that rat when he pushed himself into its body.
Bran didn't stop thinking about what that might be like. Whenever he went into a new body, there was always that link to his old one – the connection that pulled him back to his original skin, like a ship's anchor. He didn't truly become a creature; he was just partway squeezing his head and shoulders into its skin, while his feet remained grounded. What would it be like to break that connection, to dive completely into another skin?
It made him think of what the three-eyed crow had said about flying. Was that what it meant to fly? Bran supposed it would be like being reborn. It would be like dying and coming back to life again.
Some days, Bran wondered what else he might be able to do. One day, he spent twelve hours continuously staring at a spider creeping over the stones, wondering if he might be able to take the spider's body too. He couldn't sense the spider in his third eye, but then again, he hadn't been able to sense the rats and the birds at first either.
Jojen noticed him, and frowned. "… I think it might be best if you try to avoid skinchanging for a while, Bran. Try to avoid using it," Jojen said carefully, as if expecting an argument. "Until we find the three-eyed crow."
Bran didn't reply.
Later that day, Meera came to him, with a soft smile. "How are you, Bran?" Meera said in a low voice. "… I know things haven't been comfortable lately, but…"
Her voice trailed off slowly. Did Jojen tell her to check on him?
"We've reached a decision," Meera said. "Jojen doesn't want to stay here any longer, he thinks this place might have a bad influence. We've decided to head east, to Castle Black."
Bran's eyes widened. "Jon…"
Meera nodded. "Yes, your brother. We're going to try and reach him. Just Jon, though – we can't trust the other rangers, Jojen thinks Castle Black might also be dangerous." Of course, she would follow Jojen. "But we can try to draw out Jon individually. We're going to try and convince Jon to escort us north to the three-eyed crow."
Bran took a deep breath. "When?" Bran asked. The thought of seeing Jon again…
"As soon as the storm clears," Meera promised, clutching his hand with a smile. "Couple of days."
His skin felt warm where she touched. Bran felt his heart flutter, staring into her eyes. She was older than he was, but so pretty with brown hair and green eyes. He hadn't thought she was that pretty at first, but she was…
… Maybe if I had legs, he thought suddenly. I could stand up and kiss her.
His eyes drooped down towards the floor.
Even after dusk, when everyone else went to sleep for the night, sheltered from the scattering rain, Bran was wide awake and thinking about how he might take a new body. A body that could stand up, that could climb. To take a brand new body… it would have to be human. Bran could borrow other skins for a time, but he couldn't imagine living fully as anything else but human.
Not for the first time, Bran found himself staring at Hodor, and wondering.
Just like the rat, Bran strongly suspected that if he went all the way in, he would have to kill the current occupant. Hodor doesn't deserve that, Bran thought. Hodor was kind, gentle and innocent – he protected Bran, carried him…
Still, at night, sometimes, Bran dreamt about being a large knight, standing tall and armoured in black on a battlefield…
In the distance, Bran heard the thunder roll from the north.
Everyone else was asleep, huddled by the wall against the rain. Hodor sat by the opposite side, snoring against the wall. Meera slept coiled next to him. Jojen lay in the centre, shifting and muttering restlessly in his sleep, like he was having a bad dream.
Bran was wide awake. He closed his eyes and concentrated reaching out around. In the lower floors, he found a rat – a young rat picking apart one of the rotted wooden beams of the old keep. Its body trembled and convulsed as Bran caught it. Despite the rat's struggles, he didn't let go. He pushed his way in furiously, squeezing forcefully into the rat's skin.
Rats were worse than birds. They would constantly try to slip and struggle away from Bran, like it thought it could escape his grip. Bran had to hold tightly, so tightly the rat might strangle itself by struggling.
As soon as the rat's resistance shattered, Bran was skittering down the beam on tiny, fast paws. The rat's vision was blurry and nearly useless, but its nose was so sharp and sensitive. Bran wanted to keep on searching the deep vaults, the places so buried that only a rat could really reach them.
He spent hours crawling in the rat's skin, through buried passageways so black that there was no light at all. The rat's whiskers twitched, paws tracing across a chunk of metal buried in a half-collapsed tunnel.
There was no warning as suddenly sharp teeth bit into the rat's hide, tearing through skin. The rat squealed. Bran screamed – gasping upwards as the pain hit him.
The warg shattered. Bran jumped awake, yanking himself back to his own body as he felt the rat's life extinguish. Bran was left gasping for breath, clutching his waist and half-expecting to feel bite marks.
Around him, the others still slept soundly. Jojen squirmed restlessly in his sleep.
It was another rat, Bran thought, replaying that brief moment. Another rat – a larger, older rat – ambushed his rat from behind. It tore the younger rat apart and ate it. He hadn't been able to see it, but Bran wondered if that cannibal rat might have had white fur, like the Rat Cook that Old Nan always used to tell him about.
Perhaps that is all the Rat Cook was, Bran wondered, maybe he was just a man that died and warged a second life in the body of a rat? What would it be like to totally become another creature? Could the Rat Cook have then warged into another rat when the first one died? Maybe the Rat Cook became immortal, constantly switching and possessing the body of the biggest rat in the castle for five hundred years, until nothing remained of the man more than a desire for cannibalism…?
Around him, the weirwood tree rippled in the wind and rain. The sound of the rain and the distant howl of the storm was a constant drone in the backdrop. The night was restless, and Bran's eyes were heavy, right up until the moment he heard a voice echo in the distance.
Bran's heart skipped. His whole body jerked. At first, he thought the shadows were speaking to him.
And then he heard a second voice. It was distant, indistinct, like the first, but it was getting closer. For a moment, there was nothing but pure panic. And then slowly, the rational part of his brain took over. There are people in the Nightfort.
He saw ravens burst into the sky from a nearby tower. They bird had been disturbed, by figures moving closer through the keep, from the north.
Who? How? Are they after me, how could they find us, why are they here…?
"Wake up!" Bran hissed, at Jojen and Meera. "Wake up, there's someone here…"
They didn't even twitch. It was late, the Nightfort had been deserted for so long, they had long since stopped keeping sentries at night. Bran dared not raise his voice. If he had legs, he would have stood up to reach Jojen, to shake him awake. Instead, Bran had to crawl over the ground awkwardly to reach the boy.
Jojen mumbled incoherently. Bran practically had to clutch his mouth, causing the crannogman to jolt awake. Bran could suddenly hear footsteps, behind the hum of the storm. Summer shot up suddenly. The direwolf would have pounced and attacked, if Bran hadn't have held him back.
Jojen's eyes were wide. Meera looked awake too, suddenly, while Hodor was still sleeping. None dared to make a noise, frozen solid. Meera slowly reached for her three-pronged frog spear by her bags. Bran could hear footsteps just outside of the kitchens, splashing through the puddles on the broken stones.
"… This place is a ruin," a voice growled from outside.
"It's a big ruin," another replied with a snort. "The crows won't search it. We can hide here for a while."
"Fuck hiding," a man snapped, stepping closer. The shadows looked like he was struggling to light a torch through in the faint rain. "We should have stuck to Mance's old plan. Kill every fucking crow in their castle and open the gates."
Wildlings, Bran thought with a gasp. They are wildlings…!
There was a gasp as the torch finally let, sizzling in the rain. "Oh aye? Tough guy with an ice-pick, ain't you Sven?" A hoarse voice laughed. A woman's voice. "You reckon you can take on a hundred crows all by yourself?"
"We lost thirty men climbing that bloody Wall," the man snapped. He sounded like a big man. "If you had only waited for better weather–"
"We climbed during the storm because then we're sure there won't be any crows on the Wall, during the storm!" Another snapped. "Any other time, and maybe we would have been spotted, and none of us would have made it."
Bran tried to count the footsteps. At least a dozen. He saw more torches being lit. A dozen men and women strong enough to climb the Wall. "You bloody…!"
"Enough!" a man snapped. He stepped into the flickering light, Jojen pulled Bran further into the shadows of the enclave of the Wall. Bran caught a glimpse of the wildling – tall, lean, with dark hair and fierce eyes. He wore boiled leather and sheepskin furs. "You say another bloody word Sven, I gut you. I don't give a damn for your whining."
There was a pause. "We stick to the plan," the man continued. "We hide out here. We lower ropes for the others when they come. Maybe if we get the men we assault Castle Black, but if not we just go south ourselves."
"If we want to get more, then we need to send people back north to fetch them, Jarl," another complained, a woman. She clutched a spear.
"Bugger that," the large man cursed. "I ain't ever stepping north of that Wall again. I'll face the sword before I face the dead again. We southerners, now."
Bran's heart was pounding madly. In the shadows, behind the wall, Meera had her frog spear and net, Summer's teeth were bared, but Bran counted thirteen figures in the torch light. His lungs froze, but slowly the footsteps started to move away. They were walking away from the kitchens, towards the keep. Probably looking for shelter.
Meera met Jojen's eyes, and then shook her head. Nobody dared make a noise, instead just listening to the free folk bicker. They are walking away, Bran realised. Maybe just a bit further, and we could slip out without them noticing.
In the clouds, the lightning cracked. Moments later, he heard the thunder rumble loudly. Suddenly, Hodor shot awake. Meera couldn't restrain him in time.
"Hodor!" The stable boy cried, jolting awake in fear. "Hodor!"
The single word echoed behind the thunder. Bran heard the footsteps stop. "What the hell was that?"
"Move!" Meera hissed, half-dragging Bran across the ground. "Quickly, run, move…!"
Summer was growling. Feet were racing. "Hodor!" Hodor shouted in panic. "Hodor, hodor!"
"Grab Bran!" Meera cursed, as Bran tried weakly to crawl. Meera had her hunting trident and net, even Jojen clutched a dagger, but Bran had never felt as useless as when Hodor frantically hoisted him upwards from the arms. In an instant, Bran was being thrown over Hodor's shoulders like a sack.
There was shouting. Bran saw Summer dash forward. Hodor was cluttering across the ground, carrying Bran like a bale of hale, while Jojen ran next to him. With barely a conscience thought, Bran felt himself slip away into Summer's skin.
The direwolf was snarling, angry, feeling the danger in the air. Bran could smell the danger, enemies clutching torches and spears running towards them. He saw flickering shadows and weapons being drawn through the light drizzle of the rain.
The first wildling barrelled through the doorway, but Meera's frog spear was ready and waiting for him. He was big man, but Meera jabbed upwards, catching him off-guard and her three-pronged spear plunged straight into his neck. The man tried to catch the lunge instinctively, but he was too slow and blood spurted everywhere. He thrashed in pain sharply, slamming physically into Meera. Even with a spear half-jutting out of his throat, however, the wildling didn't fall down, and instead twisted around and tried desperately to yank the spear out of Meera's hands.
Meera was skilled and fast, but the wildling was much bigger, tougher and stronger.
She shouted, half in pain and half in anger, as the man grabbed her, but Meera reacted fluidly. With her other hand, her hunting net swung forward, tangling into the next wildling through the doorway and sending him crashing to the ground. Then, Meera twisted out with both hands on the spear, trying to wrestle the man down and plunge the spear deep into his throat. He was gargling in pain, but even as he choked on his own blood he still wrestled against Meera.
More men were charging through the doorway. The chaos was immediate. Meera forced the man's thrashing body backwards with her spear, trying to block the doorway, but then he managed to rip the weapon out of her grasp. Meera swiftly drew her hunting knife, abandoning the trident without a second thought, and screamed wordlessly as she plunged the knife into the man's chest repeatedly. The narrow blade cut through leather and into flesh with a horrible spurting sound.
The wildlings behind him slammed forward. A wildling woman plunged at Meera with a spear, ready to skewer her like a boar, but at that moment Summer lunged into the fray of thrashing bodies.
"Direwolf!" A wildling screamed, clutching his bronze sword. Everything dissolved into tooth and claw, panic and chaos. "Bloody direwolf!"
The first man fell quickly under Summer's teeth. The spearwife clattered to the ground with the wolf's claws scraped across her shoulder. The man Meera wrestled with was still thrashing, but weakly as he fell to the ground and dragged her with him. Meera panted, smeared in blood, clutching her hunting knife with trembling hands.
Two down, one injured, and one trying to disentangle himself from a net. Still, there were nine more wildlings, all ready and armed, and the element of surprise had vanished.
"Kill the bloody wolf!" The wildling – Jarl – snapped, stabbing forward with his spear. They were big men, experienced, they all knew how to hold their weapons. "Kill it!"
The first spear nearly gutted Summer. The direwolf barely managed to lunge beside the thrust, his jaws snapping, but the spears kept him back. Meera gasped as another wildling slammed forward at her, swinging a bronze sword. She barely ducked under the blow and managed to graze his shoulder with her knife, but then the man's other arm twisted and smashed her to the ground. The blow hit Meera squarely on the nose. Bran, through Summer's eyes, saw her blood spurt as she dropped to the floor.
Bran howled in shock. He barely avoided the lunge of another spear. Ten against two, Bran thought. Too many, even for Summer. We need Hodor.
Bran dropped himself out of Summer, and back into his own body. Hodor was carrying him over his shoulder as they ran through the ruined keep, towards the old library. Bran saw Jojen cry out, "Bran, don't–!"
Bran didn't even pause. Suddenly, he was jumping straight into Hodor's skin, so quickly the stable boy couldn't even protest. The struggle for control was swift and decisive. He crushed Hodor's protests easily, seizing control of Hodor's limbs. Bran's own body fell out of Hodor's arms, splashing limply onto the wet stone, yet Bran didn't even feel himself fall. He was already in Hodor.
Suddenly, Bran felt big and strong. Hodor growled as he turned and stamped back towards the kitchen.
"Hodor!" he shouted. He had tried to shout 'Meera!'
Hodor picked up a large stone, heaving it upwards in both hands like a club. Gods, Bran almost forgot what it felt like to have legs, to feel so strong…
Both Meera and Summer were running. Meera was gasping for breath, clutching her nose as she fled while Summer turned to try and lead them away from her, to split their forces. Three men chased after Meera, four men and a spearwife tried to corner Summer at the far end of the kitchens. That left another two wildlings running after Bran and Jojen.
Both of them had spears and swords. Hodor would have cowered and whimpered, but Bran ran straight through.
"Who the fuck are you people?!" One of the wildlings shouted at Hodor, raising his spear.
"Hodor!" Hodor bellowed, swinging the stone like a hammer. "Hodor!"
The bronze spear tip plunged into Hodor's shoulder. Bran felt the pain cut through him, but his arms were still swinging.
The rock collided against the wildling's head. Bran felt his skull crack like an egg.
Bran had never a killed a man before, but in Hodor's body it just felt so easy.
The other man swung his sword. Hodor barrelled into him, but his sword still scraped against Hodor's thigh. They both tumbled to the ground, Hodor roared in pain. Bran hadn't felt pain like it; he felt the skin tear under the blunt metal edge, taking out Hodor's leg from underneath him.
The raider tried to clamber upwards. Hodor's arms seemed to work on pure instinct. Hodor grabbed the man by the collar, and dragged him to the ground with him. He thrashed and he kicked, but Hodor barely even felt the pain. Then, Hodor's big, strong hands were wrapping around the man's throat and choking the life out of him. Hodor had such strong hands.
Bran felt the adrenaline tear through him. He watched the man's face turned bloated purple. He heard the man gagging, felt him thrashing, but slowly becoming weaker and weaker.
At the far side of the room, Summer tore off a man's arm with his teeth. Still the other four wildlings plunged forward, fighting the feral wolf back desperately. Bran could see the plumes of blood scattered across Summer's hide from where the spears had caught him. The direwolf was limping on its left hind leg, weakening with every blow. Summer was strong and vicious, but teeth and claws couldn't compete with spears.
They're going to kill Summer, he realised with shock. They're going to kill Summer, and Jojen, and Meera….
Hodor tried to move, but the stable boy couldn't stand. Hodor's leg was oozing blood, his body shivering.
I've got to protect Summer.
Suddenly, Bran pushed himself outwards. He wasn't quite sure if he'd be able to bring himself back in again, but he didn't care anymore. He could feel the ravens flocking in the sky, the rats skittering on the ground.
The desperation forced him forward. Through his third eye, he focused on a raven and he pushed with all of his might. The raven's will folded like paper as Bran powered through, seizing control of its body…
In an instant, there was a squawking bundle of feathers and claws bursting through a hole in the ceiling, straight for the raider's eyes. Bran felt sharp talons and beak tearing through screaming flesh…
Bran gasped, struggling to process it. The distraction was enough for Summer to snap forward between the spears, throwing the wildlings back. Without even pausing, Bran reached out to grab another bird.
Can I control two bodies at once? He hadn't even realised he might be able to, but in that moment he just was. He could feel both the birds pecking and squealing madly under his grip, but Bran just threw them both to attack in a suicidal charge.
The thought made him tremble. One of the birds died as a raider snapped its neck. Bran felt the crack as the bird's life was snuffed out. It hurt – he could feel the spike of pain as its neck jolted – but there was no time to focus on it. Bran was already grabbing a third bird, and then a fourth, and then a fifth…
And then, in an instant, the kitchens were roaring with black, flapping, scratching shapes…
The feeling was incredible. It felt indescribable. It felt like Bran was everywhere. He was in a dozen bodies at once, driving them all to attack as one.
He could feel the man screaming and bleeding. He could feel their eyeballs popping under talons. He could feel the weirwood tree rippling, and the rain pounding against the stones.
And then he felt Summer's teeth tear through the men one by one. The birds scratched out their eyes, and then the direwolf tore out their throats. The men were sent flailing in panic, and then Summer's jaws lunged onto them. The wildlings in the kitchen were falling quickly. They died screaming and thrashing.
Meera, Bran thought. I need to save Meera.
Meera had ran off further into the castle, chased by four men. The swarm of birds twisted, flapping after them. Bran felt eleven bodies under his control, but they moved so fluidly it was like he only controlling one.
Bran could smell smoke. He could hear the sound of fighting, and rain hissing against flames.
Bran gasped as he dropped back into his own body. Painfully. His head spinning. He heard screaming, and squawking in the distance. Bran was on the ground, with Jojen stood over him protectively clutching a dagger.
Meera. Meera is screaming. He had never heard Meera scream before.
Meera must have to circle back around to Bran and Jojen, but the wildlings chased her down. They were in the old library, across from the keep, surrounded by rotten wood and dust. The wildlings dragged Meera into the corner of the room, kicked and forced her to the ground….
"Leave her alone!" Jojen bellowed, clutching his dagger with both hands. "Leave her –"
A backhanded slap took him to the ground. Bran gasped, trying desperately to concentrate as his head swam with panic.
Four wildlings. There are four wildlings left, while Summer tore through the last of the group back in the kitchen. Meera must have knocked a torch out of a man's hand, sending one of the wooden rafters up in flames. Even despite the rain, the rotten wood was burning and crackling around them, gushing smoke and hissing sparks. Bran could feel the thick smoke sting in his throat and eyes, his head rushing madly, so madly he could barely think…
The moment froze. Bran could see Meera screaming, the ruined library burning, the black sky still spattering rain.
"The girl has fight in her!" A raider laughed, grabbing Meera's wrists as he pinned her to the ground. "I like the fighters!"
"The boys do not," another growled. Bran could barely gasp as suddenly the raider's foot crunched into his chest. His head swam, struggling to concentrate. "What do you reckon? Orphans squatting out?"
Bran saw Jojen try to clamber up, but then the big man downwards smacked him. Bran wheezed weakly, struggling for breath, staring upwards the billows of smoke, the birds cawing madly…
"That little bitch killed Sven!" A wildling growled, glaring at Meera.
"Sven was a fool," the wildling growled, still wrestling with Meera. She was a good fighter, but he was still just so much bigger and stronger than her. Bran saw her eyes wide and pale. "… But this girl is mine! I'm taking her."
Bran could barely breathe as he watched the man tear open Meera's tunic with his bare hands. He saw pale skin, turned red from where he gripped her. Meera tried to struggle, but the man was on top of her, pinning her to the ground while his hands…
He's going to rape her. He's going to rape her right here and now, in the pouring rain with half the building on fire.
Bran's heart pounded. He felt something snap. It sounded like a chain breaking in his mind.
He heard the fire crackling. He heard screaming.
And he heard Summer snarling furiously, like some monster out of Old Nan's tales, as the wolf lunged out of the darkness straight at the wildling standing over Bran. The raider went down quickly under the massive direwolf's snapping jaws.
Two wildlings tried to raise axes, but then there were ravens and crows squawking madly down through the smoke, clawing at eyes. Tearing their faces off. Bran couldn't even remember consciously giving the order, but the birds just followed his unconscious commands almost instinctively…
And the burning library dissolved into pure panic. All sanity disappeared and the world seemed consumed by tooth and claw, smoke and screaming, and so, so much blood.
The wildlings fell quickly. Bran had never felt Summer so bloodthirsty before.
He could hear Meera screaming. The sound was like fire in Bran's blood.
The wildling clutching Meera was the last one standing. Meera's shirt was torn and hanging off, revealing pale delicate flesh, skinny ribs and a flat exposed breast, her entire chest was covered in bruises and painful whelps. The wildling's breeches were half off, but he clutched a dagger to Meera's throat.
His eyes were wide, horrified. The birds cawed while the direwolf tore through his colleagues in an instant. His face turned pale, staring at the snarling giant wolf with blood dripping from its maw…
"Stay back!" the wildling screamed, clutching his dagger. His words were barely audible over the burning and the cawing. "Get that wolf away from me or I tear open the girl's throat."
Summer approached, one paw in front of the other slowly. The direwolf's eyes shone in the darkness. The raider was screaming something, but Bran couldn't hear it. The sound of Meera's screams echoed in his head.
And then their eyes met. There was no thought involved, just pure rage and panic. Bran lunged. He lunged outwards like a wolf.
Bran concentrated on the raider and he pushed. He pushed harder than he had ever pushed before, with anger he hadn't even imagined…
Bran felt the man's mind. He felt the pain, the fear, so thick it was like smoke, but Bran didn't care. He wrapped his power around the wildling and he squeezed.
He felt the man convulse, scream and thrash. It hurt, but Bran didn't stop. Gods, Bran felt so strong. Like he was tearing the life out of him. It felt like he was smothering the man's mind, crushing him in his grip…
The wildling was screaming as he dropped backwards, convulsing and shaking, fingers tearing at his own face. Bran refused to stop, he forced himself harder and further, tighter and tighter…
He felt the man's mind scream, Bran felt it snuff out beneath his grip. The man's spirit had burned like a raging flame, but Bran just felt him… extinguish, like squeezing a candle's flame in his hands. Instantly, all resistance disappeared, and then Bran felt himself falling inwards….
The world blurred.
Everything changed.
All around him, the birds were cawing and flapping madly. The smoke was hissing.
Meera was gasping as she clambered to her feet, her hands clutching a broken brick from the ground. Her clothes were still torn, half her chest bare. Her face was bloody. There were tears in her eyes.
"You bastard!" Meera shrieked, smashing the stone downwards onto the wildling's head. The man gaped in shock. "… You bastard! You bastard!"
The first blow sent the wildling's head spinning. The second caused his vision to blur. By the third, he barely managed to raise his arms to block Meera, while the girl pushed herself on top of him, kicking and slamming into the wildling with berserk strength.
"…No… don't…" the man gasped, struggling to stand. His legs trembled.
"You bastard!" Meera roared, trying to crack him again. "You…!"
"… No… Meera…" The wildling wheezed, collapsing to the ground, as blood dripped down from his cheeks. "… Don't… It's me… Bran…"
