Bran

Winter is coming. The Dreadfort seemed to grow colder and colder every day. Mayhaps it's just my cell. As soon as they reached the Dreadfort, Ramsay had ordered his men to drop Bran on the floor of a windowless room. The room had a featherbed and the door was always left wide open, but that didn't make it any less of a prison. Bran hadn't seen Rickon, Osha, Meera, or either of the Greyjoys since being placed in the room, but Ramsay visited him every day. The bastard always wanted to play some sort of "game." The only rule that mattered was that if Bran won, he'd get to ask one question before the bastard...took something. He'd already taken four teeth, two fingers, and a toe. He always lies whenever you ask him anything...

Bran had learned some things though, mostly because Ramsay was always complaining about his family, especially his brother Domeric. The worst part of the room was the stench. Bran had been left to lay in his own filth because no one would carry him to a privy. And he'd learned to never, ever call Ramsay a bastard. The last time I did that, he took two teeth and a finger...

"Good morning, cripple," said the bastard as he strode through the open doorway, Sour Alyn and Skinner following closely behind him. Skinner was carrying a bag of some sort. "I'm glad to see that you're enjoying your stay at the Dreadfort and... Seven Hells! You should really use a privy if you need to take a shit. No matte, as always, you are free to leave with your brother and the rest of your friends any time you want. All you have to do is get up and walk out of this room." Robb is going to put cut off your head someday. Jojen said that a member of my House would kill you. You're going to die screaming for someone to save you, but no one will.

"Staying put, are we? Well don't worry, little Lord, you'll always be welcome at the Dreadfort. Guess what, we're not going to play any games today."

"We're not?"

"I can see how disappointed you are. Very well, I shall take your left eye today. No need to thank me, little Lord. Your happiness is the only reward I require. Nothing to say? You're learning! Mayhaps you're not a half-wit, after all."

"Just a cripple, m'Lord."

"That's exactly right, Skinner," exclaimed the bastard. "A cripple who has been soiling himself for days because his legs don't work. But that's enough of that; the little Lord already knows he'll never walk again, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Bran muttered. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good boy! Now then, it's time for a field trip. I think it's past time we checked in on your little friends, don't you? My men will carry you to the dungeon. I believe you've already met Skinner and Sour Alyn. You know, you Starks may be the most self-righteous bastards in the seven kingdoms, but you were right about one thing. Wolves do make fine cloaks...or at least, that direwolf of yours certainly did."

...

The dungeon of the Dreadfort was so cold that it made Bran's room seem like Dorne. There's no one in any of these cells except Theon.

"My brother...where's Rickon?" Ramsay put his right index finger to his lip and glanced at his men. Skinner and Sour Alyn dropped Bran on the stone floor and for a moment the pain was so great that he thought his head had cracked open. Robb is going to kill all of you someday... I just have to stay alive until that day comes! Jojen's words were the only reason Bran had any self-restraint – or hope – when speaking to the bastard. Theon whimpered and wept, but said nothing. What did they do to him?

"Do you know what your sister did, turncloak," asked the bastard.

"N-no, my Lord."

"Since this is an educational field trip for the little Lord, I suppose it's only fitting that you're about to learn something too. Skinner, hand me the bag."

"Yes, m'Lord."

"Now then, you've been a very good boy, turncloak. I think you deserve a reward! I've got a pillow for you. Pay close attention, cripple. You're about to learn what happens to people who displease me." With that, the bastard reached into the bag and tossed a woman's head into Theon's lap. As the man who betrayed his family threw up all over himself and began to scream, Bran realized that he no longer bore the turncloak any ill will. Can you hear me, Old Gods? Whatever Theon did, no one deserves to suffer like this. I forgive him for what he has done to my House. If this is his punishment, let it end. Please...

"Your sister didn't get far after she escaped the Dreadfort. I must be a better hunter than the ones on the Iron Islands. It wasn't hard to track her down; I didn't even need to use the hounds, but I still gave them her organs. I had the head dipped in tar to slow the rot and you will sleep on it every night. Grunt will come by to check on you at random times and if you're not sleeping on it, I'll have you gelded. Oh and in case you get cold, I've had her skin sewn into a blanket for you. Isn't that generous of me?"

"Leave him alone, you bastard," snapped Bran.

"What did...What did you say?"

"I..."

"Skinner, Sour Alyn, bring this crippled cunt back to his room," snarled Ramsay as he unsheathed his flaying knife. "It would appear that he is a slower learner than I thought."

...

"I know why you're upset, little Lord. I promised to cut out your left eye. Don't worry, I didn't forget! In fact, I might as well cut both of them out while I'm here," snarled the bastard as his wormy lips curled into a savage smile. Tonight, I'll be free. I'll fly again... I'll still see in my dreams. "No, no, that won't do. First I'll show you what I've done to your brother. It'll be the last thing you see before I –"

"What is the meaning of this," a voice calmly asked from the doorway. "Put away the knife. Now." The man had pale blue eyes...just like Ramsay's. There was a hunch-backed old man standing behind him. The hunch-back had his hand on the shoulder of a trembling little boy. "Run to your brother, Lord Rickon," said the pale-eyed man. "He's missed you a great deal, I think." Rickon did as he was told and hugged his brother fiercely.

"Domeric, what the fuck are you doing here? You're supposed to be building that bloody tunnel of yours," snarled the bastard.

"I did. And when I returned to the Dreadfort, I found Lord Rickon standing on a stool with a rope around his neck. The boy's legs were about to give out. A few more minutes and he'd have been hanging from a tree."

"Lord Ramsay knows how to handle prisoners, m'lord. It was me what strung the brat up though. Couldn't make the cunt stop crying and Lord Ramsay said to be creative," replied Sour Alyn proudly. Domeric studied the man for a moment before silently driving a dagger through the bottom of the man's jaw in one swift motion. Sour Alyn desperately tried to cover his throat with his hands as blood spurted from his neck and his mouth. He wheezed and gasped for breath before falling to the ground...dead. Why would he kill one of his own men? "Do you have any thoughts you wish to contribute, Skinner?"

"N-no, m'lord."

"Good."

"You can't just kill my men whenever you want, you cunt."

"Your men? You own nothing. And everything you have belongs to father and me besides. Now, would you please be so kind as to lower your voice? You've frightened our guests enough already, I think. You've behaved quite boorishly, I think," said Domeric mildly as he picked up a bronze candlestick holder.

"Father won't be around forever and when he–" *CRACK* Ramsay stumbled backward and fell, hitting his head on the stone floor. There was already large bruise on the bastard's forehead where his half-brother had hit him. Did he kill...no...the bastard is still breathing.

"If you act like a dog, you will be treated like one. Ben, drag my father's bastard to the kennel, put a collar around his neck, chain him to the wall, and leave him with the hounds until tomorrow morning. You are to give him a single piece of raw meat to sup on whenever he wakes up." The hunchback nodded, grabbed Ramsay's feet, and did as he was bid. The bastard grunted as his head banged into the door.

"Skinner, do you remember when I told you that I have come to rely upon you as my father relies upon Locke?"

"Yes, m'Lord."

"Good. Then I trust that you can imagine my surprise when Ben Bones told me that you were in the room when Sour Alyn gave Lord Rickon a black eye. What am I to make of this?"

"Lord Snow ordered –"

"I named you Castellan of the Dreadfort in my absence. That meant that you outranked him. It also meant that I trusted you to keep that dog on his leash. Did I ask too much of you?"

"No, m'Lord. I...I did what I could, but...please...I..."

"We were friends long before father instructed you to spy on my dog. In light of that fact, I won't kill you. And a just punishment must needs be proportional to the crime. Ben Bones says the only ones who actually harmed the Lordlings were Ramsay and Sour Alyn."

"Please...I...I had no choice, m'Lord. Ramsay, he...he is a Lord; he forced Lady Hornwood to marry him and then starved her to death. He was a Lord, m'Lord, and...I couldn't disobey him. He'd flay me, you know he would, m'Lord. And Lord Roose, he'd kill me for losing Lord Ramsay's trust."

"As you say. But whether or not Lord Snow flays you is no concern of mine, is it?"

"No, m'Lord."

"I should cut off your ears since you don't seem to be using them when I give you commands. Or mayhaps you would prefer that I blind you..."

"Please, m'Lord...mercy. Please!"

"You wronged the Starklings as well. Tell me, little Lords, what should be done with our friend." Skinner fell to his knees and his pleas grew more and more incoherent. Before long, he sounded even more frightened than Rickon. Bran found that for all that he hated the man, he could not help but pity him.

"Don't hurt him, my Lord. Please don't..."

"Did you hear that, Skinner? The little Lord thinks I should give you another chance. Very well. Despite my father's best efforts, my heart is not made of stone. I will give you a choice; the same choice that I once gave Lord Snow. If you chose to be punished, it will be painful, but you will have atoned for your...lapse in judgment. All will be forgiven. If I could forgive Ramsay for what he did, I can forgive you. If you chose not to be punished and fail me again in any way, I will kill you as a matter of principle."

"Thank you, m'Lord. No need for any punishment! I won't fail you again."

"See that you don't; now, leave us. And shut the door on your way out."

Once Skinner left the room, Domeric smiled gently at Bran and Rickon. "I apologize for Lord Snow's impolite behavior, my Lords. I give you my word that he will not hurt either of you again. Do you accept my apology?" Impolite? Are you insane? Arya was being impolite when she threw food at Sansa. Your brother burned down my home, cut Jojen's throat, made a cloak out of Summer, pulled out my teeth, cut off my fingers and toes, tried to hang Rickon, skinned a woman so he could throw her severed head at her brother, told his men to drop me head first onto a stone floor, left me on the floor of this room until I soiled myself, and was about to cut out my eyes. That is more than impolite, you bloody madman! Bran nodded wearily rather than risk angering the strange man.

"Good. Now that we've dealt with that matter, I should warn you that if your brother starts crying again, he will leave me no choice but to find a suitable muzzle." Seven Hells. He's a person, not a dog. "In truth, there are some days where I wonder if I should have simply killed Ramsay and yet I fear kinslaying might make father wroth with me. I'm sure you oft feel quite the same way about your brother."

"No, I never have. He's my brother," Bran blurted.

"And you've never wanted to kill him? Not even once?"

"Of course not."

"Surely there is someone in your family whom you would kill if you had the chance. I suppose it doesn't have to be a brother. What about your father? I oft think about..."

"NO, THERE IS NO ONE IN MY FAMILY THAT I WANT TO MURDER," Bran snapped.

"It is rude to yell, little Lord. I cannot abide rudeness. You will apologize," said Domeric mildly, as he unsheathed a flaying knife.

"You want...you want me to apologize to you?"

"As you say. If you don't apologize for raising your voice to me, then I will be forced to start cutting off your fingers. I would prefer not to discipline a child, but if I must..."

"I'm sorry, my Lord," grumbled Bran.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I'm sorry for raising my voice to you, my Lord." Did Rickon and I die at Winterfell? Am I in one of the Seven Hells? No, that can't be it. It makes far too much sense. Mayhaps this is just a nightmare and... If Arya were here, she'd probably tell me what a stupid thought that was, Bran thought to himself sadly. The Lannister killed her, just like father... They've already killed Sansa too, most like. Soon we'll all be dead except for Robb and mother.

"Very well, I accept your apology. Hmm. Forgive me, but you are a very peculiar little boy. You didn't want me to kill Skinner and you've never thought about killing your little brother...or anyone else in your family. Quite strange... It matters not at all. I fear that I will be forced to kill Lord Snow sooner or later. Father too." Peculiar? I'm peculiar?

"But they're your kin..."

"It's how he'd want to die, I think. And Ramsay is my half-brother, not my brother. He was born on the wrong side of the sheets. I suppose that I will hate myself for it...for a time. It matters not at all. I hate myself for many of the things that I've been forced to do. Mayhaps it won't come to that; I am doing the best that I can to train the bastard. I thought fire-branding a 'D' onto his chest would remind him of what he is, but I fear he will require a harsher punishment this time. It will hurt me far more than it hurts him, I think."

"What?"

"'D' is for dog. That is all my half-brother really is, in truth. 'D' is also the first letter of my name and I am Lord Snow's owner. I fear he has forgotten that. I imagine that he burned down your home to spite me. He thought he could cheapen my prize, most like. Tell me, would either of you like to watch when I pull out four of his teeth?" Bran shook his head vigorously. Are all of the Boltons insane? Why would father allow people like this to be Lords?

"No? Not even Lord Rickon? It could be a useful learning experience. You needn't worry about the experience upsetting him. My father used to force me to watch him discipline our most willful prisoners when I was his age. I hated it at the time, but the results speak for themselves, I think."

"No...th-thank you, my Lord."

"Yes, I suppose it would be a shame if I were forced to put Ramsay down. I used to have such hopes for him. No, no, you're quite right, it's as much my fault as it is his. When a dog misbehaves, the fault lies with its master. All the same, if I must needs kill him, so be it. You have the right of it, Little Lord. I have a responsibility to kill him if the necessary adjustments cannot be made in a timely manner." I never said any of that...

"Don't you care that killing him would make you a kinslayer? That doesn't bother you at all?"

"You do not know Lord Snow as I do, little Lord; the bastard already tried to poison me. Some men would have killed their half-brother for that, but I was a different man then. That was before father...fixed me. I tried to kill Ramsay, but...I couldn't. He was my kin. Father said I could keep him so long as I trained him properly and I gave him the same choice that I offered Skinner. As you can see, there are still many adjustments that must needs be made or else...well...there are two types of dogs, I think. One is the kind that can be trained. I still have some hope left that Ramsay may be this sort of animal. He hasn't tried to kill me again after I punished him by forcing him to dip one of his hands in boiling oil. Of course, he did burn down Winterfell to spite me, so mayhaps he is simply a rabid dog. The only thing to do with a rabid dog is to cut its throat before it bites you, no matter how fond you may be of the beast. Mayhaps I should dip his head in boiling oil the next time that I catch him foaming at the mouth. It matters not at all. You and your brother won't have to suffer the Dreadfort much longer."

"You're letting us go?"

"No, that would not serve. I'll kill both of you as soon as I have father's permission and feed you to the hounds once you're dead. I can't harm either of you without permission or he will be most wroth with me. Mayhaps my father will keep the Greyjoy boy and Lady Meera as hostages, but he will want to dispose of you and your brother as soon as possible, I think. One way or another, I can assure you that your deaths will be quite painless. Father expects me to maintain a veneer of civility and I would never flay a child besides. My father may be fond of our family's...traditions, but they are a relic of a time long since past. There will be no more flayed men once father dies."

"Where is Osha?"

"Your Wildling friend? No one knows and I fear that can only mean that Lord Snow fed her to the hounds," said Domeric in a voice so soft that Bran had to strain to hear it. Mayhaps Rickon didn't hear... "Father will not care about her, I think." Bran felt something wet as the last of his younger brother's courage left him.

"I do hope I haven't upset you. None of this brings me any pleasure. I was once a soft, foolish, weak little boy like the two of you, but my father forced me to learn the true way of the world. I needed adjustments. It was...it was for the best...what he forced me to do...even to her... Your father was an honorable man and look at where it got him. Father said I needed certain adjustments. I never wanted to...especially not her, but I...I needed adjustments. He only wanted..." For a moment, the pale-eyed man's mask fell off and Bran saw a sad, frightened little boy standing before him, but the child vanished as quickly as he had appeared. "Forgive me, my Lords. *cough* My father did the best that he could to train me, but I fear that I still suffer from occasional moments of weakness. If either of you speak a word of what you just saw to anyone, I will make whichever of you did so watch while I flay your brother. Do you understand?" Rickon began to cry.

"Now, now, dry those eyes, little Lord. A Lordling should not cry. Little girls may cry. Ladies may cry. A man should never cry. That was one of father's adjustments. I needed it. A Lord should never cry; I see that now. If a boy cries then he must needs be punished." Domeric's lips curled into a cruel smile. "I wasn't planning to discuss this matter until you started crying, but mayhaps it will please you to know that while our time together will be at an end soon enough, my father has informed me that your sister is alive and well. It would seem that Lady Arya escaped from King's Landing and is in my father's care as we speak. Your mother and the King Who Lost the North don't know, but...well...they haven't done a very good job protecting their kin, so mayhaps it is for the best."

"Arya's alive," asked Rickon timidly. No! No! No! No! Roose Bolton must be worse than Ramsay or Domeric; he's the one who raised them this way. He's probably torturing her right now. No! He can't! Robb wouldn't let him...just like he wouldn't let them hurt me and Rickon...

"Did...did you hear that, Rickon? Arya's safe. She must have escaped and is prob...probably on her way back to moth...mother and Robb right now." Bran fought back tears and forced himself to smile reassuringly at his brother.

"Yes, little Lords, it would seem that my father is rather favorably disposed towards her. Your sister must be quite a singular child. My father loathes most members of the weaker sex. He always said they were fools who wasted their days knitting and singing. In truth, I sometimes fear that my father has simply mellowed with age. Mayhaps it is those leeches which he loves so much more than either of his children," Domeric muttered, rolling his eyes. "It matters not at all. Even if my father hated your sister, we need her alive. And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell besides. One way or another, the girl will do as she is bid when the time comes. I will see to that personally..."

"What does he mean, Bran? Is Arya going to Winterfell? Doesn't she know that the bad men burned it down," asked Rickon. "Bran? Bran?" Bran's eyes rolled into the back of his head.

...

Bran flew through the skies of some distant Southron land. His brothers were with him again, just like they were during every other dream he'd had since Summer died. They were dreams; that much was certain...they had to be. Even so, Bran broke away from his little brothers and began to fly North when he suddenly woke up on a feather bed. I can't be warging. Summer's dead and there are no more dragons besides.