THE BROKEN WOLF
Night fell across the realm. And with the dark, came the cold.
He was high in the sky, so high he could see the clouds below him, and below them, the Seven Kingdoms were spread out like a map. Far to the south, a warm Dornish breeze blew, as though summer would last forever. He could smell the fields of the Reach, hear the rumble of thunder in the Stormlands, and taste the salt of the Iron Islands.
But when he turned his eyes north, he felt a shiver of dread unlike any man had felt in thousands of years.
For, to the north, beyond that great Wall, beyond the thousands upon thousands of wildlings struggling to climb it, beyond the frozen forests of the wild-lands, something else stirred. Something all the Kings of Westeros would not be able to stop, even if they united like never before.
The boy shivered again, and turned his eyes west, to the sea that never ended. There raged a battle so fierce, the boy wondered whether there would be any survivors. A snarling direwolf and a slavering lion clawed at an enormous kraken, whilst below, a fierce trout nipped at the kraken's belly. Blood filled the waves, but the boy could not tell from which beast, for they all bled in equal amount.
Further south now, to see what went on in the lands his sisters had travelled to, oh so long ago now. But only one was there, only the elder. He searched in vain for the wild one, but she was nowhere to be found. He caught the scent of dog, though he disregarded that.
The wolf does not concern itself with dogs, he told himself, and looked deeper.
He looked all around the world, searching for answers. In the mountains, a mockingbird nested with the falcons, and a woman garbed in flame wrapped her arms around a battle-hardened stag. Finally, the boy turned his eyes east, to see what lay beyond the narrow sea.
He saw little of interest, to be sure. The titan sat sick in his bed, and the elephants and tigers paced around each other. The boy saw a great black dragon, sailing across the sea, and swooped down to get a closer look.
The dragon woke, and regarded him with steely black eyes. It opened its mouth, and a torrent of fire bathed him.
He woke up with a scream in his throat. A hard hand clamped over his mouth, and he struggled wildly, his useless legs refusing to obey him.
"Hush, little lord," Osha's quiet voice stopped his struggles, "You don't want the ironmen to hear us."
Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, younger brother of the King in the North, ceased his struggles in an instant. It all came crashing back in that instant, the memories that the dream hid from him. Of how Winterfell had fallen in the night, not to a great army, nor to the marches of the legions of the dead that walked in the night, but to five-and-twenty ironmen under the command of Theon Greyjoy, Father's old ward.
Theon was our brother, Bran's heart always sank to remember, now he's the Greyjoy in Winterfell.
The crypts were dark, and they were in so far that all the torches had turned to dust, as the weight of thousands of years, and hundreds of generations of Starks threatened to crush them. If Osha hadn't found those flints, Bran wondered exactly what would have happened to them.
Probably turned into one of the creatures in Old Nan's tales.
He closed his eyes, and pushed the image of the old lady from his mind. He had no idea where she was, or even if she was still alive. Like as not, Theon had killed her, the same as the rest of the castlefolk, or perhaps banished them to the Winter Town. Bran didn't know how old she was, only that she'd come to Winterfell to nurse some other Brandon Stark, who lived a long time ago, though how long nobody knew. Not even Old Nan.
Once he had stopped moving, Osha moved away, proceeding to hunch over by the fire, holding her knees to her chest. The way the flames flickered over her hard face seemed to take the years away, and her ratty hair and grey eyes made her look much like Bran's older sister, Arya. He shook his head, and the image was gone.
Osha wasn't the only one around the fire; short, skinny Jojen Reed sat by his sister, his eyes closed and legs crossed. Meera herself was fiddling with her spear, a look of forced concentration on her face. Hodor sat alone, apart from everyone, playing with the dust on the floor, and Rickon lay curled up, between Osha and Jojen.
What a strange group we make.
The wildling, the crannogmen, the wolf brothers and the stableboy.
Bran chuckled, thinking that one day they'd write a song about them, the six strange people hiding from the fierce ironmen. Not that Theon's lot were particularly fierce. They'd bandied about fierce words, to be sure, but Bran knew now that words were wind.
The silence continued for some time, as it always seemed to do, before Meera let out a grunt, and threw her spear onto the ground.
"How long must we wait?"
"For as long as it takes," her brother replied softly, "The ironmen still hold the castle. We must wait until the axe strikes the chains that bind us."
"Speak sense!" Meera cried, to a glare from Osha, "What axe? I trust you, Jojen, but you need to tell me something I can understand."
Jojen looked at her with a sad look in his moss-coloured eyes, "I see what I see, Meera. No more, and no less. And I have seen us free, and the ironmen routed. But we must wait."
Meera greeted that with a glare of her own, and picked up her spear again, "I mislike waiting."
Jojen gave a half-smile, "You always did."
Silence fell once more, and Bran propped himself up against the nearest tombstone, and tried to get more comfortable. They had no way of telling how long they had been down here, who knew how much time had passed? Maybe winter had come and gone, maybe Robb had returned, but not thought to look for them, maybe he was himself buried and gone, and it was his sons who ruled Winterfell. As unlikely as Bran thought it, the queer half-light the fire had gave the crypts a sense of… timelessness.
Reasoning he had nothing better to do, Bran closed his eyes, and went back to sleep. As soon as the darkness surrounded him the dreams started…
This time, he was a raven, perched in the chambers of the chained man. The boy he was had never been here, but the bird who's skin he wore lived here, and scarce left, save to take a message to this man-nest or that man-nest.
The chained man was there, the man this bird called 'master', but he wasn't alone. The boy was there, the boy with the bow, but he was a boy no longer, a man now, a man with a kraken on his metal chest. He held one of those long, steel talons that men ofttimes carried, and his teeth were bared in ferocity. He was flanked by two other men, each with leather suits on their bodies, and steel talons by their sides.
"Who is the message from?" the man was asking, "Answer me, Luwin, or I'll have your head on a pike!"
"Your lord father, Theon." his master's voice was broken, and he handed over the paper with a trembling hand.
"Royal father, Luwin," the man replied coldly, "Best you remember that."
He unfurled the paper and read it, his cool grey eyes slowly making their way back and forth. His face changed little, but those grey eyes showed a maelstrom of emotions, many of which the raven did not comprehend. There was curiosity in there, and victory, but also pain, loss and a deep sorrow.
"Is this true?" he asked, his voice… uncertain, "My father has killed Catelyn Stark?"
Wordlessly, the raven's master nodded his head, and the other man crushed the paper in his fingers, breathing deeply through his nose. Emotions and thoughts whirled across his face, faster and faster, before he settled on grim determination.
"They'll come for us now," he muttered, "The whole fucking North will be at my gates within the week."
"They won't be your gates much longer, my lord."
"Prince!" the man cried, striking the raven's master, "Or have you forgotten that my father has crowned himself? And thank you, old man, for reminding me of my position." he turned to the men behind him, "Leave us. I would speak to this old man alone."
The men stood still for a moment, exchanging glances, before bowing their heads, and leaving the room. The prince sat down heavily, and glared heavily at the wall for a moment, before the chained man spoke.
"It would be wise to leave," he said softly, "leave Winterfell to the Northmen, and flee, save yourselves."
"And go where?" the prince asked, "Robb's attacking the Iron Islands, like as not, and the whole damn North's after me and my men. We've nowhere to go."
"You could go to the Wall. A man's crimes are forgiven there, and you could rise high in the Night's Watch."
The prince ground his teeth, "Ned Stark's bastard's at the Wall, or did you forget that too?" he growled, "Like as not, I'll wake up one morning with my throat slit, courtesy of Jon Snow."
"What will you do?"
"The only thing I fucking can," the prince snapped, though there was defeat even as he spat defiantly; "I'm going to fight."
Bran opened his eyes, and saw Jojen leaning over him. The crannogman's eyes were a green as deep as the forests they resembled, and about as mysterious. They searched Bran, as though he were hiding some great, terrible secret, and he sat up, his own eyes darting about, looking for Rickon.
Gods, not Mother too…
Tell me it isn't true.
"What did you see, Bran?" Jojen asked impatiently, "Tell me what you saw?"
"It was…" Bran trailed off, trying to collect himself, "I was in Maester Luwin's chambers, I think, as a raven. And… and Theon was there too, he was speaking to Maester Luwin. He said… he said… he said that…"
And all of a sudden, Bran couldn't speak, as the enormity of the scene he had just witnessed came crashing down on him, harder and stronger than all the darkness in these fell crypts. Mother was dead, of that Bran was somehow certain, and the vision confirmed it. When they were like that, he knew he was seeing things as they really were, not the strange, twisted sights that Jojen saw, of axes striking chains and waters in Winterfell. Mother was really dead, and that meant Robb was going to fight the Iron King on his Iron Islands.
"Mother…" he whispered, "They killed Mother, and now Robb's going to fight them. At least, I think he is, Theon didn't say, but he said that the North will be coming for him, with all of their power."
Jojen's eyes widened, "The axe…" he whispered, before looking to Bran again.
"Find Summer," he ordered, "Find your wolf, Bran. We need to know where the army is, how far away it is. Then," he added, turning to his sister, "Then we'll know when we can get out of here."
Bran closed his eyes, but his thoughts were too scattered to find a hold of himself, much less a hold over Summer. He breathed three times very deeply, and tried to calm his racing thoughts, but it was no good. He closed his eyes again, but nothing happened. He was still a broken little boy laying in the crypts of his forefathers.
"I-I can't," Bran told Jojen, "I just can't focus."
"You have to, Bran," Jojen replied forcefully, "You must find out what is happening!"
Bran nodded, his body trembling with… with fear, or excitement, or trepidation, or all three and none of them all at the same time, and closed his eyes, trying to ignore all of that pain inside of him, to push away his fear, to replace it with an ocean of calm feelings.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the crypts anymore, but he was still in Winterfell. Bran's body jerked as Summer bounded about above, but his vision was cut off as his hurt came back with a vengeance, and he was thrown back into his body with enough force to jolt him against the wall. Bran's breaths came out fast and hurried, and Jojen once again asked him what was happening.
"There was a battle," Bran told him, "Thirty ironmen against three-thousand Northmen."
Jojen's eyes lit up, and he scrambled to his feet, pulling Meera up as he did so. His face was alight with energy that Bran had never seen in him, and the same could be seen for Meera, as she looked at Jojen as one might look at a madman. He also pulled Osha to her feet, and scrambled to wake Rickon, who cried out in shock as Jojen whooped in jubilation. Hodor also started at Jojen's outburst.
"Hodor!" the giant stableboy yelled as Jojen cried out again, "Hodor, Hodor, Hodor!"
"Hodor indeed!" Jojen cried, "Go and pick up Bran, for I believe it is time to leave these crypts!"
"Hodor?"
"Hodor," Bran said, "Come over here and pick me up."
"Hodor." said Hodor, stooping to obey.
Jojen took off down the flickering walkway, his shouts echoing off the stone Starks. Meera raced after him, cuffing him over the ear as she did.
"Have you lost your mind?" she scolded, "Those ironmen want our blood."
"They'll be wanting no more, sister," Jojen told her, "and the Northmen will want to see Bran, for sure."
"Hang on, crannogman," growled Osha, "What makes you so certain that these Northmen will be on our side."
Jojen gave a lopsided grin, "This was meant to be."
With that, he tore away from Meera, but thankfully stopped dancing around like a fool, and walked with them. After a while of walking, his face had – once again thankfully – resumed its customary solemn look.
They came up the steps to the sounds of dying men, with only a few rings of steel to interrupt the groans. Bran urged Hodor onward, towards the great courtyard, to see what was happening there.
Three men sat astride their horses, all garbed for battle, all blood spattered and stern-faced. Ser Rodrik Cassel's white whiskers stood out a mile, and beside him was Cley Cerwyn, and beside him was a solemn Leobald Tallhart. It was Leobald Tallhart whose eyes strayed to where Bran and Hodor stood, and his face turned white as a sheet.
"By the gods," he whispered, tapping Ser Rodrik to attract his attention, "They were dead."
"Brandon!" Ser Rodrik practically cheered, and dismounted, running to were Bran sat astride Hodor, "Gods be good boy, what happened to you?"
"We hid, Ser Rodrik," Bran told him, "We hid in the crypts, and waited for our rescue."
Ser Rodrik smiled, but then remembered his courtesies. He bowed deeply, as did the remaining Northmen, "The castle is ours, my prince. Only five-and-forty of ours lay dead, while all of the ironmen were slain," his face darkened, "All save one."
"Theon Turncloak got away," Cley Cerwyn told Bran, "But don't worry, my prince. We'll find him."
"First bury our dead," Bran replied, "Our first duty is to the North, and the people who call it home. Theon won't get far alone. Send for Maester Luwin as well, for the wounded."
A small smile crossed Ser Rodrik's features, "It will be done, my prince."
And with that, he strode off to find Maester Luwin, as men tore down the golden kraken of Greyjoy, and returned the running direwolf to its rightful place.
Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;
blog/theprofessorofwriting