June, 299 AC

"But I love roasted beef. Why would the Walders like old grey dead meat better than I like the roast?"

Jojen stared at Bran, his mossy eyes solemn.

"It isn't like that, Bran. The dreams take strange shapes, and their truth is hidden, but the green dreams do not lie."

Supper that night was pigeon pie, and Bran ate every bite, his eyes flicking to the Reeds. How did Jojen know his dreams were true? Bran had dreamt of forgetting all the answers during a lesson, and Maester Luwin turning into an angry grey beast, but that hadn't happened, no more than he had forgotten all his clothes and presided over the Harvest Feast naked. Were those not green dreams? His dreams of Sansa felt very real, but nothing was green in those dreams except things that should be green.

After fretting for over a week, Bran asked Maester Luwin about the dream. Lessons were finished and the Walders were gone away, and Rickon was distracted playing with one of the maester's instruments. When Bran finished speaking the maester rubbed his bald spot, his expression doubtful.

"Greenseers have not been seen in thousands of years, Bran," the maester said. "No more than the Children of the Forest, or giants."

"Osha said there's giants north of the wall," Bran protested. "Giants and wights, she's seen them." The maester harrumphed, then frowned.

"I suppose true dreams are possible, even if they are not green dreams." His eyes stared into the distance as he thought.

"The Targaryens claimed Daenys the Dreamer foresaw the Doom of Valyria. Your dream of your brother's crown proved true, as did the dream of the Frey boys arriving..."

The grey man shook his head, and smiled tiredly.

"Do not let yourself fret over what may come to pass, Bran. Even if the dream is true, you cannot do anything to change it."

The raven came on the twenty-third day. Bran felt as though a knot in his chest loosened as Luwin read of Robb's victory over the Lannister host at Oxcross. And yet a chill crept over his limbs as he recalled Osha's words before Robb left Winterfell.

"You tell him he's bound on marching the wrong way. It's north he should be taking his swords. North, not south."

Icy hands clutched at Bran's arms, and he shivered as Luwin scolded the Walders for their lack of grief for Ser Stevron Frey, who had died after the battle. Had the maester realized yet? With a feeling of unease, Bran asked to be excused.

Hodor must have been busy, for it was Osha who came to carry Bran away. At first she made for his chambers, until Bran told her that wasn't where he wanted to go.

Osha set him down gently, his back against the trunk of the heart tree. The wood was warm from the sun, and as Bran listened to the rustling leaves he felt just a little better. Summer and Shaggydog were lapping at the pool, their pink tongues bright against the dark water, and Summer came to lie beside Bran when he whistled. He petted the direwolf's soft fur, and gathered his courage.

"Why did you say Robb is marching the wrong way?"

Robb sat in a tent, his eyes fixed on a sheepskin map. He was alone, slumped in a slung leather camp chair. There were new lines upon Robb's face, and deep red whiskers sprouting from his cheeks and chin. But it was still his brother Robb, just a boy of fifteen, his strong limbs gangly from quick growth and a few angry red pimples hidden at the edges of his wavy hair.

"Your grace?" a voice called. Robb sat up, his posture proud and straight. He tucked away the exhaustion that had marred his face, and Bran saw Robb the King.

As the squire entered the tent Bran heard a crow cawing in the distance, calling him. Bran hesitated, but at last he surrendered and followed.

North he sped, flying past a pair of towers astride a river, past swamps and deep woods, until at last he beheld the Wall. It shone like an aquamarine necklace his mother had, as blue green as the sunlight on the sea at White Harbor. Further he flew, past forest and streams, to a great jutting hill that punched out of the ground like a fist.

A man was climbing down the hill, something clasped in his arms. Bran watched him pick his way through the grey rocks, down the bare brown slopes, the wind tugging at his black cloak. At last he stopped behind a fallen tree at the base of the hill. He placed his burden aside and began to dig with his bare hands. The soil was sandy and loose, and he soon had a hole nearly as deep as Rickon was tall. The man pulled off his cloak, laying it upon the ground, and Bran started as he recognized the man's face.

Suddenly it was night. A torch burned beside the fallen tree, one end jammed in the ground. Ghost sat on his haunches, his white fur almost gold in the torch light as he watched the boy unwrap the bundle. Black flames shone in the night as knives, spearheads, and arrowheads fell to the ground. A cracked war horn lay beneath them, bound in bronze. Bran heard a sound like the breaking of ice and then he knew no more.

Bran fidgeted as Ser Rodrik sipped his cup of mead. Maester Luwin still hesitated to believe Jojen's dreams as he believed Bran's. Bran had to convince him, him and Ser Rodrik, before the dreams came to pass.

Ser Rodrik had returned that morning, bearing a grim expression and a prisoner who stank worse than the pig sty. The pudgy young man had plump lips and long hair. One eye was red and swollen shut from a wound that slashed from his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. The other eye was frightening and pale, and seemed familiar, though Bran couldn't remember why.

Bran had had to wait until supper to learn what had happened. It seemed that the young man was called Reek, and he had served the Bastard of Bolton. The Bastard had attacked upon the Hornwoods as they returned from the Harvest Feast. They had been on Hornwood lands, less than a day's ride from the keep when the Bastard and his men fell upon their camp by night. Daryn Hornwood had almost been slain, but for the intervention of Lady Donella. The wound on Reek's face was the mark of her nails, giving Daryn a chance to draw his dagger and put an end to the Bastard.

Accompanied by the few men-at-arms who remained, the Hornwoods had fled to the safety of their keep. Daryn was on the mend, thanks to their maester, and Ser Rodrik had found Reek hiding near the ruins of the Hornwoods' camp, the only one of the Bastard's men to survive. That was why Ser Rodrik had spared him, to serve as witness to his master's crimes.

"Thank the gods that Lord Hornwood survived," Maester Luwin said as he pushed away his plate with a sigh. "Poor Lady Donella has suffered enough without losing her only son and heir."

"He should get married," Bran said. "He could give her lots of grandchildren to play with, and then you could marry Lady Hornwood so Beth has a mother."

Ser Rodrik shook his head, but Maester Luwin gave Bran a thoughtful look.

"Lord Hornwood is of an age to wed, and having heirs of his own would prevent future concerns."

"It is something to think on, but we have more pressing concerns with the ironborn," Ser Rodrik replied, his face lined with worry. "These raiders would not dare attack if our main strength were not so far away. If Tallhart cannot handle them, I may need to ride against them myself."

The sea, the sea is coming, just like Jojen said. The solemn boy had dreamt of waves crashing over the walls, of men lying drowned.

But the raiders were along the coast, hundreds of miles away. How could the sea reach Winterfell?