Bran thought he knew Winterfell better than anyone, and perhaps from a height, that was true.
But no one knew the belly of Winterfell as well as Arya Underfoot.
Arya had made a game of it, almost, had learned to hide away in the cellars and crypts so that not even Father could find her. She knew everyone else's hiding places, of course, knew that Sansa always hid in the disused storerooms that overlooked the sept, where the sun lingered longest of all the rooms in the castle save for Mother's solar and where she could see the light dancing on the crystalline windows below, that Robb preferred the tiny loft above Mikken's forge, where it was warm and quiet and where no one would notice if he brought a woman or a book and candle.
Bran, of course, climbed, escaped to the rooftops and shinned down trees into the darkest parts of the godswood, where even Father rarely ventured, where Arya suspected only their wolves otherwise went except in dire circumstances, and Rickon hid near the wolfswood gate, in a hollow below the wall with Shaggydog on guard. Jon, though, was almost as difficult to find as Arya herself could be - because Jon had never quite settled on a single hiding place.
Arya had begun to suspect, over the past year or so, that Jon had purposely refused to allow himself to claim any part of Winterfell as his own, partly because he believed that Mother might take issue with it, and partly because he had been distancing himself from them all, even her, for some time now.
"I've looked everywhere else," she said, slumping down beside him at their grandfather's feet. It was bitterly cold, here in the crypts, but with Nymeria and Ghost wrapped around them, Arya hardly noticed. "You've been coming down here more often, of late."
"It's quiet here," he said. "I can think more clearly, here."
Jon had been thinking an awful lot of late, Arya thought, and suddenly it worried her - he had always been quieter and more contemplative than any of their brothers, more like Father in that regard than any of them, but he had never been quite so turned in on himself.
"Are you thinking of the King?" she asked, nudging her shoulder against his arm. The King had given the whole of Winterfell little choice but to think of him, these past days, bellowing and booming about the castle as he tried to appease both his wife and Father. The Queen had demanded blood from Smalljon, for daring to strike down the Prince, but when the truth of why Smalljon had fought the Prince had come out, Father had been so livid that he had shouted the Queen down, red in the face and shaking, angrier than Arya had ever seen him before.
No daughter of mine will be forced to tolerate such an insult he had said, arm over Sansa's shoulders, and no daughter of mine will ever be made a victim of a prince's lust.
Of course, everyone had whispered of long-dead Lyanna after that, and Arya supposed that she had been on Father's mind then, too, which made sense. Father rarely spoke of his father or elder brother or his sister, but what little he had told them of his family had made it clear that he had loved them fiercely, and the very idea of Sansa being hurt by a Prince of the realm must have terrified him, just a little.
"Some," Jon admitted, shaking his head. "But of myself, too. Of what I am to do with myself. Of what paths are open to a bastard who has never sought to do anything with himself until he was a man, and suddenly had no choice but to find a life outside of his father's home."
"Father would never put you out!" Arya exclaimed, turning onto her knees and thumping him hard in the chest. "He loves you, has made sure that there is always a place in Winterfell for you!"
"Despite your lady mother's objections," Jon agreed, shaking his head again. "Surely you see I cannot remain here forever, little sister - Robb will wed the Princess, Sansa will leave for Last Hearth, and even you will leave someday. Bran and Rickon might have a place here, but they are Starks. I am only a Snow, Arya."
"You are as much a Stark as any of us, name or not," she protested. "There will always be a place here for any of us, you know that. Father has said so."
He had, to Arya and Sansa, to Robb and Bran and Rickon, but not, she realised suddenly, to Jon, not in her hearing. It made her sad to think of all that Jon might be denied, all that he was denied, simply for being the son of a woman other than her mother.
It was difficult to be angry at Mother, when Arya saw how other women looked at her over Jon's presence in Winterfell, but it was difficult to be anything but angry with her when Jon was here before her, biting his lip and looking so impossibly defeated that Arya wished to fight the whole world on his behalf.
"Let's go for a walk," she said, springing to her feet and tugging his hands, to make him follow. "Come, let's go to the godswood, no one will disturb us there, and it will likely be warmer there than it is here."
He followed, because he always did, but she could see on his face that he wished to do otherwise - she could not let him wallow, though, because she had seen how disastrously that could turn out. She and Sansa had agreed to let Robb wallow after Alys Karstark laughed in his face when he tried to woo her just last year, and it had resulted in his bedding one of Theon's favourite whores and nearly getting caught in the act by Mother, and while she did not think that Jon would turn to a whorehouse for comfort, she did not doubt that he could be just as foolish as Robb when he wanted to be.
The godswood was dark, as it often was, and Nymeria and Ghost disappeared into the gloom as soon as they were through the gate, but Jon remained, letting Arya link her arm through his and steal his warmth.
"What do you think of the Princess?" she asked, in the hopes of distracting him from his worries. "Robb is half in love with her already, I think."
"He dreams of her every night, I think," Jon agreed with a smile. "And in the bath, and during every spare moment - but I don't think that love is in mind for him, at least."
He laughed aloud at her face then, because thinking of Robb dreaming of the Princess was not something Arya wished to waste time on.
"She seems... Sensible, though," Jon said, tugging her closer. "Less a fool than her brother. Less..."
"Arrogant than her mother?" Arya guessed, drawing another laugh for her efforts. "She is vain, I think, almost as vain as Sansa, and is very careful of what she says, even when we are simply talking over sewing."
"The Prince is her opposite, then," Jon said. "I, of course, am not permitted to spar with him in the yard, but I have seen him, and I have most certainly heard him. He never ceases to speak of his own prowess, and the strength of his family and their superiority to all of Westeros, most particularly to Houses Stark and Umber."
The Prince, Arya knew, had not taken his father's reprimand for his treatment of Sansa well - the whole of Winterfell knew it, because the Prince and the Queen had complained about it incessantly, that the King had dared to side with Father over his son and heir.
"He will make a poor King," Arya said, lowering her voice just to be safe. "He is so rude."
Jon laughed again, long and loud, his chest and shoulders shaking and his cheeks going pink under his beard.
"Oh, little sister," he said, "if only we could disqualify Kings simply for being rude."
Screams in the godswood were so rare that for a moment, Arya did not know what it was that they had heard.
Jon looked as confused as she felt, but then the wolves howled, and they ran.
Bran looked so small, under the Broken Tower.
Jon carried Bran from the base of the Broken Tower into the main hall, cradling Bran's head to his shoulder.
Arya walked with them, holding Bran's furs and boots, which they had found not far from him, tucked neatly behind a stone at the foot of the tower.
People looked, and while none of the royal family's entourage batted an eyelid, Arya saw Mikken go running, and Harwin, and Old Nan's face appeared and disappeared from a window above the yard. The wolves bounded ahead of them, Nymeria snarling and Ghost's lip curling and Bran's wolf howling, a lament for the whole of the North to hear.
Mother screamed, when they crossed the threshold, pushing her way through the crowds between them and the high table where she had been sitting between Father and the King - not that Father was far behind her, of course, pushing off the King's hand and near knocking the whitecloak behind them from his feet.
Arya felt a thousand miles away, somehow, as Father took Bran from Jon's arms, as he and Mother fell to their knees in the doorway, Mother covering Bran with her body, her hair, wailing his name, Father simply holding him, staring into his face.
Sansa, Robb, Rickon, they arrived from somewhere, Vayon Poole and Jeyne behind them, Old Nan hobbling in with Hodor at her heels, Hullen and Harwin and Farlen, Mikken and his apprentice, even Gage and Barth.
All of Winterfell, all of court, gathered together, but Arya did not care. Not when Bran looked so small.