"Old Gods, you have watched over the Starks for generations, since Brandon the Builder lay the first stone in Winterfell's foundations. Now his namesake needs you, Bran fell, he fell from the tower. I was supposed to tell him not to climb, when the royals left Winterfell, but he fell before they have left. I know I should have told him sooner, mother asked me to and I did not. Please save my brother." Tristan whispered the prayer before the heart tree of Winterfell. He had repeated it every day since Bran had fallen, or a variation of it at least, and now more than ever, he hoped that the gods listened to him. Tristan had never been particularly pious, but he would hang up his sword and join the southerner's faith if it would get him his brother back.
Having finished his prayer, Tristan got up, brushed the moss off his knees, sheathed his sword across his back, for he had been resting it before him, point down, to pray, and made his way out of the godswood. He met no one on his way out, everyone was involved in packing up the convoy for the Royal return to King's Landing. Only when he finally broke free of the godswood did he finally encounter movement, as soldiers and serving men all ran back and forth, packing, loading, checking, and more on the caravan. Tristan moved past them all, not caring for the southerners, for all his possessions were packed already. Originally, after the incident with the weakling prince, there had been contemplations over whether taking him south was a good idea. But then the king had insisted, so he was. He was not too pleased about leaving Robb again, but he would return once this supposed tourney was done.
Two men in Baratheon colours quickly parted when Tristan came nearby, allowing him to move past. Waiting at the base of Winterfell's steps was Tristan's wolf. He was unsure what to name him, only he and Bran had not yet named their wolves. Tristan beckoned, and the wolf came to him, not at great speed, but still faster than a hound would at that size. "Tristan," Tristan recognised the voice and turned to find Beth Cassel approaching him, looking rather miserable. "You won't be staying with us then?"
Tristan sighed. He had missed Beth in the Dreadfort, her warm smile, her soft eyes and her red hair. He had been to her chambers twice before, once just before he had left for the Dreadfort. Indeed, he had left on his horse the next morning with the taste of her still on his lips. "No I will not," he told her.
"Oh," she said, looking sadder still now that he had said it. "I hope Bran gets better soon," she added.
"As do I," Tristan said, looking up at the ruined tower from which he had fallen.
"I suppose he climbed from the godswood," Beth said, indicating the trees which had branches reaching for the roof of the armoury, from where Tristan could trace Bran's route. Then his eyes narrowed, it was one he had taken himself before, but it didn't make sense.
"Bran fell from the First Keep didn't he?" He asked Beth suddenly, seizing her by the shoulders and looking her in the eye.
"I-I don't…"
"Did Bran fall from the First Keep?!"
Beth nodded.
Tristan released her. He knew something was wrong, the path that Beth had pointed out was the route he and Bran took to get to the Broken Tower, it did involve, in the later part of the journey, climbing the First Keep, but not near where Bran had fallen. "Thank you Beth," he said, leaning down and kissing her softly. "I will see you again before I leave, but for now there is something I must do." He left a bewildered looking Beth behind and raced off to the godswood.
Thinking back to his days of climbing, like Bran, Tristan found the right tree and, leaving his wolf at the base of it, he planted his foot into the bark and began to climb. It had been a while since he climbed for the pleasure of climbing, but it had helped keep him limber for his fighting, so he had still done a little of it, even at the Dreadfort. He quickly got back into the rhythm of this path and was soon in the upper branches of the tree. He unfastened his cloak, it was getting tangled and when climbing the tower, it would only catch the wind and throw him off balance, and tossed it to the ground and his wolf, who was watching him intently. He kept his sword on, he felt half naked without it these days, as he jumped across onto the roof of the armoury and began running over the roof of the guardhouse. He was wearing boots, which meant that if there was someone in the guardhouse then they would be able to hear him, but Tristan doubted there would be, and even if there were, he didn't care, he had to discover this.
He reached the blind side of the First Keep, and scaled it, not quite as quickly as he could have done when he was younger and did it far more often, reaching the row of gargoyles that you traverse in order to get to the side that faced the Broken Tower. He slowly pulled down on the gargoyle, to test that hit could hold his weight. Comfortable that it could he slowly made his way around them. At every gargoyle, he looked down to the ground. He could picture where Bran fell perfectly, the image of the broken boy seared in his mind like a slave brand, and he was trying to see where that would be. At the last gargoyle, it finally seemed that he had found the gargoyle, but something was still wrong. He closed his eyes trying to think, he couldn't work out what it was, but something was wro-
"TRISTAN!" His left hand slipped from the gargoyle and he flailed about. Shit of the gods! Fear gripped him as he struggled to hold on with one hand, one hand that was slipping off. Time seemed to slow as he cast his eyes around for something to grab onto to steady himself. There! His eyes alighted on the window below him to the right. Using all the strength in his arm and swinging his lower body slightly, Tristan launched himself with his failing grip towards the window. Come on! He just caught on to the ledge with his right arm, quickly reaching inside with his left to grab the inner ledge and haul himself through. He re-caught his breath, slowly and steadily, before standing up and looking out of the window. A small crowd had gathered by the caravan. It seemed that Sansa had been the one to shriek out, he could see her auburn head , but many had their hands over their mouths as he looked out at them. Tristan ignored them, this was more important, he closed his eyes imagining where Bran had ended up. It was definitely either the gargoyle he had been on that he had fallen from, unlikely, given how good Bran was at climbing, or this window. He ignored clapping and curses being sent in his direction. Why, Bran, why would you be here? You should've sped right on past here. Did you really fall? He remembered One of Lord Bolton's lessons at the Dreadfort. It was just after he had been showing off his skills against the Bolton garrison. "You are unmatched here with the blade. But one day you will meet someone who is more than your equal. You must be ready for that. As in so many other things, Lord Bolton was right. He'd met Jaime Lannister. The swordsman Bolton had spoken of had come here. He'd been bested with a blade, and Bran had fallen. Will the southrons bring any more woe with them to Winterfell? Thank the gods they're leaving. But of course, he was going with them.
Heart still fluttering from his near fall, he made his way down the stairs and out of the door to find Sansa looking terrified at him. "Are you okay?" She breathed.
Tristan smiled and nodded, "I am," he said, "really." She did not look convinced, but he knew she needed to be with the caravan now. "Go to the wagons," he told her, "I need to see mother." Tristan's wolf came bounding up there now, Tristan's cloak in his jaws. Tristan retrieved it and put it on before making his way to Bran's chambers, where his mother had been staying for some time.
She looked more bedraggled than Tristan had ever seen her, her hair looked like it had not been brushed since Bran had fallen, she was wearing the same clothes and her eyes were red and puffy. He went behind her and hugged her close to him, "has there been any change?" He asked her and she shook her head.
"I fear the worst," she whispered, "he flits so close to death." A howl interrupted her, Bran's wolf had been outside howling most of the time since he had fallen. His own whined inside the room. "What is that beast doing here?" His mother demanded fiercely. "He is dangerous Tristan."
"He is not," Tristan insisted. He released his mother and said to his wolf, "open." More obedient than any hound, the wolf opened it's jaw and Tristan put his hand inside the gape of the mouth with razor like teeth, feeling the hot breath of his wolf on him. It stayed open, only closing when Tristan took his hand out. "You see, he will not hurt Bran."
"He is more obedient than you were," his mother commented, and Tristan chuckled. Tristan sat on the edge of Bran's bed, looking at his face, so small and pale, with their mother's red hair and blue eyes, so much like Robb when we were that age.
Tristan reached out and touched Bran's face, it was colder than it should have been. "I'm sorry," he whispered, partly to his mother and partly to Bran, "I should have warned you against climbing sooner, I should not have waited. But what happened Bran?" He asked, leaning down so that his face was but inches from that of his brother, but it made no difference to Bran, who was just as still as before.
"Tristan," his mother said softly, "you cannot feel guilty, you were not here, and I asked you to tell Bran not to climb only after the Royals had left."
"I should have done it sooner," he said bitterly, "now I may never get the chance."
His mother did not answer that point, instead she simply said "you should go and join your father and your sisters. It is likely you will be off soon.
Tristan nodded and got up, swiftly leaving the room. Halfway down the stairs he encountered Jon, who was no doubt on his way up to see Bran himself. "Jon," he greeted him monotonously. "How are you?"
"Well enough," Jon said, "how is Bran?"
"No change," Tristan said simply, "if you're going to see him, be careful, mother is up there."
Jon nodded as he passed Tristan by. "I'll see you when you leave."
Grateful for the fresh air outside, Tristan took several deep breaths before he headed off to the main gate where he assumed his father would be. "Is your brother well," an unknown voice called out. Tristan's wolf growled fiercely at the sound and Tristan turned to see the dwarf brother of the Queen approaching.
"What do you care for him?" Tristan asked sharply. What business is it of yours, Lannister, you don't know what it means to be family. "I have seen the way the queen looks at you; you Lannisters clearly have queer views on family."
"That is only my sister," Tyrion Lannister replied, "and she treats all like that, I am simply not an exception to the rule."
Tristan raised his eyebrows, "only your sister, your father sacked King's Landing whilst your brother was near the king. That was quite a risk with his son's life."
"My brother can handle kings as I am sure you know," Tyrion said and Tristan nodded, his father had told his children enough about the Kingslayer.
"Well, to answer your question, my brother is as well as I could expect, I am simply glad that he did not die." But of course, that wouldn't be enough to get the dwarf man to leave him alone.
"Like you almost did?" Tyrion asked. "Half the caravan saw you almost fall at your sister's cry, I assume your brother got it from you."
Tristan shook his head, "Bran was climbing as soon as he could, I made the choice to, but with Bran, it was simply his nature."
Tyrion Lannister nodded, "he reminds me of my niece."
"The princess climbs?" Tristan asked surprised, she didn't look the sort, too soft, too delicate. He'd have thought the only water she'd enter would be scented with salts and fragrance
"Not her," Tyrion Lannister said, "one of my other nieces, Lelia, she is no climber, but she swims as much as she is able."
Tristan frowned, he had never heard of her. "I have heard of no princess Lelia," he told the dwarf. Not that that meant very much. He tended to let his mind move to more interesting things when topics like that came up. His father could well have mentioned it.
"She is no princess," Tyrion confirmed, "she shares no blood with the King, she is the first daughter of my brother."
Tristan was still confused, "your brother is of the Kingsguard is he not?" Kingsguard couldn't father children.
"My other brother," Tyrion told him, "my brother Loren, born four years before me, the unknown heir of Casterly Rock."
"Why is he not here?" Tristan asked.
Tyrion gave a small laugh. "My brother Loren, well he is… different, able certainly, but different. Besides, and more to the point, he is not currently in Westeros, has not been for three years."
"There are more of you?" Tristan asked, surprised. "I thought you were all here."
"Not all of us," the dwarf replied. "Loren has been gone for quite some time." The dwarf invited Tristan to follow his ring laden hands.
"Why?" Tristan said not having to move fast to keep up with the dwarf, "where is he?"
Tyrion shrugged, "somewhere in the east, as to why and precisely where, Loren's reasons and purpose are his own. Though he would seem to fit your view of the Lannisters, since he left his wife and children behind. I don't think he's even written them since he left.
"Sounds like a lovely man," he muttered
"A bitter man," the dwarf quibbled. "You'd like him." His wolf growled in anger. "So would he I expect."
"Shut up, dwarf," he growled. Bloody Lannisters.
Tyrion Lannister laughed. "I'll let you finish up your packing, wolf. I'm going to see the Wall, but I look forward to seeing your sword arm in the south. My brother says it is quite something."
He waddled off through the courtyard. Tristan saw him meet with his family, his eyes drifting to Jaime Lannister's smiling face. "Does he now?" He mused to himself before returning to his own preparations, not at all eager to be going south. Maybe this time I go things will not be so awful.
