Bran had slept with the wooden effigy the wildling had made of his mother, even though he was too old. It was hidden under his pillow now. Nyssa sat at the foot of his bed with her legs tucked under her dress. The lordling's feet were cold against her knees. Rain lashed the window and she was glad to be warm by the fire.
"Did you enjoy your feast?" she said.
Bran shrugged. He thought of how last year at his nameday feast Arya had stolen Theon's signet ring and leapt from table to table while he chased after her. Bran had nearly laughed himself sick that day. It wasn't fair that his sisters were in King's Landing, where he should've been too, instead of confined to his bed. He was bored, restless, and tired of being told by Maester Luwin that this was a fine opportunity for him to focus on his studies. He didn't want to read dusty books by long dead maesters. He wanted to run, and climb, and touch the world for himself as any boy his age.
"Does the three eyed raven still visit you?" he asked Nyssa. She nodded. Yes, the bird frequently came to caw in her dreams, though it still hadn't told her what it wanted from her.
"What does it mean?" said Bran. "You've never mentioned it in all your stories."
Nyssa was silent from a time and Bran waited, knowing that she would speak when she was ready, as he'd come to learn that she always chose her words carefully, even with him. He wasn't bothered by her caution, thinking that if he found himself in a wildling camp, then he'd likely do the same.
Nyssa didn't hesitate, however, because she didn't trust the boy. It was as if she'd always known him in a way. With him, she felt as she had with those of her own clan, perhaps even closer than she'd felt with most of her clan. She had stopped seeking an explanation for her connection to the southern child, as it didn't much matter, and she expected no answers from the three eyed raven. Nyssa hesitated to speak of the bird, and what little she knew about it, because she'd sworn to protect the boy and the lions were not the only threat to him. She did not want him to seek out the raven. She knew how cruel the gods could be.
"I don't know much," she finally said. "We don't have any stories about the raven that I've heard."
"But you've heard something?" said Bran.
Nyssa nodded. She wouldn't lie to him. She wasn't sure that she could without him knowing. "My mother told me why the raven has three eyes," she said. Bran leaned forward eagerly and she sighed before going on. "The third eye is where it keeps a terrible truth that men only know a shadow of."
Bran, disappointed, fell back against his pillows. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I couldn't tell you," said Nyssa. "That's all I know. When my mother told it to me, I didn't understand either, and I still don't."
"You only know a shadow of it," said Bran.
"That's how it should be," said Nyssa. "Let the gods have their reasons. It doesn't matter what or why they are. We're better not knowing, little lord."
Bran didn't agree with her, but he said no more about it for the time being. Long after she had gone, he considered what Nyssa's mother had told her, and what she had told him. What truth did he only know a shadow of? There was so much he only knew part of, and much he didn't know anything at all about, and he wanted to know everything. Terrible or no, he wanted to know what the three eyed raven kept in its third eye.
That night, Bran's desire came true, and he wished it had not. He woke to find Nyssa once again by his bed, her face pale, and he knew the three eyed raven had come to her as well. "Bran?" she whispered, reaching for him. Bran sank into her arms, though he did not cry, and she held him. Her heart beat frantically in his ear.
"Jory's dead," said Bran. Nyssa didn't know the person he spoke of. She had seen more than one man die in her dream, the men with wolves on their cloaks, slaughtered in some faraway street. She had seen the boy-lord's father, too, knowing who he was though he was a stranger, brought to his knees and circled by lions.
Bran had ceased shaking. He was very still in her arms. When he spoke again, his voice was older than it should've been. "They're going to kill my father."
"You don't know that," said Nyssa, though she felt the truth of it just as strongly as the boy. She lied to him now, because the truth was too much for a boy of ten. She wanted to take it away from him, return the dream to the three eyed raven, spare the child even if it was hopeless.
"I heard the Kingslayer attacked Lord Stark in the throne room," said Hild.
"Nah," said the kennel master's son through a mouthful of rashers. "They were at a brothel. That's what my cousin says."
Hild wrinkled her nose. "Never," she said. "Lord Stark is an honorable man."
Nyssa, sitting at the far end of the table, said, "He's a man still, ain't he?" Hild and the lad turned to her. She immediately regretted speaking.
"I don't expect you to know anything about honor," said Hild, her spotted nose in the air. Nyssa didn't rise to the girl's bait. She left them to their speculations. All through the castle there were whispers about what had happened between Lord Stark and the lions in King's Landing, but it was all simple enough in Nyssa's mind. The three-eyed raven had finally spoken to her, one word- war.
When the saddle Lord Tyrion had designed was finally finished, Bran spent as much time as he could on horseback. Learning to ride again without the use of his legs was a challenge, but one that distracted him from thoughts of his father. It wasn't long before he was just as comfortable in the saddle as he had been before and Robb agreed to let him ride beyond the castle walls.
Though Bran longed to gallop through the evergreens of the Wolfswood, he reigned in his horse to keep pace with Nyssa, who was clearly not much of an equestrian. He tried to offer her some advice, but his words were met with stony silence and frustrated humphs.
"Loosen the reigns," said Bran. She unclenched her fists and winced as the blood rushed back into her fingertips. The fresh air was good for the boy. He was smiling again, enjoying himself as a child should, so she swallowed her own displeasure for his sake.
"I'll be able to learn how to shoot a bow from horseback now," said Bran. "Maester Luwin says that Dothraki boys learn when they're just four years old. If that's true, then I'm sure I can-"
Nyssa held up her hand to silence him. She brought her horse to a halt by gently tugging the reigns as he'd shown her.
"What is it?" said Bran, stopping beside her. She didn't answer as her eyes darted from tree to tree. Though she saw only shadows, she knew they were no longer alone in the woods, and her hand went to her dagger. Just as her fingers curled around the walrus-bone hilt, four figures leapt from the trees on all sides of them. Bran's young mare pawed the ground. They were surrounded.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" said one of the men. His clothes were stained and frayed, his hair greasy, and his face caked with dirt. The other two men, and one woman, were just as ragged. All of them carried makeshift weapons crafted from odd bits of steel and stone. They were not southerners.
"Looks like a little lordling to me," said the woman. She reached up to tear away the silver wolf pinned to Bran's jerkin. "How much do you think this will fetch?"
"Who cares? We need horses, not gold. Let's kill them and be gone."
"If you hurt me, then my brother will-"
Nyssa hissed before Bran could finish. She didn't look at him as her eyes continued to dart between the four drifters, lingering longest on the first man who'd spoken. He was the leader. She could tell by how the others glanced at him.
"Hear that?" said the woman. "He's got a big, bad brother."
"I'm Brandon Stark of Winterfell. My brother is Lord of-" Nyssa stopped him again with another hiss, but it was too late.
"Stark?" said the leader. His ice-blue eyes narrowed. "You're blood to Benjen Stark."
"Think of what Mance will give us for bringing him that old crow's kin," said the woman.
"Piss on Mance," said one of the men, spitting at the ground. "I say we ransom him to his lord father. I didn't climb the damn Wall just to go back."
"My father isn't even-" began Bran. This time Nyssa cut him off by leaping from her horse, feet sinking into the mossy ground, her dagger drawn. Enough was enough.
"Take the horses," she said. "You won't take the boy."
"We'll take whatever we like," said the leader, stepping forward. Nyssa put herself between him and Bran. He kept his eyes on her even as he addressed the woman. "Osha, go find this boy's father. Tell him I'll make a fair trade."
The woman, Osha, darted back into the trees. It would not be difficult for her to find Winterfell. The great stone castle was hard to miss. At least there were only three drifters left for Nyssa to deal with. They were closing in inch by inch. As one of the men reached for Bran's foot, she whipped around and drove her blade through his neck before he could blink. In the same movement, she slapped Bran's horse hard on the rear.
"Go!" she shouted at him. The mare was off, scattering the two remaining drifters, and soon vanished into the woods. Before Nyssa could swing herself back into her own saddle, the leader was on her, his arm around her neck and squeezing the air from her lungs.
"Get the boy," he ordered. His companion clambered onto the remaining horse and disappeared after Bran. Nyssa knew the boy was a better rider. She only hoped he would not try to come back for her.
Dusk gathered in the Wolfswood. Neither Osha or the other man had returned. Nyssa hoped that meant Bran had made it safely back to Winterfell. He knew these woods better than the drifters. Their leader, Cyril, had bound her to an oak tree. He'd taken her knife and was inspecting it closely.
"Walrus bone," he said, glancing at her. "I've seen the like before. You're not from around here, are you, girl? You're one of us."
Nyssa snorted. Cyril and his band might be free folk like her, but they were not her clan. "How did you end up here?" he said, crouching down so they were at eye level with each other. Nyssa turned her face away from him. "Guess it doesn't matter," he went on. "Everyone's coming south now if they know what's good for 'em."
He trailed his finger along her collarbone and she held her breath. The sound of hooves took his attention away from her, but her relief was short lived as she too turned to the approaching rider. Cyril's man rode into the clearing in triumph. Nyssa's heart sank. She struggled against the rope binding her to the oak tree as Bran was hefted from the horse, tossed over the man's shoulder, and dropped unceremoniously beside her.
"No need to tie that one up," said Cyril's man. "Boy's a cripple."
Bran looked to Nyssa, not with fear in his eyes, but an apology for not riding fast enough. His cheek was swollen from where he'd been struck and the sight overwhelmed her with rage. She watched their captors whispering to each other by the horses. When she killed them, and kill them she would, she decided that she would save the tawny one for last, so that she could take her time, make him suffer.
Bran pressed against her. "Robb will come for us," he whispered. Nyssa didn't doubt that the boy-lord would come for his brother, but she thought of Cyril's touch, the gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, and she knew that Robb would not come soon enough. She didn't need the three eyed raven to show her what was coming.
Sure enough, Cyril returned to her. "Keep an eye on the boy," he said, cutting the rope that bound her, only to knot it again around her wrists so that her arms were pinned at her back. "Might as well have a bit of fun while we wait. You can have a turn after."
No, thought Nyssa, even as Cyril pushed her forward. She dropped to her knees, refusing to walk, but Cyril snatched her hair in his fist and lifted her up again. Bran clawed desperately at the man's leg until he was kicked in the stomach. "Leave him," hissed Nyssa. She stopped struggling. "Take me, but leave him be."
Cyril gave her a toothless grin. His fist was still tangled in her hair and he began moving towards the trees, hauling her along, while Bran screamed after them. Nyssa looked at him, silently pleading for him to look away, to be quiet. His brother would come for him. Until then, she would keep Cyril away from him the only way she could.