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Winterfell is deserted at this hour. Nothing stirs, nothing starts, nothing sounds. Silence greets Adela as she leaves her chamber, her feet deft and hopping down the stone steps two at a time. All night she has lain awake, her mind a myriad of thoughts and feelings, of conflict and indecision. The moon rose and rose and fell again as she lay wondering and before cold dawn had broken she knew her heart. She skips down the last few steps, breathless and pink-cheeked already, and emerges from the tower out into the courtyard, the cobbles smooth and frozen beneath her bare feet. The shawl flaps behind her as she runs, and she grips it tight to her shoulders as she continues to cut a path through the thin crust of frost carpeting the alley between the inner and outer walls.
She reaches the godswood at last as the pre-dawn light begins to illuminate the turrets and stones behind her. She closes her eyes to the silence, tipping back her head and hearing only the faintest whispers of the wind. The soil is frozen beneath her feet, the few fallen leaves brittle crimson shapes murmuring lowly as the wind passes over them. She opens her eyes after what feels like an eternity of silence and makes her way through the godswood until she reaches the glossy black depths of the pool and the white tree that shelters it. As she kneels before the now familiar face of the tree, she remembers her first moonlit visit to this sacred grove when she arrived at Winterfell those months ago. She remembers the primeval belonging she felt to this place and feels it swell within her now as she looks before her to the gnarled bark of the tree and listens to the soft whisper of the wind. At last she feels at home, at last she feels a place to belong.
"Please hear me," she whispers to the Old Gods, closing her eyes. "I swear to do my duty as a Stark or a Snow, to serve this family, to die for this family, as you see fit." Her voice trembles with her breath. "I swear to watch over Sansa when we travel to the south, to serve her and to guide her and to do as she bids. I will strive to remain indifferent to the ways of the south, to stay away from the lust and depravity of their court, and to be wary always of the family that rules there." The wind begins to pull gently at her hair now. "Whatever test you grant me, whatever hardship you force me to face, I will conquer it with only love and duty as my weapons." She hears the leaves above and below her being whipped into frenzy as the wind continues its dance around her. "For these promises I ask only one thing in return . . . keep him safe." A tear winds down her cheek from beneath her closed eyes. "Keep him safe, please. I know not where life will take him, what paths he will tread, what men he will fight against. I know only that those dark eyes hold secrets none of us can know, not yet, and that he will need all his strength when the time for knowing comes." Her voice drops lower as the winds whine. "Before you, Old Gods of the Forest, I give my oath to honour my duty to this noble family and ask you again . . . keep him safe."
She opens her eyes as the wind suddenly ceases and falls and silence reclaims the godswood once more. She watches the gnarled face of the weirwood tree as the first stray shafts of sunlight pierce through the trees and illuminate the pale bark. She sits back on her heels, her hands still clasped, her eyes turning from the tree to her reflection in the unmoving surface of the black pool. Her face stares back at her, pale and unsure, unruly dark hair falling forward and framing troubled blue eyes. Her hand extends, her fingers lowering to touch the surface of the pool and trace her reflection. She snatches her hand back as she hears a howl go up from the grey stone of Winterfell behind her. The howl is frantic and torn, and sounds again and again. Soon the other direwolves join and a great chorus of melancholy echoes throughout the grove and beyond.
Adela starts up and runs, tripping over protruding roots and grazing her feet in her haste to find the cause of the howls. She emerges from the godswood and runs as fast as she can through the gates and courtyard. The howling starts up again with renewed ferocity. She halts, breathing hard, and feels her heart drop to her stomach as Hodor steps from behind the half-crumbling wall flanking the north tower carrying a limp child's body in his arms. Summer winds about Hodor's ankles, howling pitifully.
"Bran!" cries Adela, starting forward again. Hodor stops when he sees her, clutching Bran tight to his chest. She fumbles at the child's neck, pressing her fingers tight to his throat. Come on, she thinks, come on, Bran. She feels his weak pulse against her fingers and breathes relief. "Oh, he's alive, gods be praised, he's alive."
Through the drumming of her own ears, she soon becomes aware of commotion behind her and of first the maids running over, then Ser Rodrik, and finally Ned. They carry him away to Catelyn and Maester Luwin and tell Adela to gather some herbs from the grounds. She stands for a moment in the courtyard watching Bran being borne away, his arms hanging down, swinging sadly like the broken wings of a little bird. She turns to follow the disjointed cobbled path leading around the crumbling wall to the abandoned tower a hundred steps or more from the courtyard. Amongst the frost and ice she finds a few sprigs of winter herbs whose seeds the maester can grind to relieve Bran of pain and ease his sleep. She continues her search around the abandoned tower, looking amongst the ruined stones at its base.
Finding nothing more, she gives up the search after an hour, clutching the small amount she's managed to forage tightly in her hand. She begins to walk the path back to the central courtyard when she hears a thread of voice on the wind. She stops instantly, frozen to the spot, her eyes surveying the empty grounds she stands in. She quietens her breath, closes her eyes, and her hearing sharpens to catch the voice again. This time it is higher up. Her eyes snap open and dart to the top of the tower. At the cracked glass, she thinks she sees the ghost of a face pass quickly before it. She picks up her skirts in her free hand and runs to the tumblestone archway leading into the tower, leaps the winding steps two at a time and emerges breathless and winded into the main chamber of the tower.
It is empty, and as ruined as the exterior. The beams dip in, threatening to spill the roof upon the dusty flagstones underfoot, the ragged curtains at the ruined window stir pitifully in the small breeze. Adela steps carefully around the tower room, her footsteps quiet and measured. Can I hear breath? A murmur of voice?
Nothing, there is nothing. She comes to a stop before the cracked window and looks out through the ruined half-jagged glass. From here, Winterfell is an expanse of grey stone and turrets, gleaming white frost blinding her in the early light of the sun. She looks along the tufts and turrets of the castle, observes daily life beginning as it always does. The wolves have fallen silent at last but no birds take their place of song. Her eyes carry on their search until finally they come to a stop.
A man walks the walls of Winterfell. She is sure she has never seen him before, yet recognises him somehow. His armour is white, his woollen cloak the same pale hue. He is tall, broad-shouldered, handsome even at this distance. Golden hair, evergreen eyes that raise to stare at the ancient, ruined tower she stands at the peak of. She inhales sharply and steps back into the shadow of the window's arch. When she looks again he is gone, as if he were never there at all.
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