ChaCha here! You all know that I'm not GRRM or HBO, (although sometimes when I talk, I think all my husband hears is static… ;) Hope you enjoy! I will warn you, there are pretty strong allusions to rape, for any of you who may be squimish (I hated doing it but it's a great foray into some kick ass bad ass Josslyn violence.) Thanks for all your kind words and alerts. You guys are fraking fantastic.

Josslyn sighed as she dreamt of Bran's slightly calloused hands, and feathering touch. His teeth nipped at her skin, and his large strong hands grabbed her by the waist. "Bran," she moaned.

"Don't be calling another man's name sweeting," Bran's voice crooned in her ear. Suddenly the hands were no longer his-they were too calloused, the lips weren't his-the kisses too sloppy. Rough hands pushed her legs apart, and Josslyn's eyes shot open. The scream that tore from her throat was silenced by the horrid, dirty calloused hands that covered her mouth. Sickening lust filled muddy brown eyes raked over her body, as one of the Raiders situated himself between her thighs, urgently pulling her small clothes away.

With every ounce of strength she had she grabbed the horrid man by the throat, her finger nails drawing blood. It didn't stop him, but it startled him enough that she was able to reach for her only remaining weapon, the knife hidden as a hair pin. She ripped it from her hair, she with a quick movement, slashed it across the rapists throat, iron tasting blood gushing from his neck and splattering across her face and chest.

The Raiders began to yell and curse as she pushed the dead body off her own, and brandished her small knife. I can't kill them all, she thought despondently, But I can take some of them to hell with me. She smiled grimly and leapt at the nearest Raider her knife raised. The small blade cut through the skin of his thigh, slicing through his artery as if it was butter, and turned and jabbed the knife through the wind pipe of another, before she felt the flat of a sword come down hard on her back, breaking skin.

She couldn't help it this time, she was unprepared and screamed out in pain, her voice echoing though out the loud cave. Three men jumped on her as soon as she was down. One binding her hands, another with his knee between her shoulder blades, the last taking her own blade and bringing it to rest at her throat.

"Stop," the leather armored man bellowed over the cries and chants urging her own death. Everyone froze. "You want your fucking ransom or not?"

"Marcas," one man yelled. "The cunt has killed four of us already." The men pulled her to her feet, the leather armored man, Marcas, standing in front of her his sword out of his sheath.

"This cunt is worth a lot of money, not only to the Winterfell cripple but to the Rock," Marcas said with a revolting caress of her cheek. Josslyn didn't know which infuriated her more, calling her a cunt-a word which she despised more than anything, or calling Bran 'the Winterfell cripple', but either way she let our an animalistic roar, and moved to bite Marcas' stubby fingers off.

Marcas' mailed fist collided with her ribs and she heard a horrible crack, and the pain was so unbearable that she screamed again, only gathering her wild defiance to spit at Marcas. Josslyn was thrown to the ground, and a foot collided with her already injured ribs, making her cry, the tears caking mud on her cheeks.

"Spit on me again you little bitch," Marcas' voice growled in her ear, "And I'll be the first to rape you." Josslyn couldn't hold it in anymore, the pain in her ribs, her fear, and the ache in her heart were all to much for her to bear, and she descended into a terrified huddle and let herself cry.

The Raiders left her alone for the rest of the night, most of them shooting her rage filled looks, as if they'd love nothing more that to strangle the life out of her. It was just after dawn, when the blue eyed man came a lifted her in to his saddle, tying her foot to the pummel once again, and began to ride.

After a few hours she got up enough courage to ask where she was being taken. "Marcas still hasn't decided. The Rock will pay more for their little bitch, but Winterfell is closer, less of a chance one of us will kill you." After a while, he spoke again. "That was my brother who's throat you cut last night little bitch." Josslyn scoffed.

"What do you want?" she asked the words jumping to her lips before she could stop them. "You want me to apologize for killing the man who'd have raped me? Well you'll not get it." The blue eyed man jabbed her hard in her injured ribs and she cried out, and decided to bite her tongue for the rest of the day.

She saw shadows in the edges of her vision all day. She dismissed them as a trick of the light and the hard snow that was beating down on them as they rode east, but when she kept seeing it, she prayed to any god that was listening that it was Summer. She told herself it was the right shape to be the dire wolf, though darker and appeared a bit smaller, but the idea that Summer at least was coming for her gave her hope.

It was after dark, when she heard the thunder of hooves. The blue eyed man was distracted for an instant, but that was enough. She grabbed his dagger from his belt, and drove it through his neck before cutting the rope that bound her foot to the saddle and leapt down ignoring the pain in her ribs and heart, she simply ran. She thought she heard Bran calling her name, but she ran anyhow, Just wishful thinking, she told herself. Even if he changed his mind, there is no one to raise the alarm.

Josslyn ran for an hour before, a mass of dark fur collided with her body knocking her to the ground. She whipped around, whishing she had kept the knife she'd stabbed the blue eyed man with, until she saw the yellow eyes of Summer, and threw her arms around the wolf with a great sob. The wolf growled and tried to recoil, but Josslyn held firm. The wolf began to calm and nuzzled her, pushing her away slightly.

She let go, and watched Summer stare at her with confused eyes, before he let out a gruff and began to walk away from her, but north west, towards Winterfell. Josslyn, pulled herself off the ground, not even bothering to noticing that she was soaked through with melted snow, and began to follow the dire wolf home.

~x~

Bran pushed the men and horses hard, never stopping to east or rest. He didn't miss the exhausted looks he got from his men or their horses. He knew Fog would keep going, he knew the only reason the grey horse had returned was to get him to help free his master. Bran saw in the horses mind, as she killed a man, who had his hand up her skirt, and would have vowed to kill the man if she had not already done so. Mine, the thought kept creeping up in his mind possessively.

Only his brothers never complained of the pace he set, of which he was grateful. Even with Fog's memories of the run from her captors, Bran never would have been able to find her trail, if not for the familiar swatches of sapphire fabric that shone against the snow. Mine, he smiled to himself at the idea that she was keeping a level head despite her capture, which would have rendered most women in to sniveling heaps.

They'd found the cave from Fog's memories, the bramble curtain pulled wide open so he could see that no one was there except the bodies of three men, and with horrible wounds. He hoped they had all died at her hand. Mine, the thought popped up again. He couldn't fight it anymore. He needed her, Gendry had been right in everything that he had said. He many not be what he thought she needed or deserved, but he loved her more than his own life, more than he wanted to walk again. He'd happily spend every day of the rest of his life in his wheeled chair, if only she was happy and safe at his side.

I just have to find her, he thought. He looked around for more of her torn gown, but didn't see any swatches of the tell tale fabric. Please gods, he prayed a picture of the weir wood jumping into his mind, Let her be alive. He told the men to rest, and they all groaned in happiness as they all broke into their provisions of wine and bread, happy at the respite from riding.

Bran stayed in the saddle though, joining minds with Summer, who had never left his side for an instant. There were so many smells, horses, men, blood, some fresh, some stale, some hers, that even the dire wolf couldn't pick of the scent. Bran's eyes flitted about the valley looking for some other animal and finally found a squirrel and quickly joined his mind with the rodent, seeing that the Raiders had gone east, and ordered the men back into the saddles.

"Milord," the captain cautioned "The men and horses will die if we keep this pace." The look Bran gave him silenced the grizzled fighter. And he simply nodded and ordered the men back into the saddle.

They rode even harder than before, the idea that they were close spurring Bran, making his heart soar. He joined minds with several animals, confirming that they were on the right trail. It was not too long that a physical trial was apparent, and the men and horses seemed to get a second wind, as if knowing that the ordeal was coming to a close the closer they got to her.

Finally, Sandor's hounds picked up the scent, and began running harder. Summer striding out before the hounds, leaping and tearing out a man's throat before the Raider knew there was any danger. The only thing Bran heard before they descended upon the Ghost Raiders was shouts of confusion. Bran drew Ice from it's sheath on his back. He should have been more clumsy, wielding a great sword with one hand, but the lightness of valyrian steel, and his freakishly strong arms, he wielded the sword as if it were an extension of his arm, cutting through men left and right, his eyes looking about the thirty odd men, trying to find her.

"Josslyn," he bellowed, her name leaping unbidden to his lips as he searched for her tiny frame among the fray. He knew it was the first time he'd even thought her name in days. But try as he might, he didn't see her. He cut down each man, thinking only of finding her, of having her back. When finally the last man died at Ice's kiss. He surveyed the damage. Not one of the Ghost Raiders had been spared his rage, all of them lay dead at Fog's feet, but Josslyn was still not there. Summer was darting around the remains of man and horse trying to find her scent, but to no avail.

Bran bowed his head, closing his eyes, fighting the tears. He felt Rickon's hand on his shoulder, "Bran, send the men back, we can find her from here." Bran nodded half heartedly, and his brother relayed his orders. The men protested that there were more dangers than just the Raiders, but in the end they went home. When they were finally gone, the four brothers circled their horses.

"No sign," Rickon asked, "None at all?" Bran shook his head.

"What if she's already dead?" he asked, his own voice weak and he was glad the men were gone.

"Bah," Sandor scoffed. "She's a Lannister, worth three time her weight in gold in ransom. They wouldn't kill her." Bran was aware that Sandor had spent some time as an outlaw, and his insight gave him some hope, however little.

"More like she escaped in the fighting," Gendry scowled about the dead bodies already being picked apart by carrion birds.

"Then why didn't she hear me," Bran spat.

"No guarantee she could have over all the clanging and screaming," Sandor shrugged.

"Josslyn," Rickon laughed suddenly. "Is her name your new battle cry Bran?" The others chuckled, but Summer whimpering at his side recalled his attention. Bran stared at his wolf, wishing that he could find some bit of her trail, until a pair of fresh footprints in the snow caught his attention.

"Sandor," he snapped his finger's pointing directly at the prints. The hulking man leaped off his horse, and examined them.

"Defiantly a woman's" he shrugged. "Likely they could be hers." That was all Bran needed to join his mind to Fog's and urge the horse to gallop down the trail, her foot prints filling him with hope that she was still alive. Mine.

~X~

Josslyn knew she should be cold, but she couldn't feel it. Another bad sign, she thought to herself. Summer was leading her back to Winterfell, but she knew she didn't have the strength to make it. She was stumbling, and falling all over the place. Every once and a while Summer would let her bury her hand in his warm fur for support and help her keep walking.

But Josslyn was having a hard time fighting the fever, fighting the pain in her ribs and fighting the sleep that threatened to overcome her every time she blinked snow from her eyes. She was at least thankful that she had worn her boots, but they had long since soaked through and she could hardly feel her feet anymore.

Her head lolled as she walked, and lost her balance, sinking into a tree, giving up. Summer, who had been several paces in front of her, stopped and padded silently back to where she sat leaning against the tree, his yellow eyes sad.

"I'm sorry Summer," she said, her own voice so weak that she could barely hear it. "Thank you for trying though." The wolf snarled and snapped, and nudged her trying to force her to stand, and whimpered when he finally saw that it was pointless. The dire wolf sunk down on top of her, shielding Josslyn from the elements as best he could. Josslyn gave the wolf a sad smile, rubbing his head, the way she knew he liked. This is it, she thought, I'm going to die so far from home, far from him. I'll never see my mother again, never see my father, never kiss Bran again. But at least I'll die warm, she thought finally as her eyes became to heavy for her to keep open and she drifted away into the dark, with Bran's beautiful smile in her minds eye, his strong voice calling her name.

Hmmm…how can Summer be in two places at once? It's times like this where I'm glad I'm the writer not the reader.