Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay. Please, leave me a review. I'd love to know how you like the new POV's

BRAN I

He felt, a peaceful place, like a place he had been before, before anything. It was warm, quiet, and dark, yet not stifling at all. He found he couldn't move, but it didn't matter, for he also found he didn't want to either. It was bliss. Yet, it was not silent. A thump, and then another, and another. It sounded like it came from everywhere at once, and yet it was as calming as the lullabies his mother would sing him when he was younger. Now it thumped, faster and faster, like a drum being beaten with greater and greater strikes. He was moving now, pulled away by some force he could not resist, that pulled him towards the light that now shined, painfully bright to his shut eyes…

Bran's eyes shot open, and he sat up so quickly that he felt lightheaded for a moment. He glanced about him, confused for a moment, then remembering that he had climbed up the bell tower on the east side of Winterfell rather than his warm bed. He had taken to climbing up this spot in particular and staring at the Wolfswood in the distance, a field of dark green against the otherwise greyish draw of the land. He thought that maybe if he stared long enough, Father and Robb and Jon would come riding over the horizon and he could be the first to see. Mother had not been pleased, but then she was never pleased when it came to his climbing, never accepting that he simply knew every last stone and handhold on every last building in Winterfell. He could even climb in the dark if he had to. I did that night, when I slipped out the window of the Great Keep.

Bran shuddered to think of that night. It had seemed like a fun nightly jaunt, and he had felt like half a man, out to face danger, like a knight of the stories. But then when the Sign appeared… he had felt like a little baby again. All the shouting, the bells ringing through the dark, the murmuring between the guardsmen as they ran to and fro, some still pulling on bits of armour as they stumbled groggily out of bed. He still remembered the relief he felt when Father had emerged from the Great Keep, looking alert and awake, with Robb and Jon right behind him. He had been so relieved, in fact, that he forget to protest that he was nearly a man when father told him to stay in the Great Keep with Mother and his sisters and Rickon. So there he had waited, in Mother's chambers with his siblings, scowling next to Arya that he was being treated like a babe. Rickon hadn't understood at all why he had to be wake up in the middle of the night, and had whined for about an hour or so before back asleep in Mother's lap. Sansa had surprisingly remained perfectly pristine and lady-like the whole while, though Bran knew his sister well enough that he could tell she was perhaps the most scared of them all, even Mother. She had calmed down a bit when Jeyne was allowed to stay with them, but then he had had to listen to both of them whisper and nervously giggle about something or other for hours. But in the end nothing had came of it, and Fat Tom came up to their chambers to tell them about the Sign that Robb and Jon had seen after sneaking out, that there seemed to be no one coming to attack them. However, he told them that Father said that in case it wasn't safe for them just yet, they should remain in the Great Keep until the morn.

It was not until he returned to his own chambers did Bran realize that Tom had said nothing about Bran's involvement, and probably saving him from being boxed in the ears by Mother. Since Tom would probably never cover for him like that, it meant that Jon and Robb were the ones responsible. That made him feel bad, especially when considered that he had called them both slow. He would have to apologize to them at some point. Besides, they weren't that slow, not really. He had seen them both in the yard, and they were both actually quite fast, Ser Rodrik said so, though apparently Jon was a bit faster.

All the same, neither of them would ever be as fast as Bran knew he himself would be one day, when he was a famous knight in the Kingsguard. They would all tell stories them about him, Bran the Fast, Bran the Strong, Bran the Mighty. But first he would have to grow up.

Bran wrinkled his nose at that.

For now, Robb and Jon wouldn't let him spar with them, saying he was too young, though at least they usually had the decency to say it without snickering. He had always been jealous of his older brothers for that, that they had someone their age to spar with, to be friends with. Rickon was too young, so Bran had no one. No one but Maester Luwin and his boring lessons.

At that thought, Bran cast his eyes up towards the sun, which was currently hidden behind a cloud of billowing white. It had been rather warm lately, for a late summer day. Or at least, that's what Maester Luwin had said. Bran himself wouldn't know, as he hadn't even been alive during the last summer. By his estimation, it was approaching midday, so no doubt Maester Luwin would be expecting him for lessons soon. He gave a long sigh at that, but quickly scrambled over the short stone wall down to the sheer stone wall of the bell tower. He must be three stories up, but Bran felt no fear at all. He had done this dozens times before. He stopped, taking in the scenery one last time before he descended. There was a very good reason this happened to be one of his favorite climbing places.

He took in the bustle of the castle below him, scanning the premise with wide, admiring eyes. Directly below were the stables, and he could see from here that Hullen was tending to that mare that was about to have a foal. She was a good mount, strong and compliant, and he had overheard his parents discussing potentially giving the new foal to Rickon to help care for, so he would learn responsibility and have a horse all his own. He certainly needed it, for even at only three namedays he was already a wild terror. Sansa had run crying to Mother more than once over Rickon ruining a dress of hers with his grimy fingers.

Past the stables he could see the forge, where the comforting clang of Mikken and his forge rang out through the midday light. But that interested Bran less than what he spotted beyond the forge. For there, making his way up the hill on a fine black stallion, was Fat Tom, his head hidden by a drawn hood. Bran wasn't certain whom he was trying to fool. Tom was the only member of the Stark household who wore a hood when they rode back into the castle. Not even Theon did that. Besides, it was midday already, and he was only now getting back from the brothels, or the whorehouses as Jon and Robb called them. He would call them that too, but the last time he had Mother had gasped and told him to not use such a nasty word as that. He grinned at the thought. Another thing he could do up here, with no one to tell him what to do. He cleared his throat.

"Bloody hells!"

Nothing. He didn't hear Mother's scandalized gasp. Maybe he could try louder.

"BLOODY HELLS!"

"BRANDON STARK!"

His eyes widened considerably. He looked down, his face stricken with panic. Sure enough, there was Mother, standing next to Maester Luwin. It seemed he had waited too long in leaving the tower, and Luwin had gone to inform her of his lateness. Even from here Bran could see the absolutely fearsome look on Mother's face, and the pitying one on Luwin's. He gulped.

"Brandon Stark, you will come down this instant, on the stairs, and report to Maester Luwin for your lessons! Your father will hear about this when he returns, mark my words!"

Every harsh syllable out of her mouth made him wince. Quickly he hopped off his perch and flew past the great bronze bell that gave the bell tower its name and through the door, scurrying down the stairs like the Others were hot on his tail. It was wonder he didn't trip, but then his feet had always been nearly as nimble and sure as his hands. He stopped right before stepping out the ground door into the courtyard, grabbing the door handle with sweaty palms and slowly pushing forward, trudging forward towards his certain doom.

Eyes downcast, he barely saw Mother standing there with her hands upon her sides, the frightening scowl still plastered on her features. Harwin leaned against a nearby fence by the edge of the stable yard, watching his march of shame with an amused grin. Mother crossed her arms then, and spoke as sternly as he ever heard her speak.

"Brandon, I cannot believe that you would use such uncouth language! You are far too young to be swearing like a sailor, by the gods! Now, to your lessons, and your father shall be speaking of this to you soon."

At that she turned about, walking back to the Great Keep with her skirts trailing behind her, back perfectly straight and proper.

Bran then decided that it was safe to raise his eyes, which came to rest upon the wizened face of Maester Luwin, who tsked him with a shake of the head.

"Come now, lad. Your mother is right, you know. Little lords should not use such words."

Bran huffed, and muttered then,

"I thought no one could hear me, is all."

Luwin smiled softly at that, and put a hand on Bran's shoulder as he led him towards the tower.

"It is a sad fact of the world perhaps, but true all the same. No matter where we go, there are always people there trying to listen in."

Bran quirked an eyebrow at that.

"So we should always like someone is listening?"

At the old Maester looked contemplative, but finally shook his head.

"Not exactly. To go through one's life always looking over your shoulder is no way to live either. However, be aware of the possibility, always."

To Bran's reckoning, that was not an answer that made sense, but still he nodded and remained silent as he was led towards the library tower for midday lessons.

Regardless of what his Mother had counseled, after lunching in the Great Hall, Bran was determined to return to the bell tower, for Mother had let slip during the meal that the scouts had reported that Father and Robb and Jon were returning that very day, before night fell. When he had heard that, he had nearly hunched over into his porridge, shushing Rickon when the boy attempted to make conversation with him. He had remained dead silent, trying to keep Mother's attention off of him, lest she decide to confine him to his bedchambers or feed him to the hounds or make him take more lessons with the Maester or something equally dreadful. Thus he had watched with keen eyes as Mother took a demure Sansa and a protesting Arya out of the hall to their own lessons with Septa Mordane. He kept his gaze upon them all the way until they walked out the side door of the hall, and then he bolted, rushing past domestic servants for the main entrance.

From there he hurried towards the tower, not bothering to climb this time, merely ascending the stairs just as he had descended them. Now at the top he assumed a lookout position once more, only this time he looked out upon the vast expanse of the Wolfswood and the great wilderness it covered. He sat like this for perhaps an hour, slowly realizing he had no idea when exactly Father's group was returning, when he spotted it.

There, making their way out of the gloom of the forest was the Stark party, made recognizable by the direwolf banners of white and grey they carried. Beside those he could also see the white tree on black field of House Forrester. It was too far to make out for sure, but he thought he spotted Robb's red hair like his own next to the dark hair of Father and Jon at the head of the column. He squinted in confusion, for beside them rode who he assumed were Lord Forrester and his sons Ethan and Rodrik, but also two other strangers. As distant as he was, he could see that one of them wore a strange tall hat. Bran tilted his head to the side at that, puzzled, but that along with all his other questions were wiped away when he spotted something high above them.

It weaved and bobbed, like a leaf carried on a gust of wind, slipping in and out of the clouds. At first he thought it an eagle, but quickly realized that it was far too big for that. He tried to think of whatever else it could be, what flying creature got that big.

What flying creature…

...DRAGONS!

His eyes now wide with alarm, he looked around for something to alert father with, a horn or the like. But as he searched, the thing got closer, and he realized it was no dragon at all. For one, dragons did not have the hind legs of a lion, nor feathers. They did not have glimmering eagle like eyes, nor sharp beaks full of teeth.

For the second time in a moon's turn, Bran's mouth fell open. But these didn't exist, they were only in legends! Yet there it flew, and what was more he could see a man on its back, just like the Targaryens' and their dragons. Mayhaps this was what the Sign was about? Now Bran looked once more for a means of alerting the castle, as he was rather certain a griffon was a cause for such a clamour.

Finally he beheld it, and smiled, for it was something he wanted to do a for some time. Bran lifted the bell-mallet, and with all the force he could muster in his developing arms he smacked it into the great bronze bell, which rang out with a deafening tone. Then he struck again, and again, until all the castle was ringing with the smaller answers of the castle alarm bells. Bran now dropped the mallet and rushed once more for the door.

He was not going to miss this for lessons!