BRAN II

He stood in the mouth of the Godswood, the proud old sentinel trees all around him. Ahead of him, the path towards the heart of the Godswood was shrouded in fog, thick as porridge. Though it was midday, the clouds hung low in the sky, drowning out the bright glare of the sun. At this hour, the castle should be bustling, servants and craftsmen filling the yards with their idle chatter and the bustle of their daily errands. It was silent as the crypts beneath Winterfell, not even the song of the birds to pierce the silence. Though he knew not why, Bran felt compelled to move forwards, into the billowing white miasma. Where he someone else, he was sure he would have gotten lost in the endless turns and twists of the Godswood, but he was a Stark of Winterfell, and this was home. But even beyond that, he knew the way, because he felt something he could see or feel pulling him. Pulling him to the heart of the Godswood. To the great Heart Tree.

In a flash, he was there, as though he had been in a trance as he made the rest of the way there. It stood as always it had, forlorn and grim faced, red sap weeping from the eyes. Its white roots grasped the hummus-coated earth, and the white branches reached up towards… that was when he truly jumped back, for lining every last branch were crows, black and brooding. At the middle of the murder was one, bigger than all the rest. This one had three eyes. It opened its beak, and screeched, sounding like screaming metal on stone. That was not all, for before his very eyes the earth began to boil, writhing like some serpent. Suddenly, it exploded, and out from the earth poured a tide of vermin, as black as the crows, gnawing and hissing and scurrying up the old weirwood.

"Wrong! Wrong! Away! Away! Strangers! STRANGERS!"

Soon the whole flock took up the call, beating their wings and screeching and throwing themselves at the vermintide. He felt himself losing his nerve, stepping back forwards as the black beasts worked into a frenzy, tooth against beak and talon, a fanatical battle unfolding in miniature. Suddenly, all was white, and he found himself blinded. Thunder rumbled, and the very ground seemed to shake. White light came down from above, burning away the clouds and fog, bathing all in brilliance. At that the crows and rats shrinked, black running off their bodies like ink as their screams grew ever more hideous. He looked above him, and saw the source of the light. The Sign. As bright and brilliant as it was that fateful night. But as he watched, the light coalesced, and a figure pulled forth from the comet, like a man emerging from a lake. He was massive and well built, with eyes that burned like fire. He was clad in glorious armor, shining gold, and in his hands he held a massive hammer. The luminous being raised his hammer, as though to hail another, and bellowed out in a voice that rang through Bran's heart and head.

"ABOMINATION MOST FOUL! BEGONE!"

With one last shriek, the beasts were gone, burned away utterly. Bran find that his voice had failed him.

Lowering his hammer, the being turned his burning gaze to Bran. His face was bearded and mighty, as though carved from stone, but it was not unkind. He raised a gilded hand, extending it towards Bran, as his vision once more became brighter and brighter as the wolves began to howl all around…

"Wake up, stupid!"

His eyes blurry, Bran shook himself awake. He sat upright with a fright, eyes darting to and fro. But no eyes of fire burned in front of him. Only the grey eyes of his older sister as she sat at the foot of his bed. From the dim glow of his window, he guessed that it was late evening, before midnight. Though he could see little, he saw that she was dressed like a boy, ill fitting trousers and a ratty tunic. Jon's old clothes, probably. Her eyebrow was quirked at him, and her face betrayed the concern she had over his outburst.

"Are you alright?"

Though his face was still coated with sweat, he hurriedly nodded. Arya frowned at that.

"A nightmare then?"

Bran was hardly about to admit to his older sister that he was having nightmares like a baby, but what was more was that he was rapidly forgetting what exactly he had dreamed of in the first place. When he struggled to remember, more and more slipped away. Soon enough, he recalled only burning eyes and the scream of small creatures. It was enough to make him shiver in remembrance. He looked up at her, hoping his gaze was as calm as he was trying to make it.

"I'm fine, really. You just scared me, is all. Why are you here, anyway?"

Now her face brightened, and she leaned in to him.

"Everyone is still asleep, Mother and Father and Robb and Jon and them," Arya said with a conspiratorial whisper.

Bran raised an auburn eyebrow at that.

"So? Of course they would. It's before dawn."

She snorted at him.

"How can you all sleep? Now of all times, with those strangers and their griffon!"

Bran was forced to agree with her. They had been here for merely two days, and they were already the only thing anyone talked about. Washerwomen gossiped about the Templar, the guards quietly complained about how stressful their duties had become with the griffon watching their every step from the Broken Tower. For their part, the foreigners kept to themselves, Klutzer and Johann especially, keeping quarters in a further section of the Guest House. Though he spoke not often of them, it was obvious to the Stark children that the "guests" as Father demanded they be called, were something that weighed heavily on his mind. And yet… that could not be the only reason Father was troubled. All of yesterday he had been distracted, and when his family tried to make idle talk with him his answers were short and curt. They had hosted guests before, though never guests with big feathery monsters. Clearly there was something else that weighed on his father's head.

Arya's smoky eyes shined with excitement, and she now leaned in close enough to him that he drew back slightly.

"I thought we would go and get a closer look at that knight. He's down in the yard by the Broken Tower. I know you want to see the knight, in fact."

She had him there. Bran did want to see that knight. He had been daydreaming of it every day since the strangers arrived, wanted to know with every fibre of his being what his life was like, what it meant to soar through the skies on the back of a mighty beast like the Targaryens of old. But Mother and Father had ordered them to not "pester" their guests, though the Stark children suspected that they were motivated more by fear than out of any genuine concern for the comfort of the strangers. As though he would just bother them pointlessly like baby Rickon. He was nearly a man grown, he was just as capable of being polite and practiced as Sansa. Their eldest sister had taken to watching the strangers as often as she could, as curious of them as she was frightened of their griffon. He made a point of rolling his eyes with Arya when he saw Sansa and Jeyne Poole simpering over the griffon knight Heinrich whenever he removed his ornate helm to reveal his face to the sun.

Bran narrowed his eyes at his smirking sister.

"What do you mean by a closer look?"

She grinned even wider then, for she knew she had hooked him like the fish on Mother's sigil.

"I snuck out of my chambers while Sansa slept, and slipped past Fat Tom at the guesthouse."

"If you got caught, Mother and Father would skin you alive."

She stuck out her tongue at him.

"I'm not stupid, stupid. I made sure no one saw me. Tom was dozing off anyway. But that's beside the point, because I saw the griffon knight sneaking out himself by the back door, headed towards the courtyard beneath the Broken Tower, out where the guards don't bother to patrol."

Bran's eyes widened, shining in the moonlight.

"The griffon," he breathed. "That's where it's roosting!"

Truth be told, he actually had no idea if griffons "roosted", but he could guess. Another thing he wanted to ask the strangers.

Arya nodded emphatically

"Exactly! So get dressed, quick."

He did as she bid, practically leaping from bed, grabbing a tunic and a pair of trousers off the floor in a rush. They were the previous days clothes, and still smelled faintly of dirt and sweat from time spent in the training yard, but he was hardly going to a feast, so comfort and utility took precedence over appearance for the time being. Besides, if Father caught them, his choice of clothing would be the least of his troubles. All the same, he hurried out the door with Arya, hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull on his left boot, the tapping mercifully muted by the rushes on the stone floor.

They made good speed, and Bran was put in mind of the night the Sign appeared to them. It felt the same, except now he was taking the same route as Jon and Robb instead of climbing in the dark like he himself had been. Bran was of the opinion that his way was better, but he was hardly going to waste breath convincing Arya that. His elder sister and her famed stubbornness were something he found himself envying and despising in equal measure.

Just as promised, the way to the Broken Tower was clear of guards, and the children took to hugging the shadows until they found a suitable spot to stick to on the wall of the entrance to the crypts. There they crept around the corner of the wall, finally turning the corner that opened into the courtyard. Arya was in front, naturally, with Bran huddling down to peek past her. It took a bit to see in the dark, but finally their vision cleared enough for them to spot their quarry. Both of whom were fast asleep, the knight sitting in the dirt in a faded red and white doublet, his head resting against the massive haunches of his feathery mount. For its part, the griffon was as relaxed as Bran had ever saw it, powerful muscles now slack in sleep, the great wings resting on top of the knight, like a great blanket. All in all, it was perversely mundane, as though the griffon knight was curled up with a favorite dog like a little boy.

Except it was giant beaked monster.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, before Arya finally groaned silently, no doubt disappointed by the lack of activity from the pair. Bran himself felt some pangs of the feeling, but also realized that it was rather unreasonable to be expecting anything else from a person at so late an hour.

The pair pulled back to sit on the many stones that littered the ground around the crypt wall. Arya idly kicked at the dirt.

"Seven hells. I thought they'd be doing something!"

"Don't curse. Mother wouldn't like it."

She glared at him for daring voice his insolence.

"I doubt she'd want us to be here either, but I don't see you complaining about that. Besides, I act more like a man than a lady, Septa Mordane says so. That means I can curse all I want!"

Bran had some doubts about the logic of Arya's reasoning, and was about to voice them, when he saw his elder sister was now looking past him, towards the North Gate. He whipped his head around, and saw what she did. There with a hood covering his head was hurrying the Magister, a gleaming bronze staff in hand. With a silent look towards each other Arya and Bran were off, rushing to follow the man. Now they found an excellent spot in some convenient shrubbery, able to easily watch the mysterious robed man approach the lowered portcullis. With a glance to either side of him, he took his staff in one hand and raised the other to his brow, bowing his head as though in deep concentration. As they watched, the gemstone of his staffs and his gleaming circlet began to glow a luminous azure. His hands were aglow with sapphire energies that danced about his fingers like fireflies, and he slowly raised them, beckoning upwards at the gate. Miraculously, it began to rise of its own accord, unnaturally silent as it obeyed his supernatural commands. When it had risen all the way Johann hurried forth, making swift striding steps as he hurried into the night.

Bran was speechless, as was Arya to his right.

Magic! He used magic! Like the Children of the Forest, or the Valyrians! Magic!

Though his thoughts raced, his mouth was silent.

That was, silent until he let out a surprised gasp when Arya burst from the bushes and sprinted towards the open gate. He suddenly saw why, for the gate had begun to close, just as silent as it had opened. In other circumstances he might have just let Arya go and get in trouble herself, but… this was no mere game. There were mighty and strange forces in play, and what kind of knight would he be if he let a maiden come to harm? Well to be fair, it was no maiden, just Arya, but still!

Without another thought he shot off after her, rushing madly into the night after his erstwhile sister, praying that they would not meet their end with their skin being melted off by an angry wizard. Mother would be furious, then.