Eyes Turned Skyward

"Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return."

― Leonardo da Vinci

Bran opened his eyes. He had been dreaming for what seemed like ages. When he woke up his father, his brother and his sisters were all gone. Bran's body hurt. He had been confined to his bed, wrapped in thick furs since his fall. His mother looked drawn and tired. Her eyes were red rimmed and watery. She looked at Bran with sorrow every time she looked at him now. She had given safe passage to the Queen's brother. The imp had left designs for a saddle for him. His older brother, Robb, was betrothed to the princess. Bran thought that this was good. He hoped that it meant that his sister didn't have to marry the yellow-haired prince with the pouty mouth and the cruel eyes. His father returned home for the wedding looking tired and relieved. Each day that he spent within the walls of Winterfell seemed to increase his strength. Bran hoped he would not go South again. Once Maester Luwin brought him his new chair, he had been able to leave his room. He had been able to spend time with his father. Hodor would push his little wooden chair into the Godswood and he would sit there with his father as he wrote what seemed like an endless amount of letters. His father had spent many days in this Godswood. He had come to seek solace amongst its trees, and to listen to the gentle ripple of the shimmering black pool that sat before them as he wrote, or cleaned his Great sword, Ice. Today, he prepared to leave his home yet again. Although Bran enjoyed his time in the Godswood, at times it was both his prison and his paradise. When he would go to sleep at night, Increasingly Bran found himself having frequent visions of the Godswood and of a large black raven with a third eye directly in the center of its head. Sometimes the raven would speak to him. Sometimes it showed him things. In these visions, he could walk. In these visions, he could fly. He had walked through the corridors and courtyard at Winterfell. He had seen the faces of men that looked very much like his father. He had seen confusing visions related to his sisters, Arya and Sansa. He had flown high over the blue green waters of the Trident. He had seen visions of things that may happen—that may never happen—that could happen. He was not sure. In one of these visions he watched as his sister was pushed to the ground by the prince, Joffrey. He could see his sister, only dimly, as if she were behind a veil. He could hear her, very faintly, as if she were just beyond a door. But he could feel what she felt. He felt the heaviness in his own body as she fell to the ground. He was afraid of what he would see next, and he was also aware that in his visions, he was more powerful, more him. He listened to the animals beginning to stir-spring was around the corner. He watched his father visit the Godswood, he would watch him come to speak prayers of forgiveness in the Godswood for taking a man's life. He had watched as his father knelt quietly before the Heart Tree with quiet prayers that no soul would ever know, those known only between him and the Old Gods. His father kept secrets, and it would be a long time before he knew what some of them were. His mother would never know. The part of Ned Stark that he kept hidden, would forever be a mystery to her. She would hate parts of him for loving Jon, and she would never realize how foolish she was. Bran couldn't help but feel sad today, as he knew that his father was to leave. Ser Rodrick had been sent to fetch Jon at the Wall. He was being sent to Essos on official business. Ser Rodrick was to accompany him. The flurry of activity was confusing, but to Bran it signaled something more-something that the raven had been trying to tell him-winter is coming.

Sansa watched as her father peeled off his gloves and sat them on the edge of the wooden table before them. Sansa sat before him, her eyes downcast, her hands fidgeting nervously with the embroidery on her skirts. She told her father exactly what had occurred. She watched as his expression hardened. She saw the icy expression cross his face, and she knew that it was taking every bit of strength that he had to be calm.

She told him then about how Joffrey had insulted her in front of his men. How he had called her a whore. How he had insinuated that he would pass her around like a common whore to his father or his uncle. She then told him of how he pushed her down, causing her to hit her head.

He barely contained his anger behind a calm voice as he questioned Sansa regarding the bruise on her forehead.

Ned listened in silence, his anger increasing with every word. When Sansa had finished, he stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of her. He traced the edges of the bruise on her forehead, his eyes fixed on the bruise with a mixture of concern, and love. He stared at her for a long time after she finished speaking, seemingly taking the time to compose himself.

"You will not be treated this way—not while there is breath in my body."

Sansa could feel tears beginning to well up, and so she looked away from his face then—not wanting to cause more worry.

"Father, I cannot marry him. I—"

"Clearly. But Robert will not be pleased. He means to join our houses."

"We have," Sansa began, "Perhaps another marriage can be brokered? Joffrey's name day celebration approaches."

"Who will want to subject themselves to—"

"Someone who sees the benefits of a politically advantageous marriage—"

"Who is this unlucky young maiden? Do you have someone in mind?"

"I do. There may be an eligible maiden in Highgarden. I have heard it said that Margaery Tyrell is a great beauty. I have heard that she resembles Aunt Lyanna…"

Margaery Tyrell was a better match for Joffrey in every way. She remembered how she dazzled the small folk. She was beautiful and kind—and cunning. She had the ability to wrap Joffrey around her delicate little fingers. Sansa could not summon the strength to pretend that she didn't find Joffrey repulsive. When he would feign niceness, she saw through it now so easily. So easily that she wondered how she never saw it before. She had been dazzled by his beauty. She had been enamored with the idea of being Queen. Margaery was far more suited than she.

Ned raised an eyebrow at this.

Sansa continued, "if we are able to broker a new marriage alliance—might we be able to put an end to this betrothal?"

Ned put his hand on her shoulder, with a gentle squeeze, "You are my daughter, Sansa. I will always do my best to protect you."

The room was adorned with luxurious furnishings. The walls were draped in richly woven tapestries depicting the songs and romances. The embroidery was intricately done in gold and crimson thread. Sansa lay in bed. The bed was polished Ironwood and adorned with intricate carvings of stags and lions. Through the window and behind the shimmering silk and heavy velvet drapes sunlight filtered into her room. With a great commotion a large, black raven flew in through gap in the elegant silk and came to perch itself on her chest. Sansa gazed upon the large raven. The bird seemed to be larger than it looked on it's approaching flight. She felt like she was dwarfed by its presence. It was a strange bird. She could feel a shiver of cold through her body as the bird ruffled it's jet-black iridescent feathers. The sun gave the feathers an almost oily sheen making them look so slick to the touch that she wanted to reach out and touch them. The raven looked at her curiously. She gazed back, into its face. She almost screamed when a third eye opened at the center of the bird's forehead. The eye seemed to look into her soul, piercing, unblinking, searing it's way into her thoughts. The eye in the center of the bird's head seemed to cast a faint crimson glow across it's face and hers. The raven moved closer to her. Cocking its head to one side, the feathers ruffling at it's neck revealing a hint of iridescent blue green feathers beneath, it let out a sharp cry and lunged at her suddenly, pecking at the ugly bruise on her forehead.

"See." It said.

With its head cocked to one side it studied her with all three of its eyes.

Sansa watched as the birds blood red eye blinked. She felt the weight of it on her chest, felt the long, curved talons sink into her coverlets. The bird radiated power and something more—something older.

She wondered what secrets it held behind those eyes, and before she could finish her final thought, the raven flew out through the curtains, and ascended into the sky above. It's wingspan was so wide it seemed as if it could block out the sun. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the shadow pass and it had the shape of a dragon.