Bran and Rickon Stark – Part One

Bran imagines there's nothing more humiliating than having your little brother, a boy of ten, carry you about at five and ten. Though he reminds himself, it would be worse still to be confined to the castle day in and day out. He misses Hodor, with his peculiar little basket he would carry Bran around in, and his horse, a pure black stallion with a special saddle designed by Tyrion Lannister, when the King came to visit his father; when the accident happened.

He must settle for Rickon now, who though still a boy would have stood as tall as Bran if he could stand, and had the strength of a work horse. Sometimes he would carry him on his back, or when he grew tired he would push him in a little cart they had found abandoned.

The Ironmen stared at him as if he was an unknown creature, the little Lord whose legs betrayed him, the cripple. He did his best to ignore the stares and whispers, but when it became too much he was grateful for his sister Arya, who would scold anyone who dared stare too long with her sharp tongue.

When he did grow weary of the attention he would spend the day inside, sending Rickon away when he came to collect him. That's when the dreams would come. Peculiar dreams lead by a crow with three eyes. He sees many things in his dreams, his brother Robb kneeling at an altar, his head replaced with Grey Wind's. He's never called Robb in these nightmares, but referred to as the 'Young Wolf' or the "Wolf King'. He wakes in a cold sweat after, praying for his brother to the old gods and the new, though he isn't sure he believes in them anymore.

He used to go faithfully to the Sept with his mother, and would kneel beside her and pray. He believed if he were good and kind his words would be answered. Even after his accident he believed, never asking for his legs back, instead thanking the gods for his life.

Then one night he had dreamed of lions made of fire ravaging Winterfell, ripping his parents to shreds, chasing his siblings away from their home. The next night the lions had come, knocking down the doors and pouring into their home, thousands of them with arrows and swords and battle-axes. He had meant to die then, stuck in his seat beside his mother who was bleeding profusely, choking on her own blood as she threw her body over him. He was ready to accept death, lying in the arms of his mother. It was not to be, however, no sooner had he closed his eyes welcoming death, than he was in Jon's arms being carried away from the chaos.

He stopped believing then. He had been so good and faithful, never questioning their actions, never pitying himself even when he was crippled. But still they had taken from him, again and again, until he had little left to take. Surely if there were gods they could not be so cruel.

It was easier to live in a world without gods.

xXx

He likes the way they look at him, the Iron born men, a combination of fear and curiosity. The wild one they call him, more wolf than boy.

Sansa calls him temperamental, smoothing down his curls and begging him to be a good boy. Robb and Jon barely consider him at all. They are all siblings, bastard or rightful heir, half-sibling or full, but Arya and Bran are his pack. Carrying his brother on his back day after day has become a habit, an honor, a necessity, one must help their pack always. Arya taught him that, she understood him when he spoke of his pack, she felt the same. Arya taught him many things, how to punch someone square in the nose, how to stick someone with a sword and how to ride, back bent close to the horse, faster than any rider from the South. Arya was wild like him, wolfs blood coursing through her veins.

She had two packs though, the one they shared and then a private one, only her and Jon allowed in. Only Arya truly looked like Jon, like father. Rickon hated looking at Jon, hated feeling like the little boy that he was, missing his mother and father. Jon never really looked at him anyways, his eyes were always on Arya, following Arya, worshiping Arya. He knew without being told that Jon would take her away from his pack one day, that maybe they would never return. He wasn't sure he could look Jon in the eye if ever the time came, fortunately it never did, Jon's eyes always held Arya's alone.

He felt guilty to admit he was happy when Bran stayed in. He could move faster without his older brother, running barefoot around the island, climbing trees and jumping low fences. He had thoroughly explored the island within a week of arriving, and now he had to content himself with staring out to see. Sometimes he thought he could faintly make out the borders of the Wolfswood if he squinted, or perhaps it was just his memories, playing in a haunting loop behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes.

xXx

When Bran felt well enough to come out of his room again, it was for supper. Typically they ate with Theon and Asha, but tonight they supped alone. The others were uncharacteristically quiet. Even Jon and Arya did not speak, sitting on opposite ends of the table, the latter glaring intently at the former who seemed to shrink under her gaze.

Robb's hands shook as he clutched his fork and knife, and he didn't even have the energy to entertain them with stories of childhood as he usually did.

He knew better than to ask what had come to pass and instead he studied his brother as he ate, memorized the outline of his jaw, the shadow of coppery facial hair sprouting. He looked for signs of wolf-like characteristics, but all he saw was Robb. Perhaps his dreams were just that, dreams.

When they finished it was Jon that came to fetch him, offering his neck to Bran who wrapped his arms around securely, feeling safe with his cheek pressed to his brothers back. He could see, but not feel, Jon take hold of Bran's legs, carrying him silently from the hall.

"She's very angry isn't she?"

He felt Jon's hair brush his face as she nodded, "She isn't the only one Bran."

"Who are you mad at Jon?"

His brother didn't answer.

Suddenly Bran was mad at all of them. For fighting so selfishly, and for leaving him out. He may be a cripple but he was a man now, Robb had been younger than him when he began accompanying father in his lordly duties. They were all so unfair, and selfish, hypocrites the whole lot of them.

He wondered idly what would happen if he let go of Jon's neck, if his body would swing down, crashing his head into the floor. If he died right there his head split in too, or if he lapsed into a dreamless sleep. Would Sansa and Arya hold vigil by his bed? Would Robb wish he had trusted more in his brother?

He banished the thoughts before they had time to root in his head. They were good and true, all of them, and they loved him fiercely. He squeezed Jon's neck slightly, "Thank you Jon."

Thank you for this and everything else, thank you for being my brother. He imagined his brother smiled at this, understood what he was saying without words, though Jon remained silent.

He hoped they all knew.

xXx

Well there you go! Two updates for the price of one, though this one was a bit short. Bran and Rickon's chapters will be a bit boring until things pick up I'm afraid. Next up – Robb – Part Two.