The last swirls of time's pale essence left Bran's vision, and he was home. Winterfell. The smell of mud and horse manure was empowering, and the sounds of daily tasks shattered Bran's ears. Being one hundred years younger not only shortened him by nearly three feet, it also sharpened his sensed to a knifepoint.
Bran ran a hand through his thick brown locks, no longer a tangled matte of gray. Next he twitched his toes… twitched. And it was extraordinary. His feet wiggled, and knees bent. Every muscle in his legs was working in harmony, he took step, and then another. Soon he was at a jog, and with Summer at his heels, he vaulted over a fence and headed towards the godswood. It wasn't like riding a horse; it felt much more natural. Was it to the west? Bran thought, or to the right on this corner? He would figure it out.
Brigades of crimson-gold and Stark grey passed Bran by, clinking like kitchens. Soon enough, the boy spied the red foliage of the weirwood. He fingered Leaf's gift and started to the tree.
Luckily, the godswood was empty. Bran had rarely entered the forest during his youth, and he was sure that if his parents or siblings saw him talking to a tree he would be questioned to oblivion.
He dipped the stick into the pool and the foot of the weirwood, changing its paleness into a vibrant orange. Good, he thought winter will not arrive for another year at least. He put it back into his pocket and went to contact Leaf.
Bran squatted in front of the tree's face. It was old and sad, with red stains seeping from its eyes. Bran bit the ball his thumb and smeared his blood over the tree's lips. It all felt like some covert mission. Would I have done this a hundred years ago? No, he'd probably be climbing right now.
The tree's melancholy features morphed into Leaf. Its eyes blinked and its lips twitched.
'Was the journey a success? Any problems?'
'No,' Bran replied. 'Haven't seen anyone I know, though.'
'I suppose that's a good thing,' said Leaf. 'Anyway, the conditions here are still the same… the White Walkers haven't broken through. But there's not much time… Lord Brandon, hurry and do what you must.'
He nodded. 'The man who pushed me from the tower.'
The tree's lips froze and shifted back to their original shape. Wide eyes turned squinted, and a fresh stream of sap flowed down its cheeks. The tower was waiting.
Foothold by foothold Bran climbed the tower. The direwolf was whining below him, ears bent back in worry. Summer knew, Summer remembered. Old bricks shuffled in their place, making Bran feel nervous. He paused at a sturdy one and shook out his arms when they began to lock up. Then he heard the moans and grunts.
Bran swallowed. He ran peeked his head over the top of the tower and saw the two Lannister siblings wrestling. He pulled himself up, the fake look of shock on his face.
They didn't notice him at first; they were too focused on their brawl. But soon enough the woman opened her eyes and gasped.
'Jaime…stop…Stop!'
The man froze and looked at the boy. As he laced up his breeches he whispered something into his partner's ear.
He then glanced at Bran. 'What's a boy like you doing up here?' He headed walked to Stark and shook his head. 'You climb up here all by yourself?'
Bran pushed the Lannister away. The man grabbed for Bran's collar, but the boy was too quick. Stark leaned up against one of the broken walls and instantaneously, the world when dark.
Seconds later, he was in the mind of the Lannister. He could see himself slumped up against the wall, eyes white. The woman… Cersei… was shocked.
'Jaime – what did you do? Did you hit him? He saw us!'
Bran blinked. 'Goodbye…' he said. He controlled the man to the ledge. And without a second thought, he jumped.
Bran wouldn't dare experience the sickening crunch and dull pain again. By the time Jaime hit the ground, the boy had already warged back into his child self. Bran never wanted revenge, but if it was going to save his father, he vow revenge a thousand times over.