Bran (297 AC)

Bran wished that he could fly, soar with the birds above the trees and among the clouds, but as everyone reminded him, he had no wings, and so he could not fly. So he did the closest thing to flying that a boy like him could: He climbed.

Handhold two heads up, left hand.

From the rain wearing away at stone and mortar to vines growing the more overlooked sections of wall and tower, his small, young hands and feet had as much choice variety of holds as his mouth did for his nameday, and despite the worries and admonishments of his mother, he felt almost as safe climbing the many buildings and walls of Winterfell as he did tucked into bed for a good night's sleep.

Line of ivy curving above me to the right. Must go left.

Today, though, he had set himself a challenge: to sneak up behind Black Rock Shooter at her post without her being aware until he reached the top.

This was a difficult enough quest against even regular guards, as anything from errant winds ruffling his clothes to crackling leaves underneath his fingers to dislodged pebbles from the shifting of his feet could give away his position. But Black Rock Shooter was sometimes thought to be able to see through walls or have the ears of a wolf with how preternaturally vigilant she was.

No footholds that way. Must reach further.

That meant being very deliberate and careful with where he placed his hands and feet. That also meant, in his young mind, to sneaking out of bed behind the household's backs in the dead of night to clamber down the wall, sneak across the keep grounds past the watchful eyes of the night shift guards – both man and Doll – and reach the foot of the Shooter's Turret, so named as it was where Black Rock Shooter had made her perch so often when she was on watch.

The Shooter's Turret had no shortage of handholds (there was a reason it used to be called the Broken Tower, Bran had heard), so climbing it was no issue at all. The issue was the many different ways Black Rock Shooter could be alerted to his ascent. Fortunately, he had learned the importance of scouting from Father's lessons and stories, and so had spent at least an hour that afternoon scrutinizing the Tower's exterior and mentally mapping out his intended route based on what he could see.

Window is just ten more heads away.

And thus, up to now, Black Rock Shooter had not stopped him as he escaped his room. She hadn't called him out as he crossed the courtyard. She hadn't appeared when he reached the foot of her Turret. She hadn't swooped in from nowhere to snatch him from the wall of the Turret. And now, he was closing in toward the top, and so close to surprising her-

"- finally go-…-ply back from Bla-…-w. Fru-…-ust be what they me-…-ike pulling teeth-"

And now, he was close enough to hear her talking about… something, the flapping wind, nowhere near as strong as it could be, still snatched words away from his ears.

"Most of her messa-…-sed up in flowery language, but her line about 'The Daugh-… -ving merit' means she agr-…-retation of the visio-…-ine years ago-"

Spurred on by curiosity and triumph, Bran pressed up to the ledge of Black Rock Shooter's room at the top.

"-y did I feel failure? If that is the case, then- WHO'S THERE?!"

Having Black Rock Shooter suddenly shout at him and rush at the ledge he had just gripped startled him into letting go of it and his footholds.

For an instant, Bran felt as though he was flying.

"BRAN!"

The next, he understood he was falling to his death.

*SHNG* *WHUMP* *SCHRRRCCKKCKCKKCKT*

The one after that, Black Rock Shooter had dived after him, drawn her sword, grabbed him, and sheathed her blade in the Turret itself to slow their shared momentum to a halt just over halfway down the Turret.

Bran had let out a sound that was almost a yelp during his brief time in open air, and now was hyperventilating at nearing plunging to his death, just as his mother feared.

"Hold on," Black Rock Shooter warned.

Bran threw his arms around her neck so tightly it would have choked her if she had needed to breathe.

She shifted her sword, and it slid out of the Turret to let them fall the rest of the way to the ground with a loud *THUD*.

Bran let go of Black Rock Shooter and flopped on his back. He stood back and up and started to apologize "I'm so sorry, Black R-"

She whipped around to face him so fast he nearly fell over again, her blue eyes shining bright in the darkness, the blue fire of her left eye blazing like a lantern.

Her voice was as harsh as ice. "What. Were. You. Thinking?"

It was in moments like this, when Bran remembered what Old Nan had once said of Black Rock Shooter: "She has the eyes of the Others." When she became the very personification of winter's wrath, and showed why she was feared across the whole of Westeros. A visage she unveiled only to her enemies to foretell their doom – and only ever to his family when she was furious.

"I- I only-" he stammered. "I just wanted to-"

"You wanted to what?" she loomed over him. "To surprise me? Catch me off guard? While I was on night watch?!"

Only now grasping the enormity of his mistake, did Bran hang his head in shame. "Please don't tell Mother I was climbing at night," he pled.

"She will be told," Black Rock Shooter dictated. "As will your father, and your siblings, so as to be made an example of as to exactly why you don't make such stupid mistakes or flights of fancy to begin with."

Bran felt tears come to his eyes, and he sniffled as he wiped them away. "I'm sorry, Black Rock Shooter. I'm sorry for scaring you."

A few moments later, he felt Black Rock Shooter wrap her arms around his shaking body to hug him close. He looked up to see her fire extinguished and softness returned to her face.

"I know," she brushed his hair in mimicry of his mother's method. "And I know you didn't mean to scare me. But I am still angry at you for that."

"Why?" he asked.

She gave him a sad smile. "Because I love you," she said. "We all do, and we're not ready to lose you so soon after we just met you."

Bran knew that he was not going to enjoy whatever punishment his parents prescribed. Probably no climbing for at least a month.

But at least he had the comfort of knowing that they would always love him, no matter what.