Anyone who did not know any better would perhaps think the camp had descended into chaos. Women carrying buckets and armfuls of linen weaved their way through the throngs of men, pushing against the current. They made for the large tents, to wait anxiously for the wounded to be brought to them. One by one, and then all at once. The sight of the anxious women with armfuls of supplies heightened his nerves. Men streamed into the main thoroughfare of camp. From all sides they came. Some men jeered and japed with one another, others continued in silence. He stumbled as one man shoved his friend, pushing him into Bran. He noted the white sunbursts on their chests. Karstark men. Bran thought of his friend's Eddard and Torrhen, and wondered if they were at the front yet.

Bran craned his neck, but he couldn't recognize anyone in the sea of men. Men streamed between tents in every direction, following the shouts of Lord Umber and his brother to form up. Bran's heart beat louder and louder against his chest.

He shouldered his way through the crowds, ducking and weaving between clusters of men. He had grown a considerable amount since leaving Winterfell, but he was as swift as ever. He passed rivermen and northmen alike. The colors they wore differed, but the same nervous energy surrounded each of them. It hung in the air, heavy as a blanket. If Summer were with me, I could smell it.

He bumped into someone else. "Hey!" Bran turned to meet the scowling face of Daryn Hornwood. His scowl disappeared, replaced with a friendly smile. "Bran," he greeted. He swung an arm over Bran's shoulders and steered him forwards. "I was looking for you earlier."

Bran had only met Daryn once or twice before the march south, at Winterfell. He was only two years older than Bran, the closest in age to him out of the other sons from the northern houses that marched south. Not that it matters much. He'd found a friend in Daryn, as well as Eddard and Torrhen Karstark and Patrek Mallister. He only wished he'd met them sooner, rather than on a march to war. There's always after.

"I was training with Ser Brynden," Bran answered.

Daryn scoffed. "That's two times you've abandoned us for him," he complained.

Bran shoved him. "Tomorrow, I promise."

Daryn raised his head high and smiled cockily. "Tomorrow? Tomorrow we'll be far too drunk from celebrating our victory to train. Your promises mean nothing to us, Prince Bran."

Bran laughed. Patrek Mallister jogged up beside them, matching their pace. "Why are we laughing?" He asked.

Daryn shoved Bran. "Bran seems to think we'll forgive him for bailing on us once more."

"Not a chance," Patrek teased with a lopsided grin.

They reached the front of the camp, where men had already gathered. Cavalry men had already mounted, the steel points of their lances glinted sharply in the moonlight. Their warhorses danced, no doubt sensing the nerves of the men around them. The mountain clans grouped together, as well as other men stood by their horses, long swords at their sides. Even more men stood around, prepared to march on foot. There would be no archers that night. It would be much too dark for them to be of any use, Jon had told him. He could not see his Uncle Brynden, who he'd trained with earlier that morning. Neither could he find his brother.

He slowly turned in a circle, scanning the crowds. Where is he? His brother's battle guard stood together; Eddard and Torrhen, Theon, the Smalljon, Jorelle's sister Dacey, Lucas Blackwood, Wendel Manderly, nearly all of them gathered, save his brother. His brother's squire Olyvar walked towards the group, clad in mail that rattled as he moved.

"Olyvar!" Bran shouted. The boy paused and waited for him. "Have you seen Robb?"

Olyvar pointed back towards the tents. "That way. The King wanted to have a word with Queen Alysanne."

Bran's lips twitched. "Thanks Olyvar." The older boy darted off to join the rest of the battle guard and ready Robb's courser. It amused him, still, to hear his brother referred to as King, and Alysanne as Queen. It amused him even more to be referred to as a prince, and perhaps more so to remind Arya of the fact that she was a princess. She'd thrown a clump of dirt at him at his departure, when he'd referred to her as such. The memory tugged a smile at his mouth. Sansa is a princess, too. His heart clenched, and his heart pounded in his chest once more. Not from nerves, this time, but from anger. It's the Lannister's who have her, and the Lannister's I'll face. He waved off Daryn and Patrek before turning down the row leading to Robb's tent. They continued on to the rest of Robb's battle guard.

Bran moved against the stream of men and found himself shouldering his way through once more. It grew less crowded the further he went, and soon enough he could see his brother's tent. Robb stood just in the entryway, Alysanne pressed tightly against him in a fierce kiss. Bran's nose wrinkled and he averted his eyes.

He chanced another glance and, to his relief, found they'd broken apart. Alysanne remained at the entrance speaking with Jorelle, her hands firmly clasped in Alys'. Jorelle wore mail, her hair secured in a tight braid, her morning star hung at her side. She'll march with us, then.

Robb walked towards him, speaking closely with Ser Addam. Bran started forward to meet them. They came to a stop just paces from each other. Robb addressed Ser Addam before he addressed Bran. "Promise me, Ser Addam. If tonight goes poorly…"

Ser Addam clutched the hilt of his sword and inclined his head. "You have my word, Robb." He spun on his heel and strided towards Robb's tent.

His promise reminded Bran of King's Landing, and Tommen who remained. Tommen, who'd promised to protect Sansa. Does he know the truth about his father yet? Bran didn't see how he couldn't. The entire realm must know by now. It was Tommen's father that he would face that night, and he wondered if Tommen would hate him for it. He couldn't imagine Tommen hating anyone, really. Tommen, who'd spent an entire afternoon showing Bran his cat's, and the best ways to sneak to the kitchens for more sweets.

It was Tommen's brother who took his father's head. Should I hate him, then? Bran couldn't bring himself to. Tommen was everything Joffrey wasn't, and outside of his brothers he'd perhaps never known a truer friend. Robb does not hate Alysanne for her father's sins. And Bran did not hate Tommen for Joffrey's. Will Tommen fight with Joffrey, as I fight with Robb? Tommen did not love Joffrey, he'd told Bran that himself. But he loves his sister, and others in his family. Would he fight for them?

His stomach twisted at the thought. What would he do if he found himself opposite the field from Tommen? He tried to imagine lifting his sword against him. They had done so before, on the training yard both in Winterfell and King's Landing. And I beat him every time. Bran didn't imagine it'd be any different with live steel. Only this time, his sword would cut into him, strike him down, and spill his blood. He felt sick to his stomach.

His brother clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Bran started. Robb huffed a laugh and ruffled his hair. Bran ducked out of his way. His brother's armor did not differ from his own, and just like Bran, his sword hung sheathed at his side.

Robb looked over him. "You have your sword and shield?"

Bran pulled his sword just slightly from the sheath and nodded. "Aye, I've my sword here. And my shield is with my horse."

Robb nodded approvingly. "Good." He ushered Bran forward.

They walked silently together. Men parted and kneeled for his brother, and they reached the front of camp much quicker than Bran had before. His brother went off towards his battle guard, and Bran searched for Jon. Rivermen and northmen alike stood at the ready. Countless standards and banners were raised in the air, half of which Bran could not place. Though Maester Luwin had tried to teach him. He'll be teaching Rickon that as well. His heart lurched at the thought of Rickon, alone in Winterfell. He has Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick. He'll be alright, he tried to convince himself. Bran scanned the crowd and spotted Jon.

Jon waited for him, already mounted, the rein's to Bran's own courser in his hand. Bran's mouth twisted at the sight of the warhorse. Bran wasn't a boy. He knew that by the end of the night, the beast would likely be dead. It was a beautiful horse. Shiny chestnut brown, as fast as it was strong. He'd wanted so badly to name her. Names had flown through his head as soon as his Uncle Brynden had presented her to him. It'd been his Uncle Brynden's warning that stayed his tongue. Tommen would have named her anyhow. He ran a hand along the side of the courser's neck before swinging himself into the saddle. If she survives the night, I'll name her. He took the reins from Jon.

The Greatjon sat on his own courser, overlooking all of the men. To the left of him stood Olyvar Frey, the reins of Robb's courser firmly in his hands. His Uncle Brynden should have been waiting on the other side of the Greatjon. He was there when I passed through earlier. Bran surveyed the crowd. His Uncle Brynden was nowhere to be found, and a group of rivermen had left as well. Where did they go? None of the men appeared to be concerned.

"Are you ready?" Jon asked him.

Am I? He had his sword, wore his mail and armor, he had his shield, what was he missing? Summer, he thought. He could sense him, still. What he wouldn't give to have him ride into battle at his side. He envied Robb and Jon, with Grey Wind and Ghost at their backs. "I suppose," he answered.

He must have not sounded very convincing, as Jon reached over and patted his back. "I'll be right beside you."

Bran watched as Robb mounted his horse. Only he wasn't his brother any longer. The King sat in his place. Growing up, he and his siblings always said that when their father had business to tend to, he'd put on his lord's face. Gone was the father that'd play with them in the godswood, tell them stories of his victories in the rebellion and of his days in the Vale. Instead, he became the cold, stern faced Lord of Winterfell. This isn't any different. Robb looked every inch the King, sitting tall on his courser. All he was missing was the crown.

Alysanne glided forward, and just like Robb, his good-sister disappeared and the Queen stood in her place. The men not already mounted bowed. She held out a hand to Robb, and he grasped it in his. A much more reserved display of affection than what he'd witnessed earlier.

She held her head high and her voice rang clear when she said, "may the gods be with you, my King." Her face was placid, but Bran could see the tightness around her eyes, the way she reluctantly let Robb's hand slip from her's. She moved to face the men as a whole. "And may the gods be with you all, the old and the new." The men held their swords aloft and cheered as loud as they dared.

Robb nodded to the Greatjon, and they marched. Alysanne remained still and caught his eye. She nodded at him, and he gave her as bright a smile as he could muster. It did not ease the worry in her eyes. He steered his horse silently beside Jon.

No one said a word as they marched into the woods. They rode along the path and through the branches, Ghost and Grey Wind sprinting ahead. Jorelle pulled her courser up alongside his. She gestured to his sword strapped to his side. "Does it have a name?"

Bran considered it. Surely it would be bad luck to go to battle without it being named. He'd spent the journey from Winterfell to King's Landing trying to find something he didn't think stupid. The task had admittedly fallen by the wayside, following their flight from King's Landing. Arya had Needle, a name that suited her long, skinny blade. Jon had Dark Sister. Even if he couldn't use it openly, Bran was jealous. He'd give nearly anything to have a Valyrian steel sword of his own. His father, his family, had Ice. It's Robb's by right. His nostrils flared. What has Joffrey done to it, I wonder? It was no matter. Winter would come for the Lannisters, and he and Robb with it. Winter always comes. The words echoed in his head. There's my answer. He returned his attention to Jorelle, who patiently awaited his answer. "Winter's Blade," he decided.

Jorelle grinned at him. "A sound name." She held her morning star aloft. "This one, she doesn't have a name." She opened her mouth to say more, but the Greatjon ahead of them called a halt. An eerie silence overtook the men. He slipped his shield onto his arm.

They remained hidden in the tree line, an empty field spread in front of them. It was hilly, as much of the Riverlands were. His eyebrows pulled together. Are we not attacking the camp? Bran leaned back in his saddle to get a better sight of Robb. He remained still and steady, watching the field intently. What are we doing? Where are the Lannisters? Where's Lord Bolton? He shifted in his saddle and his courser whickered. Jon watched the field just as intently as Robb. What are we waiting for?

The thundering of hooves sounded from the distance. Jon tensed beside him and Ghost crouched to the ground, hackles raised. Jorelle twisted her morning star in her hand. Bran followed their example and withdrew his sword from its sheath. Robb held his fist in the air and the Greatjon followed suit. A command to hold steady. What for, Bran did not know.

Tully banners crested the horizon at their right, as well as his Uncle Brynden's own banner. A large group of rivermen flowed down the hill, the Lannister host speeding after them. Not a small host, either. A trap, he realized. He gripped his reins and leaned low, sword at the ready. Any time now. His horse shifted its feet below him, as eager as he was. His heart pounded loud in his ears and against his chest, feeling as though it would burst.

Robb and the Greatjon commanded them forwards. They burst out of the treeline, shouts of Winterfell and Riverrun rang through the air. A war horn sounded behind him, sending chills down his spine. An answering call sounded opposite them. Lord Bolton's own host rode up and over the hill, the shouts of the men echoing in the air. A vicious grin split his face. We have them. Wind flew through his hair and he lifted his sword, his own cry for Winterfell tearing from his throat. His vision narrowed. Closer and closer he drew, the Lannister lion on their banners mocking him. He raised his sword and pushed his horse faster. Ghost sprinted alongside him.

The Lannister host was pinned in front of them. His horse reared back at the first contact, and Bran jolted. All around him, horses screamed and fell. He sliced at the man in front of him but missed. He yanked the reins to steer the horse back around. A blade cut in front of his face and he careened to the side to avoid it. He lost his balance, slipping off the saddle and into the muck. He spit out a mouthful of mud and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes, the hooves of a rearing horse directly over his head. He rolled again. I'll be crushed. Bran pulled himself to his feet. His shield remained strapped to his arm, his sword firmly in his hand.

A man on a horse charged at him, sword raised high in the air. Bran sidestepped, cleaving the horse's leg out from under him. The horse screamed and fell, crushing the legs of his rider beneath him. Bran fled. All around him, men screamed and shouted. His foot slipped on something that squished beneath him, and he fell back to the ground. A man yelled and charged at him and Bran lifted his shield over him. A man in Tully colors slammed into the man before he could reach Bran. Bran scrambled to his feet in time to see another Lannister soldier gouge his sword through the man who'd helped him.

Bran launched himself forward. The Lannister man could not remove his sword from the other man's back in time. He blocked Bran's sword with his shield and swung a mailed fist towards Bran. It hit him square in the face, his nose crunched. His eyes watered and he swung his sword wildly, blinded by sweat and tears and mud that had started to run into his eyes. Another man in Stark colors came from behind and cleaved off the Lannister man's head.

Bran continued to advance. A man missing his arm stumbled past Bran, but he could not tell the colors he wore. His eyes still stung with sweat that ran down his face, blood from his nose poured into his mouth and ran down the back of his throat. He spit onto the ground, trying to rid his mouth of the taste.

He fought his way further into the fray. The air hung heavy with the stench of sweat, blood, and shit. Bran's stomach rolled, he recognized no one around him. There is only forward. A man with white seashells on his gambeson stepped into his path. He raised his sword and Bran met him blow for blow. He stumbled backwards, blocking a strike with his shield. He raised his sword again.

Their swords clashed. The impact shocked through his arms. He grit his teeth and shoved back with all his strength. His hands were sweaty and he lost grip on his sword. His sword slipped down the other man's and Bran lifted his other arm with the shield, smashing it against the man's head. He stumbled back from the impact and Bran raised his sword once more, shoving it through the man's throat. He gurgled as blood spilt from his mouth. He wrenched the sword free. He'd lost Jon in the chaos, as well as Jorelle and Robb. He searched the crowd wildly.

A flash of orange caught his eye. Daryn stood fighting two men in Lannister red. They rained blow after blow on him, clashing against his shield and sword. And he's losing. Bran started towards him. He moved as fast as he could. A boy younger than him stepped into his path, raising his sword and swinging it swiftly down towards Bran's head. Bran lifted his shield and caught it in time, swinging his own sword toward the boy's arm. The boy did not even wear mail, and it cut clean through the leather gambeson. He screamed in pain, but Bran did not stop. He cut his way through two more men. Bran kept his eye on Daryn, who continued to slow and stumble. "Hold on, Daryn!" He called.

Bran cut through another man. He could hear Daryn's strained grunts and shouts for him to "hurry, Bran!" He could hear the mocking of the older Lannister men. Just a bit closer. Daryn stumbled and fell into the dirt, the man closest to Bran slashed at Daryn's head and hacked at his face. "No!" Bran screamed. He charged forward but it was too late. Blood spilled from what remained of Daryn's face, bubbling out of his mouth. Or where his mouth should have been.

He swallowed back bile and lunged at the Lannister men, his sword and shield meeting theirs with the shrill screech of steel on steel. Strike after strike landed against his wooden shield. It splintered and chipped, his arms burned and his lungs ached. Sweat continued to bead on his brow despite the cool air.

One man caught his sword on Bran's arm, cutting through the thick leather. Bran screamed but didn't stop. He grit his teeth and pushed himself harder. Blood spilled down his arm, under his armor.

Someone approached from behind him and swung at one of the Lannister men. Bran focused his full attention on the remaining man, swinging his blade at his arm, his head, his legs. The man blocked seemingly every strike. Bran waited for an opening. He feinted left, and when the man moved to block his swing, Bran ducked and slashed at his legs. The man crumpled to the ground, and Bran drove his sword through his eye. Bran wrenched his sword upwards, gore and blood flying through the air.

He focused his attention on the remaining man, who now lay headless on the ground. Bran ran his eyes over the man who killed him. He saw only a blur of colors at first. He wiped his eyes. The white sunburst on his chest was barely visible through the blood and filth. A white sunburst, shaggy hair and beard, Torrhen. He nodded in thanks.

"Have you seen my brothers?" Bran shouted.

Torrhen pointed across the field. "Over there!" He bellowed. Bran's eyes followed where he pointed. He could not see over the mass of people, but Torrhen easily could. "Follow me," Torrhen yelled.

Torrhen carved his way through the crowd, Bran at his side. It did not take long before they could hear the snarling of Grey Wind and Ghost, the panicked shrieks and cries of the men they claimed. Robb and Jon fought together, taking down man after man. Bran watched as Grey Wind grabbed ahold of a man's arm, shaking his head fiercely and ripping it clean off. Ghost leaped onto the downed man, tearing into his throat. They bounded off together, going after another man charging towards Robb.

"JAIME LANNISTER," Theon boomed. Bran whipped his head around.

Theon sprinted after a man in golden armor. Bran recognized him in an instant. He started to follow Theon, but a man descended onto Bran with a fury. He bombarded him with desperate strikes. Bran's arms shook under the unrelenting blows. "Torrhen!" He shouted. The man kicked his legs out from under him, and Bran stumbled backwards.

Torrhen sprinted towards him, taking his attacker's head off in one fell swoop. He reached a hand down to Bran. He grasped it, and Torrhen yanked him to his feet. A horn sounded, a wolf howled, and Bran's blood froze. He spun around, searching the crowds for his brothers.

All around them, the Lannister men dropped their swords. Or what remained of them, anyway. Grey Wind stood over Jaime Lannister, an enormous paw firmly on his chest. Theon had his sword and his throat, and Robb and Jon marched towards them shoulder to shoulder. Bran breathed out. It's done. It's over.

His nose throbbed, his arm stung, and he could no longer hold his sword up. He re-sheathed it and dropped the shield to the ground. Torrhen's laugh rang out and he lifted his sword high in the air. "THE KING IN THE NORTH!" He yelled. Answering cries rang echoed.

Torrhen swung a heavy arm over Bran's shoulder. "Those Lannister cunts didn't stand a chance," he roared. Torrhen twisted Bran to face him. He frowned. "Your nose is broken." Torrhen held Bran's head firmly. Before he could protest, Torrhen snapped his nose back into place. Bran's head whirled and his vision grew spotted. He winced, spitting more blood from his mouth. Torrhen chuckled.

Robb and Jon bound Jaime Lannister's hands before gathering the men. They claimed the few horses who had not fled, and whose owners likely lay dead in the dirt. Bran scanned the field for his courser, but she was nowhere to be seen. Robb's battle guard still surrounded him. Theon half-dragged Jaime Lannister behind his horse, bound in ropes. Dacey Mormont rode proudly by Robb's side, along with Lucas Blackwood and the Smalljon. Bran couldn't see Patrek or Eddard, and thought of Daryn dead in the dirt.

Dawn lit the sky. Bodies littered the field, only a few of them intact. Arm's, legs, and heads were strewn about, mangled and disfigured. Some men lay groaning in the dirt, entrails spilling out between their hands. Some hobbled after their host as best they could, and some men took pity on the injured and swung them over unclaimed horses. The smell of rot and shit wafted into the air, and a handful of men lost their stomachs. Bran did his best to breathe through his mouth, but it didn't help. The smell left an acrid taste in his mouth, worse than his own blood had been. Crows swooped down and picked at the dead.

Torrhen let out another cry of "THE KING IN THE NORTH," and this time Bran joined in. The cries continued across the field and through the woods whence they came. It echoed in the morning air, and did not lessen as they reached camp.

They made their way into camp, welcomed by the cheers of the few men who'd remained behind, and the camp followers. Healers rushed forward to steer injured men to the big tents, shouting orders at the other women. Theon had long abandoned his horse, and with the Smalljon, drove Jaime Lannister forward. The men laughed and jeered, throwing rocks and clumps of dirt and manure at him.

Down the main thoroughfare of the camp they drove him. They came to a stop in front of Robb's tent, and Bran's stomach sank. Ahead, standing right in front of Robb's tent, stood Alysanne. She held her head as high as it'd been when she saw them off. Her face was cold and blank, hard as ice. Theon kicked Jaime Lannister to his feet, pulling his head back by his hair. Bran shoved his way through the crowd. He stopped just behind Theon.

Jaime barked a laugh. "Hello, daughter. I would swear my sword to the Queen, but I seem to have misplaced it."

Alysanne inhaled sharply. Theon yanked his hair harder and raised his fist, but not before Robb stepped forward. "Enough," he ordered. "Lock him in chains. We'll decide what to do with him on the morrow."

With a swirl of her skirts, Alysanne disappeared into the tent. Wylla followed behind her, but not before giving both Theon and Jaime a sharp glare.

When Theon captured Jaime Lannister, Bran had not thought about Alysanne. The entire way back, all he could think about was his own father. They had placed his head on a spike above the Red Keep, if the rumours were true. But Jaime is Alysanne's father.

"Bran," a hand placed gently on his shoulder startled him and he swung around, sword in hand. Wylla Manderly stepped back, arms held up in surrender. Did she not follow after Alysanne? "Peace, Bran. Alysanne sent me to see if you were well." How long have I been standing here? He glanced back to where his brother had stood to find the spot empty. Men had cleared out, following Jaime Lannister in chains.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lady. You startled me."

She gestured to his arm, and it was then he remembered the wound. It had stopped bleeding, but the pain leeched back into his awareness. He pulled the fabric back. It wasn't deep. The sword had caught just where the mail ended, but the leather had been thick enough to prevent the sword from hacking his arm clean off. He thought of the men who were carried back, bleeding profusely from stumps where arms and legs should have been. He thought of Daryn, dead on the field. I'm lucky.

Wylla examined his arm herself with gentle hands. She twisted her mouth. "It doesn't seem too horrible, but you should still get it seen to."

The tent set up for the injured was almost worse than the field of battle itself. Almost. Men wailed, and the stench of shit had followed them here. Shit, and death. Some of the camp followers sat by men, clutching their hands tightly. Others wept over still bodies. Bran breathed deep. Jon and Robb are safe. Theon is alive.

He passed by a cot with three women forcing a man down by the shoulders. Another woman stood at his feet, sawing off a foot. Bran's stomach dropped and he hurried by. Another man lay silent, a gaping wound where his eye should have been. Two men carried in another man on a sheet, a bloodied stump where his arm should be. They heaved him onto a cot and a woman rushed forward. Bran watched as she lay a hand on his head and silently shook her head. One man began to yell, flailing his arms. Bran stared at the man. Even he could tell that he was dead. He hurried along.

He found Patrek Mallister sitting upright on a cot. His armor lay folded at his side, and they had wrapped his chest with a clean bandage. A woman dabbed at a scrape above his eye, but to Bran's relief, he otherwise seemed well. Patrek spotted him and batted away the woman like a fly and swiftly stood to his feet, stopping for a moment to steady himself. Bran reached him before he fell and eased him back to the cot.

"Bran, am I glad to see you." Patrek said. "Some bastard hit me over the head with his shield. Fell right to the ground, I did." Patrek rubbed a spot on top of his head and winced. "What about you? Are you alright?"

Bran lifted his sleeve to show him the wound on his arm. Patrek hissed, a slight smile gracing his face. "You'll have a nice scar there. I'm almost jealous."

Gesturing to the bandage around his waist, Bran said, "You'll have one to, by the looks of it."

Patrek shrugged his shoulders with a weak laugh. "I suppose." He craned his neck and looked behind Bran and over his shoulder. "Have you seen Daryn?" Bran opened his mouth and closed it again. Patrek's face crumpled. "No," he muttered.

"He died right in front of me," Bran muttered.

Patrek ran a hand through his hair. "And Torrhen?"

Bran took a seat next to Patrek. "Alive. What about Eddard? Have you seen him?"

Patrek's face grew grave and shook his head. He opened his mouth to answer, but a wail answered instead. They turned around. Torrhen Karstark knelt over a cot, clutching at the shoulders of whoever laid on it. He shared a worried glance with Patrek before they both hurried over to him.

Eddard Karstark lay lifeless on the cot. A gash ran from the top of his right shoulder down across his chest. Blood soaked the linen the healers had pressed over it to stop the bleeding and pooled onto the cot and floor under him. Death rolled off of him, a sickly sweet stench. Bran's heart sank. Not him, too. "Torrhen," he muttered, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. Torrhen did not move from where he knelt, remaining hunched over his brother.

Daryn and Eddard. Who else? He could not remember if he had seen Jorelle Mormont since the battle began. Laughter came from the far corner of the tent. Dacey sat on a cot, a bandage wrapped tight around her arm. Jorelle and her mother, who he had not seen before, crowded around her. Uncle Brynden? He searched the tent wildly with his eyes, but from where he stood he did not see him. Relief coursed through him, but only for a moment. What if they remain alone on the field? He had seen no one carry Daryn's body back. He remains. Alone.

Bran stalked from the tent. It wasn't right to leave his friend out there alone. No one obstructed his path, and soon he was at the edge of camp. I was so close. Just a few more moments, and he could have saved Daryn. Daryn, who lay out on the field without a face. His stomach twisted and churned. He found himself knelt over on the ground, the contents of his stomach surging up his throat and out.

His Uncle Brynden's voice came from behind him. "Bran, lad, it's alright." He rubbed a large hand on Bran's back. When he finished emptying his stomach, Brynden helped him to his feet. He started to steer Bran back towards the camp. "Come now. Let's get you cleaned up."

"No," Bran protested. He wrenched himself free. "Daryn is still out there, and-" He cut himself off with a sob. His face heated. And now I'm crying like a babe. He'll think me a child.

His Uncle Brynden held his shoulders firmly. "It's alright, lad. It's over. There's men out there now. Daryn Hornwood, was it?" Bran nodded. "Aye, I remember him. I'll handle it, Bran. Go find your brothers."

Brynden sent him forward with a clap to his shoulder. Men throughout the camp had already begun to celebrate. Shouts and songs echoed through the air, but Bran could only think of Eddard Karstark and Daryn Hornwood. He weaved his way back through the tents, an echo of the path he had taken earlier that night.

When he reached Robb's tent, he took a seat at the table. His brothers stood over it, adjusting the map for their victory. A victory. He listened but he did not hear. Bran could only hear Torrhen, weeping over his brother. Daryn Hornwood, face hacked to bits on the field and the blood gurgling in his mouth.

He tried to think of something else, but his mind wandered to thoughts of the Godswood back home, Sansa in King's Landing, Rickon alone in Winterfell. He thought of his father's head, on a spike high above the Red Keep. Victory did not taste like he thought it would.