Late September, 298 AC
Bran stared at his useless legs. The long scab where the wildling cut him cut shone dark brown under the hot water of the bath.
Bran wanted to be a proud Stark, a proud wolf. But Summer was the one who had fought when the wildlings attacked. Summer was the one who was brave and strong.
Bran sighed. He wasn't a wolf, he was just a little baby. Bran couldn't stand, or climb, or ride. He couldn't even find Sansa in his dreams.
The day after the crow came, Bran had asked Maester Luwin about the weirwoods. It had not gone well.
"There is no such thing as magic, Bran," the Maester had said, his grey eyes full of pity. "The Andals cut down the weirwoods out of superstitious fear, nothing more. They thought the Children of the Forest could spy on them through the faces of the trees, so they cut them down."
"What made the weirwoods strong?" Bran had asked, frustrated.
"The same thing as other trees. Light, water, good soil."
"What else?"
The little grey man shook his head, exasperated.
"The Andals claimed the First Men made human sacrifices to the trees. Foolish tales to scare the little children, nothing more. You are too old for such tales, Bran."
It wasn't much, but Bran knew he had to tell Sansa.
For weeks Bran had been trying to find his sister when he slept. Dreams came almost every time he closed his eyes. He'd dreamed of the crypts, of a terrifying white ghost. But Sansa wasn't there. She had already fled screaming before Arya punched the ghost to reveal it was just Jon covered in flour. He'd dreamed of finding the wolf pups, of cuddling Summer's warm, wiggly body against his chest. Sansa hadn't been there that day either. He'd dreamed of climbing the walls of Winterfell, of the broken tower... Sansa definitely hadn't been there. He'd fled that dream screaming.
"Are you done bathing?" Robb asked kindly.
Bran sighed again as he looked up at Robb. They had the same dark red hair, the same blue eyes. Robb's forehead creased with concern. He was just Robb, not Robb the Lord. Bran nodded, and Robb handed him a towel.
The bathhouse was deserted. Rickon was already in bed, asleep. Theon had finished his bath and gone away whistling, a smirk on his face. Bran dried his arms and patted down his pale chest, then Robb lifted him so he could dry his shrunken legs. It was so odd, not feeling the towel.
"What's on your mind?" Robb asked as he helped Bran dress. "You looked like Sansa trying to do sums."
Bran laughed weakly. Sansa could write better than any of them, but she struggled with numbers.
"I miss Sansa," Bran said. I won't bring up the dream. Bran didn't want Robb to think he was a little baby. He couldn't bear if Robb laughed at him.
"If you like, I'll carry you to her room," Robb offered. Bran nodded.
Bran yawned. He was so tired, but he couldn't quite fall asleep. Robb had tucked Bran into Sansa's bed, his eyes soft with brotherly concern, promising to wake Bran in the morning. Summer lay curled up on the floor, faithful as ever.
The bed was bigger than Bran's. An enormous pile of embroidered pillows covered the top. The smallest pillows were simple, covered in clumsy flowers and vines. As the pillows grew bigger, the designs grew more intricate.
Bran lay his head on the largest one. Sansa had finished it just before she left. Snowflakes fell upon the Winterfell godswood in a thousand tiny stitches. There were hawthorns, their trunks in shades of brown that hinted at the rough bark, their leaves rich green and seven pointed. There were ironwoods, with their black trunks. There were pines, covered in deep green needles. Tiny, perfect weirwood leaves crowned the heart tree in crimson thread, its face solemn. In front of the heart tree, six direwolf puppies frolicked in the snow.
Summer whined. The wolf sat on the floor beside Bran, his tail thumping on the floor, his eyes pleading. No one would know...
"Up, boy," Bran whispered.
Summer jumped on the bed and curled up beside Bran, his long snout just below the direwolf pillow. Summer missed his brothers and sisters too. He missed playing with them, nipping and jumping and leaping. Now his white brother was far away, surrounded by ice and snow. His black brother was near, but he was wild and angry. His last brother was too busy to play. As for his sisters... one was far, far away, howling to the moon with their small cousins.
The other sister...
Lady ran with the other pups in the godswood of Winterfell. The pups gamboled and pounced and nipped at each other. Tufts of fur floated in the air, their puppy coats shedding as their adult fur grew in. Sansa watched, a brilliant smile on her face, her hair flaming in the sunlight.
"Sansa!" Bran yelled with joy, sprinting toward her. She turned, her eyes wide as he slammed into her. They fell to the ground laughing, the events of the last few months forgotten.
The direwolf puppies yipped their delight, the entire pack swarming over Bran and Sansa. Shaggydog licked Bran's hand; Ghost nuzzled Bran's leg. Grey Wind and Nymeria tugged at Sansa's skirts. Lady seemed to have disappeared.
Bran heard a low whine and turned to see Summer, holding a blood red weirwood leaf in his mouth. Suddenly Bran's mouth was drier than the dust of the crypts.
"The trees, Sansa. The crow said I have to tell you about the trees."