Mid May, 299 AC
"Today we will be discussing the importance of lineage and inheritance."
Bran swallowed as Maester Luwin glanced at him. This was a punishment, Bran knew it. The Walders were always going on and on about their brothers and uncles and cousins and the line of inheritance. Yesterday, Bran had made the mistake of saying that any trained bird from the Summer Isles could do the same, and sing into the bargain. Luwin had scolded him for being rude to his foster brothers, and Little Walder had sulked.
"Bran. What is the line of inheritance for House Stark?"
"I'm Robb's heir, until he has children," Bran said clearly. "Then Rickon, then Sansa, then Arya, then… uhm…" Was Jon next? Bastards could be legitimized, but Jon was sworn to the Night's Watch.
"Don't you have any cousins?" Big Walder asked.
Bran frowned. His namesake Uncle Brandon died unwed. Uncle Benjen was sworn to the Watch, and poor Aunt Lyanna died unwed too.
"I don't think so?" Bran said hesitantly. The maester clucked his tongue.
"Your great-grandfather Edwyle had a younger sister, Jocelyn Stark. She wed a Royce, so you do have some distant cousins in the Vale." Luwin sighed. "I believe your father was close with the Royces, when he fostered with Jon Arryn."
"Maester, a word?"
It was Joseth, the new master of horse. Bran liked the plump man. He'd trained Dancer so Bran could ride, and he told funny jokes, usually about horses.
"I'll be back in a moment," Luwin said briskly, leaving the boys alone in his cluttered turret.
Of late Maester Luwin was pulled every which way, even during lessons. Ser Rodrik had ridden east to deal with Bolton's bastard, leaving the maester to run Winterfell.
The bastard and his men had ambushed the Hornwoods on their way home after the Harvest Feast, and the Hornwood men had only barely fought them off. Lord Daryn was badly wounded, so Lady Donella's frantic raven said, and the bastard had vanished, along with his servant. But Bran wasn't worried. Ser Rodrik would soon set things right.
"Do you know why there's so many Freys?" Big Walder asked, interrupting Bran's thoughts. Bran scowled.
"Because Lord Walder keeps remarrying?"
"Yes, but that's not the only reason," Big Walder said seriously. "Our maester is no good at wounds, but he keeps alive almost every babe born in the Twins."
"What about the mothers?" Rickon asked, his shaggy hair covering troubled eyes. Both Walders shrugged.
"If they live, they live. But it's easy enough to replace them."
Bran didn't like the sound of that at all. Maybe the ladies willing to marry a Frey were replaceable, but no one could replace Lady Catelyn. Bran was just opening his mouth to say so when Luwin's voice echoed in his ears. A prince is courteous, the maester scolded. Bran sighed.
"What's the name of Robb's squire? What's he like?"
Big Walder's eyes lit up.
"That's Olyvar. He's a Rosby Frey, from Lord Walder's sixth marriage. He's the third son-"
"Fourth," Little Walder interrupted. Big Walder snorted.
"Willamen is forging a maester's chain, he doesn't count. There's Perwyn, he's the eldest son, he's boring. He was always away at Rosby growing up, grandfather says he's barely a Frey. Then there's Benfrey, he's tricky. Willamen was third, and Olyvar is the last son. He grew up at Rosby too. Grandfather let him be old Lord Gyles' ward, hoping he'd inherit because Lord Gyles is so sickly. But it's been years and he just won't die."
"That's a terrible thing to say," Luwin said sternly as he swept back into the room, his grey robes swishing. Big Walder apologized eloquently, but Bran didn't like the look in his eyes.
"Since you seem to be listing the Frey line of inheritance, why don't you begin at the beginning," the maester said.
"The current heir is Ser Stevron, he's Lord Walder's oldest son by his first wife," Little Walder said. "He's ancient and always complaining about being tired."
"Stevron's eldest son is Ser Ryman." Big Walder butted in. "He's got a bad belly and worse wits-"
Outside the breeze flew through the godswood, tickling the direwolves' soft fur and sending the Reeds' curls into disarray. Jojen and Meera didn't have to attend lessons with the Walders, they could play in the godswood all day long. Shaggydog was napping in the sun while Summer crouched on his haunches, his tail wagging. The moss boy threw the stick and Bran leaped for it, catching it in his jaws. Jojen smiled as he ruffled the direwolf's ears, then darted away, leading boy and direwolf on a merry chase.
"-then there's Lame Lothar, he's my uncle, and he's cleverer than all the Crakehall Freys put together-"
Little Walder glared at his cousin. Little Walder was a Crakehall Frey, Bran remembered. But no dull list of Freys could compare to romping inside Summer's skin, and Bran slipped away again.
"Welcome back," Jojen said, gazing into the direwolf's eyes. The direwolf licked his nose, then abandoned him for Meera. She laughed as the direwolf nuzzled against her leg. She had a pretty laugh, and the warm sunlight brought out hints of gold in her brown curls.
"Bran," Jojen called. "Come back- you promised to tell me about your dreams."
And Bran remembered darkness, darkness and cold without end, and dreamers impaled on great shards of ice… and then, out of the darkness, the eyes.