BRAN II

"The day was a still one, with a gnawing melancholy sweeping across the window of the bedchamber all across the land of the brown courtyards and grey castle walls of Winterfell outside and down below, stretching all the way away to the old trees, heathlands and moors in the distance by the grey horizon, as a thin fall of white snow fell down from the sky and in on the edge of the windowsill... A crow landed there, just then, creeking, cawing and kreeing with its harsh black beak, just like in his dream.

Bran watched the black bird, as it hopped to and fro on the windowsill, cawing and kreeing.

"Don't listen to it", Old Nan said. "Crows are all liars."

Bran looked up at her.

"I know a story about a crow..." She said, angling her sewing needles slightly to her side.

He looked up at her, still not saying anything, as he slowly, in a white and grey stillness of mind, as still as the falling snow and beginning autumn wind, considered whether the crow had come from within his dream, or the other way around.

Old Nan continued, and went on.

"There was the time of old King Maekar", she began, as Bran leaned down into his head cushion again, listening to her calming words.

"The new King, a young fourth son named Aegon, had commanded that a trial be held for the Blackfyre rebels, who had tried and tried again to take over the throne from their distant cousins.

Aegon commanded his uncle Lord Brynden to be arrested and sent to the Wall for his plot in killing the innocent Aenys Blackfyre. Said and done, Lord Brynden was sent to the Wall, along with the King's brother Aemon, who had studied and trained at the Citadel of Oldtown to become a maester, as well as his Kingsguard Ser Duncan. Lord Brynden was not the finest of the party, you see, nor the most distinguished... but he brought with him his own guard of longbowmen, called the Raven's Teeth, and on their way up along the long winding Kingsroad, they stopped by here at Winterfell.

You remember when you used to run up and bother the blacksmith, don't you? Well in those days the blacksmith's name here was Teck Tomard, and a great craftsman he was. He made a new suit of armor for Ser Duncan the Tall, who had gotten his old one badly damaged at the tourney of..."

"I've never bothered the blacksmith before." He interrupted her. "I only did so once, before..."

"'Ain't so, my lord? … "Then I suppose I was just dreaming when your lord father came up to me and complained, high and mighty he did, about how you were always missing Ned, and getting into all sorts of troubles because of it. But you need not miss him now anymore. He'll be back again soon enough, you'll see. Aye. Don't you worry, little lord. Ned'll come back soon enough from the Vale, you'll see."

It was the same thing again. She was confusing him with his uncle, Father's dead elder brother, Lord Brandon, who had been killed many years ago along with Lord Rickard by the Mad King.

"I am not Lord Brandon", he said. "I did not grow up here. I grew up in King's Landing. I am Prince Bran. Ned is my father. He is king now."

Old Nan got a chuckle in her voice at that.

"Oh, I do say, you've gotten all sorts of lively imaginations yourself, my lord! But don't worry, I remember it all still, how you and Ned would fight and pretend to be the King of Winter again, to be the Hungry Wolf, or the Last Hero, aye, I do remember it all... He'll be back soon. Don't you worry."

He did not want to prod her any further. It was useless. He had already told her three times before.

It had been several days in her company now, several hours during the day while Mother did her best to bathe and eat and take care of Rickon as well. Sometimes she was with them, but most of the time that she was, Nan would be quiet. She did not trust his Mother the Queen as she trusted him, it seemed. She knew how to hold her tongue and only sit knitting then. She was the Queen, and a Tully, a southron outsider at that, to Nan and her old wrinkly northern eyes. But as soon as she left the room, she would begin with her strange old stories all over again, prodding him all the while.

Some of them were interesting, and fun to listen to, he supposed, for what else could he do, still confined to this bed, with his Father and Robb and Arya and Sansa and Jory and all of the others all the way down south. Only Erryk and Ser Mandon were still here to attend to him, and they had to stand on the outside of the door for the most time, only coming in once in a while hen he truly called for them, and he felt like saving his voice. He still remembered Old Nan's story as well, that she had told him the third time he had done so, about the young boy who cried winter. Her stories...

Some of them were interesting, yes, some of them were great to listen to.

Some were boring, like the ones of how she had gone down to wash clothes in the Long Lake in her youth and met upon some nobleman that he had never heard of, and how she and her sister had become entagled by love and other girly emotions, half of whom he did not even know what they meant. Grand, though, he remembered. She had said that the young lord was so grand.

Some were scary, like the one about the Rat Cook that she had told him, which took place up at the Nightfort at the Wall, that his Father and Uncle Benjen had told him about as well. That one gave Bran the shivers for true.

Many more were somewhere in between, and some he did not even believe she was telling right for how strange they all seemed. But what he really wanted was to know more about the Long Night. She had mentioned the Last Hero now, how he and his Father had played at being the Last Hero in their youth...

His Father, the King, King Eddard, had certainly told him the stories about the Long Night, but admittedly not much. Far from enough. He wondered more, wanted to know more, and so took the decision – for an easy one, it was, here where he was anyways lying in a cold room at the end of the world in Winterfell, his Father's home castle, a thousand miles away from home at the Red Keep – and he asked her.

"Tell me more about the Last Hero, and the Long Night."

Old Nan regarded him at that.

"I could... But don't you know the story already? You were so eager to tell it all by yourself."

"I would like to hear it again", he said. And then he added something only a young lord, if even that, would say. "Please."

"All right, my lord, no need to get a-beggaring on me, I'll tell you the story you love so dearly..." She said, as she steadied into her old ragged knitted shawl, put down her sewing needles and the fabric and began telling the story. Bran adjusted his coverlets and made to listen carefully at Nan.

"Long ago, some say more than eight thousand years ago now, there came a night that lasted a generation. A terrible night of winter it was. The snows kept falling, foot after foot of deep white snow, time after time, year after year, while the land grew colder and colder. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the shepherds in their huts. And women smothered their babies, rather than to see them starve. And wept. And felt the tears freeze upon their cheeks.

In that darkness, the white walkers came for the first time... They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins.

They swept through cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale ice spiders, big as hounds... And leading hosts of the slain.

Noone could stand before them, not the strongest men in all the kingdoms, nor their weapons. Their spears broke into a thousand splittering pieces and their shields broke like so many snowflakes shattering when the walkers came upon them. Thousands died trying, and thousands more again. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through the frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.

Until finally... After seventy years of winter and seven-teen years of night had passed, and the sun still hid its face, and the land was as close to death as it had ever been... The Last Hero raised himself from his home and set out upon his final journey to find a way to defeat them, and to push them back to the Land of Always Winter, from whence they had first come.

He left his home, armed with his armour, his sword, his horse, and a dozen companions.

Now these were the days before the Andals came, and long before the women fled across the narrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne, and the hundred kingdoms of those times were the kingdoms of the First Men, who had taken those lands from the children of the forest. Yet here and there, in the fastness of the woods, the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, and the faces in the trees kept watch. So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a horse, a sword, his dog, and twelve companions.

For years he searched and wandered, seeking for the children in each brook and hill of the land but finding only death and desolation and abandoned holes in the hills until he despaired of ever finding the children in their secret cities and many trees... One after one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his trusted old dog, and his sword froze so hard that the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him and came silent on his trail, stalking him with their packs of pale white spiders, big as hounds, I tell you...

But then finally, just as the walkers were about to find him in the snow, he came upon the children, hiding deep in behind the brush of a narrow cave, as they let him into their cave and helped to fend off the Others, using their secret fires and smoke to do so. The Others fled before them, for only they had the old magic to fend off the cold of them...

The Last Hero was given food and water by the children, and they gave him a shield of ancient stone, old and grey and yet still covered in green moss of the dirt it was, and a new sword as well, one that was made by their fire magic to stay the advance of winter, and the swords which the walkers held... And so the Last Hero thanked the children, and they made a secret pact, just like the one they would do on the Isle of Faces, and then he set out to fight against the walkers once again...

And he tread his feet upon the ground, as he looked and searched now for a good spot to make his final stand. Then he came upon a goodly spot, just by the southern shore of a Long Lake, but he found that he must go further south when the wind howled at him from the north, and then he went a little east, but then again the wind came a-howling... And then he went a little more south again, but still the winds came from all the way out to sea... And then finally he headed west, to the lands around the deep dark thickets of the wood, where the wolves howled all around him in the dark, and found the best spot for him to make his battle. He did not fear the howling of the wolves, even as he was made of red blood and meat, and the wolves were starving for a little man-flesh, for he knew what far worse things there were in the woods. And so he stayed there, in place, just by the edge of the forest's canter, waiting for the Others to come and face him and fight...-"

CREEEEEK!

Bran shot up from his bed, as Old Nan silenced at the sudden unexpected sound.

The door creaked as a large figure came into the room. It was Hodor, the simple-minded stableboy of the yard, and Mother stood beside him, a troubled look on her face as she regarded the giant.

Maester Luwin was there as well, he saw after a while. He strode into the room as a grey shadow floating above the stone floor in his maester's robes, his chain clinking softly, his face amiable.

"Hodor", hodor said.

"Hello Mother. Hello Hodor. Maester Luwin."

"Brandon..." His Mother said. "Would you like to take a small walk through the yard?"

He weened his eyes toward Old Nan again. She had already put up her needles and laid down her chin towards her chest again, keeping silent in the company of his Mother the Queen. He sighed on the inside, as he felt within himself whether he was strong enough to get up again on Hodor's back.

They had began the arrangement as such, after he had become annoyed at riding only in the small wagon, and after he had gotten a splinter on his knee without realising it, and after he had [ ]... So far Hodor had taken him out to the henhouse, to speak with Tommen and Ardon again, and then to the [ ], but not yet out to the tower from which he had fallen. He did not want to see the place, if it was true what they told him. He had said so several times, and his Mother had agreed.

His Mother spoke to him.

"Do you still not remember anything?" She asked.

He shook his head, slowly from side to side, as he felt his hair against the cushion behind his head.

"Brandon. I have seen you climb the walls of the Red Keep more times than I would want to. I always fear for you, even when I know that you should be safe. Somehow, you have always manage to come down safely and on your own conditions before. And even in Harrenhal, before you were roused by that watchdog... You only jumped because of the dog. … You never fall." She was sad.

"I did, though.", he said.

His Mother looked on him with her worried face, as she held back her tears and stroked his brow, assembling his soft locks in the grip of her hand.

She held her breath for a while more, as if contemplating what more to say, but then she nodded, slowly, as if giving herself pause in her continued grief, and then she asked him about going out again.

"Would you like to go on the back of Hodor, or on the cart, Brandon?" She said his name again.

He would rather stay in his bed, to not embarrass himself in front of his uncle's and aunt's people. He was the prince of the Seven Kingdoms, and now a cripple. It would not do to let them all see him like that again, like a baby like Rickon, being carried around by the great stable boy Hodor, even though he seemed nice.

"I don't know", he said.

He might have preferred the Hound, but in truth he still feared the enormous man. Even his cousin Tommen showed a certain amount of respect before him, he supposed, and he had grown up with him for all his life. His burned scars terrified Bran. He always looked slightly angry, and red all over in half his face. But he seemed strong enough to carry him.

He might have said worse things. He might have told her that he'd rather be dead than have lost the use of his legs, or tell her how he did not want to be a cripple once again, but he did not want to make her upset, and so he swallowed his pride and subsided himself to go on the back of Hodor.

"Hodor", he said. The great stableboy grinned a big smile as he came up to him.

"Hodor! Hodor, hodor..." he mumbled happily, as he lifted Bran up from his bed carefully, as Queen Catelyn watched, taking care to tuck him in properly and show Hodor exactly how the straps should go over Bran's back and legs and over Hodor's own back and great massive shoulders.

[ ]

[ ]

…

They reached the henhouse in due time. The day was still only morning or close to noon, as the wind swept its way across the yard and the ground was covered in a light flurry of snow. The grey white sky looked on above.

"Prince Bran! Cousin Bran! You are back! Hello Bran!" His cousin Tommen called to him as soon as he saw him coming. His friend Ardon also turned to greet him in a similar manner, though calm.

"Hello Tommen. Ardon.", Bran said in a still, solemn voice as he was put down on the ground by Hodor's massive yet warm, kind and smooth, creasy hands. His limp body rested itself on a wooden bench to the left in the henhouse, as Tommen and Ardon looked on with a curious look.

"I can't walk anymore", he explained, all the while fighting to keep his dignity intact. The tears were threatening to burn out of him somewhere not too far inside, as he felt them burning inside the corner of his eyes.

"We know", Tommen said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Hodor's massive adult legs held them shielded from the reality of the guards standing somewhere an eternity away, outside. Here they were still just children, and Bran did his best to try and think about it in that way, and not as himself being a prince.

"Do you want to hold Gullan?" Tommen asked. "We fed her some carrots and corn."

Bran looked at his cousin.

"All right. Thankyou, my lord."

His iron courtesy was his shield, or he would make it so. His shield from feeling anything. From thinking about it at all. And so he armoured himself in ice, like his father would do, and he felt close to nothing at all, as Tommen ran up and picked up the fat golden white hen Gullan, and gave it to Bran's less enthusiastic arms.

"You have to hold her close over the wings, or else she will flap around and hit you", Tommen said.

Ardon nodded at the advice, conforming it, his handsome long yellow hair flicking just slightly up and down. Bran looked on them both, numb. He thought of the crow that he had met in his dream.

"Do you know, my prince", Tommen said, being effortlessly mindful with his courtesies as he balanced with his little legs on the edge of the wooden list that guarded and bordered the border between the grey stone of the floor and the yellow straw-covered floor of the hens beyond, "that I've only had Gullan for a short while, but she is already quite big", Tommen said. "Big enough to put into a stew, [ ] says. But I'm not going to put him into a stew. Or... her. I'm not going to put her... Put Gullan in a stew... Because she is mine and I want to keep her forever."

Bran looked on as Tommen did his best to balance on the edge of the wooden list, envy like a fire.

"That's good", he only said. His cousin was young; did not understand enough to know propriety.

"Have you got a chicken of your own at the Red Keep?" Tommen asked. "What's her name?"

His questions already vexed him.

"No", he said, simply.

"What? But you are the prince! You can have as many hens as you want!"

He did not know what to tell him.

"We don't have a henhouse that close to the castle", Bran said simply. "I don't know why."

Tommen looked concerned before he angled his face down, and considered his words. They were all three silent for a while, as Bran looked enviously on Tommen's legs and Ardon's pretty hair.

"You know when the King got back...", Tommen said. "And your brother Robb and your sisters. I thought you and Rickon and the Queen and your royal mother would go with them too."

Tommen still did not understand the concept of his mother being both his mother and the queen, and so he divided them up into two different people. They might as well have been, Bran thought, for the strangeness in humor that his Mother had begun to display ever since he had woken up.

"They could have carried you back all the way down to the south in the wheelhouse, Hal said, but Father said no."

"Yes, Tommen", Bran said, tired of the conversation. "I know."

"But Mother did not say no. She said that you might as well have left us. That you wouldn't be better by staying up north here, where it's so cold. But it's not even cold here. Not now I think. There's only the snow. In winter, Father says, it will be worse. Winter is coming. It will be hard. Even for us wolves. We are wolves, my prince. Us Starks. But... In winter, even we will almost die."

"My Mother says so too", Ardon said, his voice the perfect angling 'tween Tommen's and his own.

"Your mother's name is May", Tommen said.

"Yes", Ardon confirmed.

"But I heard from Mankan that May is a name for the spring. Was your mother born in the spring?"

"Yes", Ardon said.

"But I was born in the spring as well. But how can we be born in the spring if we are going to live through the winter?" Tommen said. "My father says that I am still a summer child, but that I will need to grow up when winter comes."

"I am sure that Uncle...- That Lord Benjen is right", Bran said, although the words were death to him.

"When will winter come do you think? You southerners think that it's winter as soon as it snows, Father says, but that is not true. Here in the North we have summer snows."

"I know, Tommen", Bran said, his tone cold and dismissive. They'd had two summer snows even before he fell, while his father and Arya and Robb and Jory and everyone were still there, and now here was the third flurry of that.

"I'm not a southerner", he added. "I'm a Stark of Winterfell, same as you. My father is. … Was."

"I know that. My Father told me that. … But you speak like a southerner", Tommen said.

"I do not", Bran insisted.

"I'm sorry, my prince", Tommen only said, and then closed his mouth to keep balancing on the list.

Bran looked on Gullan who still sat quietly in his laps. His fingers covered her fine white feathers as he looked into her golden and vaguely red eyes that seemed to cluck towards him. She was fine.

"Can a chicken ever talk, like a raven?" Bran asked. He knew they could not but Gullan seemed odd in some way. Her eyes seemed to stare into his soul, just with how glaring and empty they seemed to were.

Ardon answered no, only ravens and men could talk. And the children. And perhaps ghosts.

And wildlings, Tommen added.

Wildlings were men, Ardon said.

Tommen said yes.