October, 299 AC

The further north they went, the deeper Bran dreamed.

Theon stood upon the walls of Winterfell, his face screwed up with fury. There were two little heads on spikes behind him, and a flicker of fear in Theon's eyes. Bran could hear Old Nan weeping below, but Maester Luwin stared in silence.

Reek lay upon a bed, a sword by his side. Green pus oozed from the wounds made by Lady Hornwood's nails, the pale fishy eye swollen shut. Luwin cleaned the wound with steaming wine and applied a poultice of herbs. He added a pinch of some dark substance to the inside of the linen, then wrapped the eye.

Reek rode away from Winterfell, the bandage and a terrible smile on his face.

It was easy to sleep in the wolfswood. The trees grew thick and close, with branches that embraced like lovers. They saw no other folk as they traveled along faded hunting trails. Now and then they saw a weirwood, standing alone or in pairs. At each weirwood they paused to gift it blood, usually that of a squirrel or a hare. The weirwoods seemed lonesome without their faces, but Bran did not know how to carve, and he was too proud to ask Jojen or Meera to carve for him.

Robb sat proudly astride his horse beneath a ruined castle, his sword in his hand and a bronze crown upon his helm. Men in silver and red scaled the walls as Robb shouted for men in white and grey to ram the main gate. A curly haired squire wearing the badge of House Frey shoved Robb half out of the saddle, and an arrow that should have pierced his throat only grazed him.

Robb lay in bed as a girl with a heart shaped face tended the angry wound. A lady in a seashell necklace sat in a nearby chair, embroidering. The Greatjon strode into the room, his face grim as he handed a letter to Robb. Robb's face fell as he read, his face as closed and cold as the crypts. No sooner had the Greatjon departed than the lady went too. That was odd. No one ever left Theon and Sansa alone in her room.

With no one there but the girl, Robb began to weep in silence, tearing at his hair and striking his chest. Gone was the stern King of Winter; Robb looked like Bran's brother, the boy in the wolfswood who had been too afraid to decide what to do with a wildling woman. His crown lay upon the table beside the bed, and Robb cast it to the floor, his hands searching until he found a dagger beside a tray of half eaten food. The girl cried out, laying gentle hands upon Robb and kissing his brow until he dropped the dagger. Then Robb began to kiss her back, desperately, his hands twining in her soft brown hair, and Bran looked away.

They had been riding in the wolfswood for days and days when Dancer missed his footing. It was lucky that they had just passed a pile of stones that looked like the remains of a tower. There was a dry vault below, and Meera made them soft beds of leaves.

The mountains were enormous, great teeth of blue-grey stone capped by more snow than Bran had ever seen. Wildlings on shaggy garrons watched as two men of the night's watch dueled, their swords shining in the sun. One had a long grey braid, as grey as his faded cloak. He fought with his left as though he'd been born with the blade in his hand, and the other ranger- Jon, it was Jon under the shaggy beard- staggered back beneath the savage blows.

Summer had caught a brace of hares. Meera skinned them and cut them into little chunks, and Jojen added roots he'd gathered. The stew bubbled for hours in the little stewpot Osha had packed in their saddlebags, and when his belly was full, Bran slept.

Wildling and boy knelt in silence in the cave. Shaggy gnawed on an enormous bone as Rickon petted him. Osha sliced a haunch of meat into very thin strips, careful to remove all the fat. Two saddlebags lay empty on the floor of the cave, their contents spread out. Where was their horse?

The wind howled outside the tumbledown tower. It was growing colder, Bran knew. How long would autumn last? He missed Winterfell, the pleasure of sinking into a hot bath, the warmth of his bed.

Ser Rodrik's courser paced as he waited for the great black stallion to draw closer. A glint of humor shone in Theon's eyes as he spoke to the castellan, who grew redder with every word. Theon waved to the walls and led Ser Rodrik toward the gates, only to find a squat man on the drawbridge, axe in hand.

Faster and faster the dreams came, and Bran greedily drank in every moment beyond the walls of the vault.

Arya retched into a bucket. A fair haired boy in a pale purple cloak dabbed at her forehead with a damp cloth, his face concerned. A loose skinned man with shaggy grey hair frowned as he looked into the fire. A scarecrow with a black ring about his neck and a lightning bolt on his breastplate took Arya by the arm, and she yanked away in fury.

It was night, and Arya crept from beneath the hollow hill. She was saddling a horse when a muscular boy clapped a hand on her shoulder, his face stubborn.

Each day Meera had to take the horses further to graze. She was careful to walk Dancer slowly. The filly's chestnut coat gleamed in the slim ribbon of sunlight that had found its way to the forest floor.

The sun blazed down on a plaza of red brick. Rank on rank of young men stood in spiked bronze caps, their skins every color from darkest ebony to palest white. A girl on a horse rode before them. Her horse was as silver as the hair that just brushed the back of her neck. She waved a whip in the air and cried out in a strange tongue.

Behind her, three dragons perched on a litter, their scales shining green and cream and black. All three were chained, but a group of men wrapped in strange robes were yanking at the black and scarlet dragon's chain. The dragon hissed as the silver girl approached. Suddenly she swept the lash in one of the men's faces, and sang out a word. The black dragon's flame caught the man full in the face, and the silver girl was shouting, and her men were attacking those in robes, and the green and cream dragons were looking at Bran.

Bran turned away from the squirrel stew. Summer and his smaller cousins had brought down a deer, and he had already feasted in Summer's skin. Jojen watched Bran sadly, his cheeks pale as a weirwood.

Weirwood trees were all around, each with its face. Sansa lay by a rocky pool, the fair skin of her legs exposed by the short gown of green leaves she wore. In the pool swam children. Or were they? Their brown skin was dappled like that of a fawn, their slitted eyes enormous, their voices clear as they sang. Beside Sansa a small woman crouched, her skin as green as her garb. Gently the woman tossed a pebble in the water, and Sansa watched as the ripples spread.

For weeks and weeks they had waited, and at last Dancer's leg was healed. As they left the tumbledown tower, Bran wondered how far north they must ride.

Bran had not known mountains could be red. There was not a cloud in the sky as the group of riders made their way through the pass. At the head of the column rode a lord in a cloak of pale scarlet silk, his stallion's hair as dark as night, his mane and tail like flame. Beside the lord rode a lady on a sandy mare.

Their banners were as strange as the hooded silk cloaks that hid their faces from the sun. There were lemons on a purple field, a crowned skull, black scorpions, red and yellow flames, a golden feather on green checks… but the largest banner boasted a brilliant red sun pierced by a golden spear.