Late February-March, 305 AC
Content warning: This chapter deals heavily with grief and self-destructive tendencies. Please be advised.
When the three of them came to pray, the moon was dark, the snowdrift pale and deep and cold.
Theon Greyjoy shivered as he helped Bran kneel before the faceless weirwood, lowering him down onto his useless legs. The muscles in Bran's belly trembled; it took all their strength to hold him up. He might have fallen, if not for Theon keeping him upright. Unthinking, Bran reached for the white tree, for the life he could feel within its sap, within its roots... until he recalled what he had sworn, and yanked his hand back as if burned.
Leaf did not seem to notice. The little woman was still but for her lips, which moved as she sang in the True Tongue. Though the night was windless, as Bran prayed to the old gods he could hear the dark red leaves rustling over his head. He could hear Theon too, mumbling something about mercy, his words lost beneath the rippling warmth of Leaf's song. Strange. For so long, Bran had smelled naught but the cold, yet for a moment he could have sworn he was in the godswood of Winterfell, drinking in the scent of humus and sunlight and growing things after a hard rain.
A gust of wind, and the moment was gone. Leaf rose to her feet, adjusting her heavy goatskin cloak. Theon lifted Bran with a grunt, carried him a few scant yards to his sled, laid him down on the wooden seat, and then started piling furs over him as if he were a child.
"I could have crawled, if I had my trestle," Bran grumbled.
"You shouldn't have to," Theon said. He frowned, then tucked the furs tighter.
Swaddled like a babe, Bran could barely keep hold of the leather traces he used to drive the pair of reindeer who pulled his sled. Their breath steamed in the cold as they dragged him through the trees of the haunted forest, following Leaf. The singer stepped lightly atop the snow, deft as a deer. Theon trailed behind, panting slightly as he raised and lowered his bear-paw clad feet.
Their tent was a queer sort of shelter, little like a knight's pavilion save for the shape. It was a tall cone, made from sapling poles from the forest which had been draped in skins brought from the cave. Smoke rose from the hole atop the cone's point; they always had a fire at night, lest the cold take them in their sleep.
The old gods must not have heard his prayers. Summer was glad to welcome them back, but when Theon helped Bran inside, they found Meera already asleep. As usual, she was curled up into a ball, wrapped around the bag which held her brother's bones. Bran tried to take comfort from the fact that she trusted the direwolf to stand guard, but then, Meera never looked at Summer the way she looked at him.
At least they could bathe, sort of, once Leaf stood guard by the flap of the tent. There was boiling water from the kettle and handfuls of cold snow from outside, and they had plenty of soap. But it was one thing to sink into the pools of a hot spring, or at least take one's time washing all over with buckets full of warm water. It was quite another to strip as quickly as possible within the cramped confines of the tent, scrub briskly with a warm washcloth, then get dressed again while still damp and shivering.
Bran didn't bother washing his hair. It would still be wet when he awoke, and he didn't fancy having icicles on his head and neck. He was used to the grease on his scalp, though he did comb out the auburn tangle as best he could. Theon had trimmed it to his shoulders before they left; if only the fuzz on Bran's cheeks grew as fast as the hair on his head.
Theon's beard wasn't much better. When they were in the cave, Theon had shaved each morning. After they left, that habit had soon fallen by the wayside. His hair might be straight, but his beard was a patchy snarl of curls, as black as his eyes and his cloak.
Bran wasn't sure what to make of Theon. He would rather have had Robb, or Jon Snow, but they were far away. It seemed centuries since the days when they piled into the same bed, before Jon Snow had ridden off to the Wall and Robb had ridden south to war. When they were gone, Rickon had sometimes crept into Bran's bed; somehow, Bran had never managed to kick his little brother out, though he kicked in his sleep, even woofed as though he were Shaggydog.
Theon didn't kick or woof. When they were both dressed again, he wrapped himself around Bran, covered them both in furs, then promptly fell asleep. It was the best way to stay warm, Bran knew, but he would have much rather cuddled with Meera Reed. She refused to cuddle with anyone, even with Summer, who stretched out his length and his three legs between where she lay to one side of the fire, and where Bran and Theon lay on the other. Leaf remained by the open tent flap, alone, her gold-green eyes fixed on the white world beyond.
The little woman was still there when Bran awoke in the morning, groggy and sore. Why Leaf insisted on standing guard, he did not know. The singer insisted the wards she sang around their tent each evening hid them from the Others and their wights. Not that there were any nearby; Leaf swore they were far away, down by the Wall, by the grace of the old gods.
Meera didn't believe her. "I believed in Jojen and his dreams," she'd told him last night, when Bran asked her to come pray to the weirwood Leaf had found. "I believed in the old gods, in magic, in fate. I might have taken us to White Harbor, or to Greywater Watch, but instead..."
Meera hugged her brother's bones to her chest. "When we left, our father said Jojen's fate was in his own hands, but that the old gods would see me safely home." Her lips thinned. "If they don't, swear to me that you'll get my brother's bones home to Greywater Watch."
"But," Bran stammered. "You can't- you won't—"
"Swear it," she insisted.
"I swear, by the old gods and the new."
"Good," Meera had said, her brown eyes colder than the snow.
Her eyes were just as cold when Meera awoke. Wisps of brown hair framed her skinny face; the jagged edges hung about her ears and jaw as she pulled on her boots and her bear-paws, and went outside to fetch something from the sleds.
Breakfast was a quick, tasteless affair. They filled their empty bellies in silence, knowing they would not get another bite until they stopped for the evening. Bran gnawed at the hard bread he had made last night, wishing he had something to distract him. Today marked a fortnight since they had left the cave. It was a fortnight and a day since Theon returned from Meera's bed; a fortnight and a day since Meera came stomping in after him, looked straight at Bran, then chopped off her long braid and flung it on the fire, filling the chamber with an awful stench as it burned.
Bran's chest had burned too, later that night, when Theon bathed, and he saw the bloody scratches on his back, the bruises dappling his neck and shoulders. Closing his eyes had only made it worse. A phantom maid had risen from the dark, as fair as she was naked, to twine herself around Theon while Bran looked on in speechless horror. He was even more horrified when he awoke the next morning stiff as a spear, though to his relief it had gone away after he emptied his bladder.
Dealing with his bladder and bowels was much harder away from the cave. Theon and Meera could slip behind a tree or squat beside a bush, easy as a snap of the fingers. Bran had to crawl on his hands and knees with his trestle, dragging himself through the snow, until he found a rock or fallen tree trunk that might serve to help him do his business.
"A cripple shouldn't have to do so much," Theon muttered when Bran returned to find them taking down the tent. He looked down at Bran, and lowered his voice further. "If you had help, we could move faster, leave sooner. Meera should help you."
Not low enough. "Oh, should I?" Meera said icily.
Bran thought she might have slapped Theon, were she not holding a pile of skins from the tent. Instead, she stomped back to her sled, utterly ignoring him as she packed the skins away. When Theon brought her the rest of the skins, Meera paid him no more mind than she might pay a rat skittering along the wall. She ignored Bran too, as if it was his fault Theon was being stupid.
All in all, Bran was in a foul mood as he settled into his sled, his arms already twinging a little. It wasn't like he would be any use helping to get the reindeer in their traces. They were ready to go, having grazed on the lichen hidden beneath the snow whilst the humans struck camp. There were ten reindeer, a pair to pull each of their three sleds, and the rest to follow behind should they be needed.
Summer would have liked to chase them, or better yet, eat them, but the direwolf knew better. Back by the cave, there had been plenty of beasts in the woods. There was no need to dine on reindeer, not when there were lemmings and voles, ptarmigans and snow hares, even elk and musk ox. True, there were also snow bears, snow foxes, and shadow cats lurking in the trees, but they kept to themselves, so long as they were not provoked. Both Summer and Theon had hunted well, whether with bow and arrow or teeth and claws.
Now as they drew further south, game was scarcer. Bran could feel the reindeer, though not nearly so well as he could feel Summer, but he could not feel much else. A family of hedgehogs slept in a thicket of brambles; beneath an ironwood a badger poked his head out of his sett; atop a sentinel pine perched a crow. Only the burrowing and flying creatures had stayed; the rest were long gone, having either fled the Others and their wights or been slain by them.
Leaf said it had been over a year since the Others descended upon the Wall. There was no trace of their dead men in this part of the haunted forest, nor of their queer cold scent. Yet some wrongness still lingered upon the air, like smoke curling over the smothered remnants of a fire.
Bran shivered. Winter might be even more dangerous than the Others. Frostbite was not a crystal sword, but it could still take noses or ears, fingers or toes. To guard against it, they covered their faces with scarves, their heads with hats, their hands with gloves, their feet with hose, stockings, and boots. Theon's garb was all black, whilst Meera and Bran's was a mix of the clothing they had brought from Winterfell and that provided by the singers.
Like those Leaf wore, their gloves and hats were made of goat fur and leather, as were their scarves. Meera still had her brown cloak, whilst Bran's was made of mossy green wool. He had outgrown his old grey cloak, which he used as a lap blanket. And the green cloak would not fit for much longer, if he kept growing.
Thankfully, the cold did not seem to bite as hard as it had yesterday. Perhaps it was how Bran had tucked himself into his furs, or the weak slivers of sunlight that found their way through the canopy above their heads. Summer seemed in good humor as he waited patiently beside the sled, standing strong on his three legs. Bran would have liked a sled pulled by wolves, but Leaf wouldn't hear of it. Keeping one wolf fed was hard enough, let alone a pack of them.
Instead, Leaf had called reindeer out of the haunted forest. Bran liked the shaggy beasts, though he would have preferred riding on one's back to sitting down low in the sled. But Leaf said you couldn't really ride a reindeer, it hurt them too much, even if you sat on their shoulders. And reindeer were shy of the singers, and even shyer of humans; the few who had come at Leaf's call had once belonged to wildlings.
Their sleds had once belonged to wildlings too, who had carved and shaped their frames, who had strengthened their long wooden runners with bronze graven with runes. Bran thought there was a rough-hewn beauty to them, even though the sleds must have been used to carry loot plundered from the south.
No group of wildling raiders had ever been so well armed as they were, though. Meera's frog spear might be plain bronze, with dragonglass spearheads bound to its two remaining prongs, but Dark Sister rode on her hip. Theon wouldn't stop sulking; he wanted to carry the Valyrian steel blade, even though he already had a weirwood bow and arrows tipped with dragonglass.
"She doesn't even know how to use a sword," Theon complained as he stepped atop the footboard of his sled, his gloved hands gripping the handles tight.
"As if you didn't lose half your bouts with Jon and Robb," Bran threw back, peevish.
He was sick of hearing him whine every morning. Bran vaguely recalled watching his brothers spar in the yard of Winterfell; though several years older, Theon had been a fair swordsman at best, more often found at the archery butts than practicing with a blade. Besides, Bran liked that Meera bore his gift, even though she insisted she would not keep it.
Truth be told, Bran wished that he could wield such a fine blade himself. All he had was a dragonglass dagger, the same sort that all of them carried. Leaf claimed all it took was a single stab, a glancing cut, and an Other would melt away like morning mist. The Others did not come out during the day, and they always made camp long before dusk, but it was best to be prepared.
It was midmorning when they at last set out. Meera led the way, with Bran following after and Theon trailing behind. Leaf rode on Meera's sled, tucked amongst a bundle of furs whilst Meera stood on the footboard. After being on guard all night, the singer would sleep for most of the day.
Now Summer served as their scout. The direwolf loped through the forest, keeping an eye out for rocks, steep drops, and thick clusters of trees. Bran rode inside him, to help watch for obstacles. Three sleds were loaded high with precious supplies; it would be a disaster to lose even one of them. The singers had repaired the sleds as best they could, but they were still a bit rickety, especially Theon's.
Though Theon's sled was most apt to get stuck in low spots, all the sleds bumped and shook on uneven ground. The forest floor might be covered in thick drifts of snow, but the land still rose and fell beneath the canopy of ice-covered branches. Sometimes the trees grew so thick that Summer had to hunt for a way through; sometimes they suddenly parted to reveal an open clearing.
Bran hated those clearings. With no trees to block out the sun, the snow was blinding white, so bright it stung his eyes. It was almost as bad as when they first emerged from the cave; Bran had blinked back stars for what seemed like hours before his eyes adjusted. It was so strange to be outside whilst in his own skin, without ancient walls to keep his body safe whilst his spirit wandered.
Time seemed to pass differently in the world beyond the cave. The hours in the sled felt long and tedious, yet the days ran together like deer in a meadow, here and gone in an instant, taking him ever closer to the Wall, to the realms of men.
They were halfway there already, if Leaf was right. She claimed it should only take a moonturn to cover the long leagues between the singer's cave and the Nightfort. That was strange; it had taken over two moonturns when Coldhands led them north from the Wall.
But then they had not had reindeer, or sleds. Coldhands had ridden a giant elk who could barely hold his weight, whilst Bran rode on Dancer and the Reeds went on foot. Their horses had refused to walk down the long steps of the well that led to the door beneath the Nightfort. Even Dancer had not wanted to go, until Meera blindfolded the mare and led her slowly down the winding steps while Bran was in her skin, soothing and shushing her the whole way down.
Poor Dancer. The journey to the Wall had not daunted her, nor the coming of winter, nor being tended by the singers who let her graze with their goats. No, it was colic that had taken the mare six months past, and Bran had not even known, caught up as he was in Lord Brynden's battles. When Leaf told him, he had tucked the knowledge away, deep inside; there would be time to mourn her later.
For now, there were other things to keep him occupied. Bran was not sure the men of the Night's Watch would be pleased to welcome unexpected guests, let alone a cripple, a three-legged direwolf, a spearmaid, a sworn brother back from the dead, and a child of the forest out of legend. Jon Snow was their lord commander, they would not dare harm his trueborn brother Bran, a Stark of Winterfell, nor his wolf, but as for the rest... Brave Danny Flint was not the only song about the bloody fate that befell those who crossed the black brothers.
No, Bran did not want to think about that either. The way ahead looked clear; Summer had not yipped or barked to turn their path for ages. There was no harm in returning to his own skin, to slip inside the daydreams he had brought with him from the field of stars within the weirwood roots. Leaf said he must remember all he had seen, though she still forbade him to so much as touch the weirwood they had prayed beneath, lest he slip into the roots by accident and draw the Others' notice.
Bran was soaring above Winterfell, watching giants raise great walls of stone, when he was rudely interrupted by the horrible sound of Theon's voice. The song was very bawdy; Bran could feel his ears turning redder with every word as Theon sang louder and louder. His mouth was dry, too dry to speak, so Bran wet his lips—
"Would you shut up?" Meera snapped.
"If you don't like my song, then sing your own!" Theon shouted back. "I heard the mud-men were famous for their songs; what, were the tales false? Or do you all croak like frogs instead?"
"Meera sings well," Bran said, so offended on her behalf that he forgot himself. "She used to sing duets, with her—"
Theon cut him off. "OH, TOOTHLESS TESS WAS A LUSTY WENCH, WHO—"
"—just because you love the sound of your own wretched voice—"
"—UPON THE FISHERMAN'S POLE—"
"—ironborn, you're disgusting—"
"Shut up!" Bran yelled. Leaf stirred beneath her furs, but did not wake; in the distance he could hear Summer snarling at a passing shadowcat. "Both of you, I order you to shut up!"
Silence fell, but only for a moment.
"As it please Your Grace," Meera said, colder than the wind.
"Fine," Theon drawled. "I don't remember the rest of the song anyway."
Not another word was spoken for hours. Bran drifted in and out of daydreams, when he was not riding with Summer. Driving off the shadowcat had put a spring in the wolf's three-legged gait. He mght have lost a leg, but the direwolf still loved bounding through the snowdrifts, so much that Bran could feel a small smile on his lips when they stopped at midafternoon and he returned to his own skin.
Of course, the smile did not last. Setting up camp was an onerous chore, one that put everyone in a foul mood, except for Leaf, who was still asleep. It didn't help that Theon hadn't wanted to stop yet, or that their bellies were growling, having passed the long hours since breakfast without a bite to eat. Bran felt like he could devour an aurochs all by himself, but no, first they must get what they needed from the sleds, and set up the tent, and get a fire going, all of which took ages.
The sleds were loaded with hundreds of pounds of supplies, all packed carefully together. Theon and Meera began by fetching bronze axes, the ones they used to cut saplings for the tent each night. When they had enough poles, some forked, some straight, they raised them on their ends, arranging them into a frame. Once the skins were draped, Bran crawled down from his seat, and dragged himself inside the tent with the help of his trestle.
When Theon and Meera left to gather firewood, Leaf finally awoke. Bright-eyed after sleeping all day, the little woman darted between the tent and the sleds with quick sure steps as she fetched supplies. Sleeping furs, a bronze cookpot, a wide flat stone, a bucket, a wooden spoon, four wooden bowls, a sack of oat flour, a yeast ring made from the spine of a goat, a bag of dried snow plums, a stalk of dried garlic, a small jar of precious salt, a few turnips, several hunks of frozen elk. Leaf was still fetching and carrying when Bran crawled off to relieve himself, and she was gone by the time he returned to find Theon starting their fire.
As he could not hew firewood or raise a tent, cooking dinner had become Bran's chore. The singers had taught him how to make oat bread back in the cave, after Meera lost patience with his ineptitude. Snowylocks had shown him each step, whilst Leaf explained what the other singer was doing in the Old Tongue. First he melted snow in the cookpot, just until it was warm. Next he scraped yeast off the bone with a knife, dropping it gently into the water before adding a snow plum he'd cut into slivers. Yeast needed sweetness, Leaf said, to wake it from slumber.
While Bran waited for the yeast to foam, he grumpily removed his gloves. He could not stitch with his gloves on, and he had to mend Theon's stupid cloak, even if his fingers were stiff and a little cold. Theon had torn his cloak yesterday, when the wind blew it into a thornbush and he had yanked it free without thinking of the work he'd made for Bran. Or maybe he should blame Meera; he wouldn't be surprised if she'd shoved Theon into the thornbush.
Summer usually stood watch while Bran was cooking, but the direwolf sometimes trotted off in search of game. Yesterday he'd found a burrow full of snow hares, and just barely managed to dig them up and eat them before a pair of arguing two-leggers came stomping through the underbrush. Summer could not quite make out what they had been arguing over, only that it had to do with mating, and that the welt on the smirking-not-brother's unusually somber face looked like the work of a tree branch.
Serves him right, Bran thought. He was glad it took so long to chop firewood and hunt for game; he didn't want to see either Theon or Meera.
When the yeast had foamed enough, Bran set aside his needle and shoved up his sleeves. Carefully Bran added oat flour to the foaming yeast, mixed them together, then began to knead. He hated how sticky the dough felt against his hands, how it got between his fingers and under his fingernails. He had to knead for long minutes before the dough began to lose that stickness, to cling to itself in the shape of a ball, growing soft as a woman's skin.
Was Meera's skin soft? Bran did not know. Her hands were as callused as his, rough and red from labor, and they were the only part of her that he had felt. Their hands could not help brushing against each other when they handed each other things; any other touch would not be proper, not when Bran was a prince, and Meera a highborn lady. He certainly could not cup her cheek, or tuck her hair behind her ear, or press his lips to hers.
Theon, though, Theon had done much more. Maester Luwin had once said the ironborn took what they wanted, and Theon had agreed with a smile, even though it hadn't been meant as a compliment. How could Bran have ever trusted him to look after Meera? Theon should have comforted her, but instead he had taken her virtue. How could he do such a thing? How could she? Was grief a sort of madness, to make Meera forget herself? She should have shoved her grief away like Bran did, buried it down deep inside, to be forgotten until the day came when there was time to mourn...
The bread dough felt stiff in his hands, too stiff to knead. Bran muttered an oath under his breath, a really foul one he'd heard Theon use. He had worked the dough for too long, again; he could tell even before he pulled the dough from the cookpot. With a quiet thump Bran placed the loaf on the wide flat stone, nestled it in a bed of coals, then turned over the cookpot to cover it.
The scent of baking bread was in the air when Leaf returned. Where she had gone, he was not sure; Summer had seen her clamber up a tree as nimbly as Bran used to, even though the bark was slick with ice and snow. But then, Leaf had claws on her hands and feet, claws that helped her move through the canopy as easily as a man might cross a ditch with the aid of a well-placed log.
"I had messages to send," Leaf told Bran when he asked what she had been doing.
That was what she always said, just as the singer always spoke to him in the Old Tongue. Bran supposed she was sending messages to the singers back at the cave. Soon after they left, Summer had seen the little woman with a bullfinch cradled in her hands, whispering to it before it flew away. A few days later, a raven had suddenly swooped down whilst they were traveling, landed on Leaf, quorked very loudly until the singer woke up, and then quorked quite a bit more before she fed it some seeds and it flew away.
Bran would have liked to fly away, rather than sit in the tent like the cripple he was, while Leaf walked around the tent singing the songs that would protect them through the night. It was even worse when Theon and Meera came back, having failed to find any game. They took their usual places; Theon sat so close he jostled against Bran's shoulder, whilst Meera sat on the other side of the fire, glowering.
Cooking was even less pleasant, now that he had company. Leaf might be still and silent as she carved a bit of soapstone in the fading light of dusk, but it was hard to ignore the sound of Theon and Meera's arguing. It echoed in his ears as Bran took the bread off the fire and flipped the cookpot over so he could fill it with water from the bucket of snow he'd set near the flames. To that he added the hunks of elk, which were still mostly frozen despite over an hour inside the warm tent.
As it would take ages for the stew to be ready, Bran decided to pass out the oat bread. The crust was hard, so hard that when he cut the loaf, the slices crumbled in his hands. Still, it was better than nothing, especially since no one could argue with their mouths full.
Or so Bran thought, until he noticed the noise of Meera's chewing, loud and wet. She gnawed each bite a thousand times before swallowing; Bran was on the verge of crawling out into the snow by the time she reached her last slice. Meera stared at it, her shoulders hunched. "I don't want the rest."
She held out the bread. Before Bran could take the slice, Theon grabbed for it. Meera tried to yank back, but Theon's grip was stronger than hers. The bread tore, the larger portion still clenched in Theon's hand, the rest splitting into crumbs and falling into the fire.
Meera clenched her fists; were the tent not so small, he suspected she might have stood. "You selfish, greedy—"
"He sits on his arse all day!" Theon protested, almost choking on his mouthful of ill-gotten bread. "I've been stomping around in bear-paws, and chopping firewood, and—"
"—running your mouth?" Bran said, cutting him off. "Taking things that aren't yours, like you always do?"
"Oh, gods, not this again," Theon groaned. He shoved the rest of the bread in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then took a long draught of water from the bucket. "I said it last week and I'll say it now, I'm not apologizing for taking that straw knight." He wiped his mouth, frowned at the crumbs in his beard, then brushed them away. "You were five, how do you even remember that?"
"Because it was mine, and you shot it full of arrows!" Bran said hotly.
"Robb said you were done with it—"
Leaf muttered something in the Old Tongue.
"What was that?" Theon asked. He turned on the singer, his voice even whinier than before. "Can you use words all of us can understand, or will you just gabble away like a craven fishwife?"
"I said," Leaf said, her tone dangerously even, "that you are too old to bicker like a child. You shame yourself, and the mother who bore you, and the father who sired you."
To Bran's surprise, Theon Greyjoy gave a laugh, harsh and short. "My father Lord Balon thought all I did was shameful. No doubt his shade is howling in the Drowned God's halls, having fits of wroth every minute that I keep company with those he'd have me slay."
"And your mother?" Leaf asked, so soft.
Theon said nothing, only stared at the cookpot. "The elk's thawed enough," he finally said. "It needs to be cut smaller now, and the turnips added, or it'll be dawn before we eat."
Bran's belly growled as they waited for the stew to be ready. The cookpot was filled almost to the top; they had to eat a lot of meat, to keep up their strength in the cold. He missed fresh meat; it was so much better than frozen. Though he was glad Meera and Theon handled the hunting and butchering. The sight of bloodied hands and knives made Bran queasy, let alone the thought of having to do such work himself. Thankfully, all Bran had to do was wait until they were done, take the meat, and roast on a spit until it was tender and juicy.
Even the raw flesh that Summer ate would have been better than the stew. Only hunger compelled Bran to force down every bite of barely cooked turnip and stringy elk. The dinner was almost flavorless, save for the garlic and salt he sprinkled on top of each bowl when he ladled out the stew.
The stench of garlic lingered as they prepared for bed. All of them had scrubbed their teeth with a paste made from salt and elderflower, but Theon's breath was still so rank that Bran gagged when they curled up together under the sleeping furs. The only relief was the draught of fresh cold air which came in from the tent flap where Leaf crouched.
Usually Bran fell fallen asleep quickly, wearied by a long day of travel and chores. Tonight, though, sleep eluded him. When at last he began to drift off, he was roused first by Theon's snores, then by a high whimper as Meera turned in her sleep, the bag of bones clutched tight in her arms. Summer was quiet, but Bran dared not reach for him. Not when the direwolf was dreaming of the godswood, of days spent playing with his brothers and sisters, days that would never come again.
At last Bran could bear it no longer. Slowly, carefully, he freed himself from the grasp of Theon's arms. His trestle was close by; it was not hard to pull himself across the scant few feet that lay between him and where Leaf stood guard.
"You should sleep," Leaf said, soft in the stillness of the night.
"I want to," Bran answered, speaking the Old Tongue as she did.
Leaf spoke the Old Tongue so smoothly it was like a song; even the harshest words seemed beautiful. Yet despite nearly two moons of practice, the same words felt strange upon Bran's lips, as though his tongue were a quill gone dry, a sword gone to rust.
Truth be told, he would rather have spoken in the Common Tongue. When someone spoke the Common Tongue, Bran knew their meaning right away, and could begin thinking of his reply before they finished talking. Speaking the Old Tongue was so much harder. Bran had to work at it, to focus on each of the words so he could recognize them, then understand them, then put them together to figure out what Leaf had said. Only after all that could Bran start thinking of what he wanted to say, and grope for the words that would help him say it.
"I'm sick of the fighting," he finally managed.
"That is the wrong word," Leaf said. She repeated the last word he had said, then switched to common. "That is fighting with claws or weapons, not arguing with words." Slowly, Leaf sounded out another word in the Old Tongue. Bran imitated her, once, twice, thrice, until the little woman nodded.
Annoyed by the interruption, Bran tried again. "I'm sick of the arguing."
"As am I," Leaf agreed.
"Why you stop them?" Wait, no, that was wrong. What was the word for don't? He couldn't remember. "Why no you stop them?"
Leaf sighed, then got up to add a log to the fire. "Why don't you stop them?" Before Bran could repeat the sentence, she spoke again, this time in the Common Tongue. "When I wish to rear children, then Black Knife and I will have one of our own, if the gods should see fit to bless us. In the spring, perhaps, if it ever comes again."
Bran blinked, confused. "You're married?" He blurted. "To Black Knife? But- you don't- I never noticed—"
"You noticed nothing but the last greenseer," Leaf said flatly.
"That's not true," Bran protested.
"Oh? Then name my sister."
Bran hesitated. Leaf had a sister? He wracked his memory, trying to think if any of the singers shared her look. All of them had gold-green eyes, though some were mostly gold, others mostly green. None had Leaf's hair, which was a tangle of russet and chestnut and wheat. Bran glanced at the pale brown spots dappled across her nut-brown skin, trying to find a pattern, to think of whether he'd seen such a pattern somewhere else.
"Coals?" Bran guessed tentatively.
Leaf's lips thinned. "He is male, and we share no blood."
"Snowylocks?"
"No." A pause. "She is my father's aunt."
At least he was getting closer. There were only two female singers left among the dozen or so whom Bran had met. Surely he would be third time lucky. "Scales is your sister," he declared.
The silence was so thick and heavy that Bran could have used it to build a bridge.
"Ash?" Bran ventured, wincing.
For a long time, Leaf said nothing. Bran sat in his ignorance, chafing. It wasn't his fault Lord Brynden kept him so busy, that the world within the roots was so enthralling. The singers had brought him beyond the Wall to learn, hadn't they? And Bran had learned, he had learned so much, and when the time came, he had rid them of Lord Brynden.
Although... Guilt curled in his belly; Bran almost squirmed, like he would have when he was small. He wasn't the one who had freed them, that had been... that task had fallen to someone else. And learning about one's hosts was the simplest of courtesies. The other singers didn't speak the Common Tongue, but Leaf did. He could have asked her about her kith and kin, could have asked her to translate so he could speak the same courtesies to the other singers.
"I... I'm sorry," Bran whispered, the Old Tongue stiff upon his lips. "How... family? Safe?"
"Safe as they can be," Leaf answered in the Common Tongue. "The cave is well defended. Those who remain will do what they can to lessen the brunt of winter. We are not so weary as we were, with the last greenseer gone and a part of our strength restored. Perhaps, if spring returns..."
"Yes?"
Leaf hesitated, then shook her head. "Never you mind. It is not the hour to speak of dreams. You must sleep; dawn will come soon enough."
When dawn came, Bran felt as though he had barely slept a wink. He crawled off to relieve himself, and returned to find Theon still snoring away. Bran glared at him with dull resentment. Why should he get to sleep when Bran couldn't?
At least Meera was already up, ladling what remained of last night's stew into bowls so she could use the cookpot to make the morning bread. While she washed out the cookpot, Leaf and Bran ate their stew. The meat was better after simmering overnight, but the turnips were worse, mushy and soft. Theon's stew was cold and greasy when he finally woke up, not that it stopped him from inhaling it.
Meera was less enthused. She picked at her stew as she waited for the bread to bake, and when the bread was done, she gave herself the smallest portion. Bran didn't mind, that left more for the rest of them, and the loaf was well made, golden and crusty without and soft and airy within.
The good humor brought on by a decent breakfast proved brief. By midday the lack of sleep was beginning to tell; Bran could barely keep his eyes open, even though Theon was pushing his reindeer hard, as he always did, forcing Bran and Meera to pick up speed too lest they be trampled. Summer didn't seem to mind; he romped through the snow, darting hither and thither as he found the best paths through the trees.
Both Bran's head and his bladder were aching when Meera finally agreed they should stop for the night. With frantic haste he crawled behind a snowy boulder, getting his manhood out just an instant before he wet himself. Next time, he would order Meera to stop, no matter how much Theon argued and complained and insisted they must go faster, farther, hurry hurry hurry.
Well, Bran was sick of it, sick of both of them. The cold was less bitter today; why should he not take advantage? He took his sweet time emptying his bowels, rather than rush as he usually did. When that was done, he crawled back to his sled and covered himself with furs. Bran spoke no word, just glared balefully at Theon and Meera as they finished putting up the tent. It was a windy day; their scarves kept falling out of place to reveal cheeks and noses turned cherry red from the exertion of finding and cutting saplings.
They ate late, Bran having prepared the meal with the slow, steady pace of a dying turtle crawling uphill. Let his belly growl, let Theon's temper flash, let Meera sniffle and rub her nose, he didn't care. Only Leaf escaped his ire; still feeling guilty, Bran talked to her as he cooked, putting much more effort into his lessons in the Old Tongue than he usually did. He asked Leaf about her sister Ash, about her great-aunt Snowylocks, about her parents, both of whom were dead.
Perhaps that was why Bran thought of his own parents later that night as he tried to sleep. He was so weary; rest should have come easily, even with Theon's weirwood bow poking him in the shoulder. But no; all he could think of was his father, his mother, of the brief glimpse he had caught of them the last time he was in the roots. It would be so sweet, to see them again. If only there were a weirwood tree close by! A moment would be enough, just one glance; surely that could not cause any harm.
Then Leaf got up to put another log on the fire, and Bran remembered the oath he'd sworn to her. No, he couldn't, not even if a weirwood tree sprouted from the earth. Not that that stopped him from dreaming of Winterfell when at last he drifted off. Mist rose from the pools of the godswood. The leaves of the heart tree glistened red, red as the sap dripping from the deep-set eyes that looked at him so mournfully he felt a pang in his chest.
Stop that, Bran told the heart tree. He was a prince, a man grown. He couldn't weep and wail like a babe, even if he wanted to, even if his belly felt hollow as he thought of days gone by, of his father sharpening Ice beside the black pool, of his mother lying upon her cloak, of a boy in mossy green wrestling with Summer, then turning to look at Bran...
Bran woke with tears upon his cheeks and the weirwood bow clutched tight in his fist. He released it at once, filled with fear and wonder at the sight of a tiny bud sprouting from one end of the bow. Oh, gods, what had he done?
Terror haunted Bran from that moment on, even though he had pinched off the bud and eaten it before anyone could see. Leaf did not seem to suspect anything amiss, not when he was careful to keep showing her every courtesy. Bran prayed she never suspected he had broken his oath; she already had so little patience with the others.
The arguments were worsening with each passing day as they drew closer to the Nightfort. Bran sulked and snapped, irritated both by Theon's coddling and Meera's blunt hostility. Theon veered between mocking Meera, making lewd comments, and, most unsettling of all, trying to dote on her as she suffered from a lingering cold that made her cough and sniffle and sweat when she sat too close to the fire.
For her part, Meera paid him back in insults. Theon was an oathbreaker, a murderer, a brigand. Theon was an arrogant jackanapes, a reaver who couldn't even sail a ship, a whoremonger without the least idea of how to please a woman, a false friend who tried to make amends for his sins by acting as though Bran was helpless.
"He's just a boy, and a cripple, or had you forgotten?" Theon shouted one snowy afternoon. He was so loud that Leaf woke from her slumber, even though Meera's sled was long yards ahead of Theon's. "You push him too hard—"
Leaf swore an oath in the Old Tongue, leapt off the sled, and vanished up a tree. Whether to scout ahead or to sleep, Bran was not sure, but he envied her. He envied Summer too; the direwolf had run ahead chasing the queer sound of singing ice. Icicles shaking in the wind, no doubt; the trees were covered with them. One fell to the ground as a raven flew by, cackling. Perhaps it was flying to the Nightfort; they were only a day or two away.
Bran would have liked to follow the wolf, or to drive his sled off some other direction. Alas, the trees were so close that there was only one path for the reindeer to take. And the day was dark and gloomy besides; the clouds were so thick they blocked out the sun, even though it was not yet dusk. Truth be told, they should be stopping now, before the full moon rose.
"—you spoil him too much! I am not a nursemaid—"
"—just fourteen, and if you hadn't left Winterfell—"
"—well, if you hadn't taken it—"
"I can speak for myself!" Bran yelled, grateful that his voice did not crack.
"I know I shouldn't have taken Winterfell, but you should have stayed there!" Theon bellowed, ignoring him. "Or taken him to some loyal bannerman, and returned as soon as I was gone! You should have taken him home to Robb, not to some thrice-damned cave beyond the Wall—"
"I wanted to!" Meera screamed, her voice thick. "I wish—" she coughed. "I wish—"
Summer's howl echoed over the wood, followed by frantic barking as he burst out of the trees. The reindeer screamed as Bran yanked hard on the traces, his sled skidding to a halt. Meera's sled had already stopped; she leapt off the runners, her frog spear in her hand.
Only just in time. The Other charged out of the gloom with his crystal sword raised high, and brought it down on Meera so fast she barely caught the blade between the prongs of her spear. Ice and metal shrieked as tendrils of frost bloomed against the bronze; behind him Theon was shouting for Meera to move, get out of the way—
Meera ignored him. The frog spear was already falling to the ground when the next slash of the crystal sword cut the shaft in twain; another moment, and she freed Dark Sister from her scabbard, gripping the hilt tight with both hands. The Other smiled as he raised his pale slim blade, pointing it at Meera as if they were boys in the training yard.
"No," Bran cried. "Don't—"
Meera lunged, taking a clumsy swing at the Other. The white shadow danced out of reach, his steps feather light atop the snow. Summer should have been helping her, but he wouldn't leave Bran's side; the wolf snarled and snapped, defying the cold enemy to come for his boy. Shooting, why wasn't Theon shooting—
Bran turned at the sound of Theon's shout. Two pale shadows advanced on the black brother, too close for his bow to be any use. All he had was a dragonglass dagger, which Theon held out in front of him as he backed away from the two Others. Odd, Bran had not expected them to be so short, or to seem so pleased with themselves as they hacked at Theon's sled with their crystal swords. Where are the rest of them? Where are their wights?
The leather traces parted. One reindeer fled into the woods; the other screamed as a crystal blade opened its throat. The Others stared at the dying beast, their blue eyes wide, as if they had never seen so much blood before—
Meera screamed as the Other knocked Dark Sister from her hand. The sword flew into a snow drift; she was grappling for her dagger when the Other knocked her to the ground. Meera landed flat on her back, wheezing and gasping for air. The Other might have finished her then, but instead he laughed, carefree as a summer day. It was almost lazy, the way he strode across the snow, the way he slashed at the reindeer, once, twice, their screams replaced by gurgles, then silence.
Only then did the Other turn back to Meera. She tried to scrabble backwards, but the snow was too thick, too wet, and when the tip of the Other's blade touched her cheek, she froze. Bran's heart thudded in his throat as the slim cut wept blood, the edges of the wound turning blue and black. The Other stared, intrigued, almost confused— and Meera drove her dagger into his foot.
A horrible scream rent the air. White steam hissed from the black dragonglass dagger, from the wound it had made. The Other reeled away, clutching at his foot, only to scream again when his hand brushed against the dagger. There were other screams too, those of the pale shadows running toward their wounded comrade.
Theon was forgotten, until his arrows whistled through the air. The first arrow took one Other in the back; the second took the other in the leg. Both fell to the ground on their bellies, wailing and shrieking and writhing in agony, until at last they fell still, as still as the Other who lay in the snow by Meera.
"Is that all of them?" Theon had an arrow notched, his bow raised. "Is that all of them?" He shouted, as if it would make Meera catch her breath any faster as she staggered to her feet. When she reached Bran, she leaned heavily against one of his reindeer for support, panting and gasping, her nose red, her forehead slick with sweat.
A flash of movement caught Summer's eye; followed by a muffled whimper. There, hiding behind a tree. A fourth white shadow, even smaller than the rest, as small as Rickon had been when Bran went away. A child. Bran looked away, frightened, hoping the others had not seen—
"There!"
The white shadow bolted. He ran across the uneven ground, into the depths of the woods, as fast as his little legs could go, snow flying behind him as an arrow whooshed over his head.
"Let him go!" Bran cried, desperate.
Theon hesitated, an arrow already notched to his bowstring. Meera did not seem to hear; she was yanking at the traces. Heedless of Bran's protests, she freed a reindeer and clambered onto its shoulders, where she swayed awkwardly for a moment before digging her boots into the reindeer's sides.
The reindeer took off, ungainly on his legs, and lurched unsteadily toward the trees. Bran kept shouting, frantic to break through Meera's stubborn foolishness. He ordered, he begged, all to no avail. By the time the reindeer and his rider vanished into the trees, Theon had strapped skith onto his feet, his bow slung over his shoulder so his hands were free for the poles.
All Bran could do was wait. Summer paced in a circle around him, gnashing his teeth, as if more Others might appear at any moment. None did, and Bran was careful not to look at their fallen foes. Long minutes passed before Leaf appeared with a raven perched on her shoulder. Bran explained what had happened as best he could while Leaf listened, dismayed.
Dusk was falling fast when Theon returned. Meera was in his arms, dangling limply, her leg bent at an awful angle. As soon as he set her down, Theon was off again, swearing under his breath. They could not move on; they must camp here for the night, and that meant Theon must raise the tent by himself, as quick as he could.
While Theon gathered saplings and Summer chased after the reindeer who had fled, Leaf tended to Meera. "Will she be alright?" Bran asked, barely remembering to use the Old Tongue. Meera was very pale and still. Leaf examined her head, her chest, her leg, frowning all the while, yet still Meera did not stir.
"I do not think she hit her head," the singer finally said.
Leaf spoke very slowly, so he could catch the words. That was a relief; before she sent the raven away, she had spoken so quickly in the True Tongue that Bran had almost felt dizzy. Unfortunately, the lack of injury to Meera's head was the only good news. Her leg was broken in three places; the pain and shock of the injury had made her faint. Worse, Meera was already sick with fever, and weak from lack of food.
While Theon raised up poles and draped skins, Leaf sang in the True Tongue. She kept singing while Bran gathered cooking supplies, while Theon dug through the snow to salvage what he could from the wreckage of his sled. When dinner was ready, Meera was awake enough to eat some stew, though they almost had to force it down her throat. And she wouldn't touch the bread at all, even though Bran hadn't ruined it this time.
Meera soon fell asleep again. With stiff, tense words, Theon explained how he had found Meera in a gully. She must have tried to jump it, even though it was far too wide, too deep, the rim slick with ice. Meera was lucky she had not died; her reindeer had broken both his leg and his neck.
"The healing would not take," Leaf said suddenly.
Theon startled; she had used the Common Tongue. "Why not?"
"Her flesh is willing, but her spirit resists. I cannot heal her if she will not let me."
Bran had expected Leaf to be angry. Somehow, the sadness in her eyes, the softness in her voice, was so much worse. What did Leaf mean, that Meera wouldn't let her? That didn't make any sense. No one would resist being healed, unless... unless...
"Why didn't you know there were Others near?" Bran blurted. "You said you could feel them, you said they could only come after nightfall."
Leaf hesitated. "I... may have erred." She huffed, frustrated. "How were we to know? The Others keep their young ones close, hidden out of sight. We have only glimpsed them now and then, at the edges of a raid or skirmish. They watch from the shadows until the slaughter is done, then feast on the flesh of those too badly butchered to serve as wights."
"These ch—" Theon stopped, his eyes strange. "These had no wights."
Leaf shrugged. "The wights only heed the Others born in ancient days, not those made from the babes of men. They are weaker, as men are, though they grow quickly, as men do, and must sustain themselves on flesh. They cannot take thralls, nor draw power from them. And they must speak to their sires in the tongue of ice, rather than by thought alone, as the Others do, ever since their minds were forged together in the heart of a blizzard, bound by broken spells and bitter curses."
There were plenty of bitter curses the next day. When Summer returned at dawn, it was with only a single reindeer. That made three, when once they had ten. Now five were dead, two fled, and the one Summer found had injured herself in her flight.
It took Theon most of the morning to unpack their supplies, determine what could not be left behind, and load the sleds lightly enough that one reindeer could pull Meera whilst the other two pulled Bran. The entire time, Meera lay on her sled where Theon had gently set her, weak and wan, her brown eyes as hollow as her cheeks, the bag of bones resting on her lap.
Bran couldn't bear to look at Meera, but looking away was worse. The Others were supposed to melt when touched by dragonglass, not turn to corpses as men did. The Other who had fought Meera could not have been older than Robb was when he went away. He was a slim youth, almost as beautiful as a girl. His empty blue eyes still burned as they stared up at the sky, his pale skin dappled blue and black as though he had been scorched by frost, not slain by frozen fire. The other two boys looked much the same, though they were smaller, perhaps the size Bran's sisters had been when he last saw them.
Leaf was even smaller as she stood beside his sled, helping soothe the hungry reindeer. The grazing had been better further north, when the snow was a fluffy powder. Now the snow was wet, crusted over with ice that made it harder to dig for lichen. Bran felt sorry for the reindeer, but less sorry for himself. He was glad the cold did not bite as deeply as it had, before they prayed at the weirwood.
In the end, it took four painful days to reach the Nightfort. Theon went on bear-paws, holding the traces of Meera's sled since she could not steer herself, not after the fever set in. Leaf slept at Bran's feet, curled up into a ball. She lacked the strength to walk; she spent all night awake on watch, the wards as powerful as she could make them, fearful that the Others would return to finish them off the moment they realized the child Others had failed in their first hunt.
When they reached the Black Gate hidden beneath the Wall, Bran could have wept with relief. Theon was less pleased. He shuddered as he approached the weirwood door, and bit his lip until it bled when blind white eyes opened in the ancient face carved into the wood.
"Who are you?" The door asked with wrinkled lips.
Theon shook, and made no reply.
"You have to say the words," Bran reminded him. "The vows you swore, when you took the black."
"I..." Theon Greyjoy stammered, his gaze fixed on the door's lined face, its vast mouth. "I am the sword, the sword in the darkness," he said. "I am the watcher on the- on the walls. The fire that burns against the cold. The light that brings the dawn. The horn that wakes the sleepers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."
"Then pass," the door said gravely. The lips opened wide, stretching out until there was nothing between them but a gaping hole, so large and tall that two men could walk abreast. Theon was still shaking as he carried Meera through, set her down on the other side, and came back to get Bran.
Bran would have none of it. He had already gotten down from his sled, digging his trestle into the snow as he pulled himself forward. The muscles in his arms didn't even burn; they were used to the work. While Bran crawled over the door's lower lip with Summer by his side, Theon had to content himself with gathering an armful of supplies from their sleds, just as Leaf had when she got down.
Crawling up the steps of the well proved much more tiresome. Bran's arms were aching by the time he reached the top, emerging into a cavernous kitchen that was much different than he recalled. The twisted weirwood that had grown beside the well and up through the domed roof was gone, leaving only a sad stump covered in dried sap. The dome had been mended, as had the cracks in the walls; the ovens had been repaired; there were tables now, covered with pots and bowls and rolling pins and suchlike things. But there were no cooks, no pot boys, no aromas of bread or meat.
There was firewood, though, and plenty of kindling. Bran already had flint and steel in his pocket; it was easy enough, to get a fire started in one of the smaller hearths. The kitchen was big and cold, so cold that Theon should not have been sweating so much when he carried Meera up from the door down below. Leaf followed behind, with a pile of furs in her arms and three nervous reindeer at her heels, their hooves clattering and clacking on the stone steps of the well.
While Summer roamed the Nightfort and Theon and Leaf carried up supplies from the sleds, Bran set to making oat bread. Most of the flour had been spilled and ruined when the Others hacked Theon's sled apart. He was not sure how many loaves he could make with what little they had left; it was hard to judge, even though he had counted the sacks and weighed them in his hands.
When the bread was done, Bran made Meera take the biggest portion. He was less successful at getting her to eat it; she was feverish and queasy, able to do little but cling to her bag of bones. Bread was all they had for dinner that night; both Leaf and Theon were too tired to haul the frozen meat up. Bran almost stopped breathing when he saw Leaf start to doze off, rather than keeping watch.
"The Others will not come," she promised, the Old Tongue slurred upon her lips. She had to repeat herself more than thrice before Bran managed to grasp the rest. The Others had lost a battle here, one they had expected to win. Furious at being thwarted, they had not come near the place since.
"They're busy, anyway," Leaf mumbled groggily. She leaned against the weirwood stump, with furs draped over her. "Gone south, through the cracks, to raise new wights while the black brothers fight the old ones."
"Cracks?" Bran's voice was so high and sharp it hurt his ears. "What cracks?"
But she was already asleep.
When Leaf awoke the next morning, Bran soon regretted asking the many questions which had raced through his head as sleep eluded him. Yes, he had stopped the Wall from falling when he destroyed the horn of winter, but it had cracked instead. How many cracks, Leaf could not say. It had been difficult to persuade any birds to fly over the Wall, let alone enough birds to cover the many long leagues between Westwatch-by-the-Bridge and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.
"Some of the cracks are sealed," Leaf told him, her brow furrowed. "And I could have sworn that I smelled..."
She fell silent, and said no more. When they finished breaking their fast on oat bread, Theon descended the steps of the well, to fetch the rest of their supplies. Bran expected Leaf to follow. Instead, she set out to explore the Nightfort, once she finished helping Meera use a bucket as a chamberpot (Bran had looked away, as he always did).
When Leaf returned, she laid a hand atop the weirwood stump. To Bran's surprise, her fingers came away sticky with fresh red sap. Leaf seemed as confused as he was; he had never seen her gold-green eyes blown so wide.
While Bran washed the dishes from breakfast, the little woman paced back and forth across the kitchen, mumbling to herself in the True Tongue, only pausing to press the back of her hand to Meera's forehead as she tossed and turned in a feverish sleep. More than once, Leaf almost tripped over Summer, who lay on the floor beside Meera, and when Theon came huffing and puffing up the steps Leaf did not even notice, not until he set a hunk of meat down right beside her.
"She could help," Theon grumbled, quietly to himself.
"I would," Leaf said, in the Common Tongue. "But I cannot. Time is short; I must leave before midday."
"What? Why?" Bran did not understand. "We need you, Meera needs you."
Leaf shifted, uneasy. "I know. Her fever... I would not leave, but I must." She reached out a hand, showing him the sap that clung to her fingers and claws. "This is a message, one that must be answered. I must try to find the giants who left it, before their trail goes cold. If Joramun is with them..."
"Joramun?" Theon asked.
Bran gaped owlishly, trying to recall what Old Nan had told him long ago. "He was a King-beyond-the-Wall, during the Age of Heroes. A wildling. Joramun tried to invade the north, but when the Night's King came, he made an alliance with the King of Winter, Brandon the Breaker, and they cast him down together after Joramun used a horn to wake giants from the earth."
"Joramun was a giant," Leaf said. "The giants he woke were his kinsmen, who slumbered in their mountains, heedless of the world passing them by. Joramun joined them, when he felt his days grow dull. Before he slept, he made a marriage for his daughter, a crown for his son, and a horn for his people, to wake him again at dire need. And so it was. His horn was sounded five years past, not long before you came to us. Every giant at the Wall heard its cry, and abandoned Mance Rayder for their true king."
Leaf glanced at Meera, frowning. "You must tend her while I am gone. This fever must break, and soon. If it does, I shall try to heal her again upon my return. If it does not..."
Summer whimpered, low in his throat.
"We should take her to Castle Black," Theon argued. "They should have a maester, to tend the ravens. If you helped, I could haul up the sleds—"
"She cannot be moved," Leaf said, implacable. "She is too weak; the journey here already sapped her strength. And what of the wights roaming betwixt here and Castle Black? They may shun the Nightfort like their masters, but when you step beyond it, they will be drawn to you. Were you to go alone, perhaps you might get through, but you have two others in your charge, and only a direwolf to help defend them. Their lives are in your hands, Theon Greyjoy. Can I trust you with them?"
Theon swallowed. "I swear it," he rasped. "I swear it by the old gods and the new, and by the Drowned God of my house."
One moment Leaf was showing them how to care for Meera, and the next she was gone. The rest of the day passed slowly as Bran and Theon slogged through their work. Bran took inventory of the supplies Theon carried up, worked on tidying the kitchen into some sort of order, and tried to keep Meera comfortable as best he could.
When night fell, Meera's fever was worse. Sweat streaked her skin, even though they had made her bed of furs a good distance from the fire, even though Theon brought handfuls of snow to press to her brow, even though Bran had made her drink the medicine Leaf had left, and made her chew a few mouthfuls of stew that had simmered on the fire all day.
"There isn't much meat left," Bran whispered, when Meera had dropped off to sleep again.
"I know," Theon said. "I carried it, didn't I?"
Bran glanced at the three reindeer, who used the far end of the kitchen for a stable. They were good beasts, faithful and brave. They had brought them here, they had survived an Other attack. But...
"We only need one to pull my sled."
"It won't be enough," Theon said in a flat voice. "Only a third of their weight is good meat. Even if we butchered two of them, the meat would only last a fortnight, and Leaf said she might be gone for a moon's turn." He drew his knees up to his chest, his eyes fixed on the sleeping Meera. "I swore I'd keep you safe, and I will." His mouth twisted. "You're lucky that I'm a better hunter than she is."
"What hunting?" Bran asked. "All the birds and beasts nearby must have fled long ago, just like the game north of the Wall."
"Never you mind," Theon said sharply.
"I want to know," Bran insisted. "You have to tell me."
Theon looked at him, his dark eyes as bleak as a starless night. "Birds and beasts were not the sort of game I had in mind. Leaf said it herself; when I step foot beyond the Nightfort, the meat will come to me."
"The wights," Bran said, numb with horror. "But- we can't."
"I already have." Theon gave a dreary laugh. "There were no hogs at Whitetree, Bran. Meat is meat, when a man is starving, when he has no other choice."
Bran choked back bile. There had been ancient Starks who were brutal warriors, who sacrificed their enemies to the old gods, but they hadn't eaten them. Cannibals were the worst sort of monsters in the stories, like the wildlings and Skaggs who went mad with bloodlust and devoured their foes after battle. How could Bran eat another man's flesh, even a wight's? How could he feed such a meal to Meera, even after all she'd done to hurt him?
A flash of pain broke Bran's reverie. He had clenched his fists too tight; his nails dug into his palms like knives. They pressed into the scars left behind from his battle of wills with Lord Brynden, from the day Meera's brother had given his life. Bran already knew what he must do, he just didn't want to do it.
Summer raised his head with a low whine. His boy was weeping, and the wolf did not know why.
"The two reindeer would last a moon's turn," Bran said thickly through his tears, forcing himself to meet Theon's eyes. "If there was only one mouth to feed."
The next night, there were two cookpots over the hearth, and Bran's hands were stained with blood.
slaps the roof of the chapter* this bad boy can fit so much petty bitching and trauma into just Xk words! :D Speaking of which, this chapter got slightly delayed because my car is having problems AGAIN, and being stressed out about mechanic bills makes it harder for me to write. Ugh. Reminder, you can get chapter updates at my tumblr, RedWolf17; my ask box is always open :)
That being said, god this chapter was for fun for me, if not for Bran or his companions on the world's worst road trip. Sound off in the comments!
Up Next
162: Olyvar II
163: Jon II
164: Arya II
165: Sansa II
166: Cersei II
NOTES
1) The use of sleds, reindeer, and reindeer, and lavvu tents was inspired by the Sami. The Sami are an indigenous people who live across northern Scandinavia and eastern Russia, a region which they call Sápmi, but which Europeans traditionally called Lapland. Unfortunately, the governments of those regions have attempted to erase Sami culture and practices for centuries. While the Sami continue to fight back, they remain marginalized, and their languages are endangered.
2) The song Butchered Tongue was very much on my mind already, and learning more about the Sami's fight to keep their languages fed into how I portrayed the language lessons going on with Leaf and Bran, whose ancestors spoke the Old Tongue long ago but gave it up, replacing it first with northron, then Andahli (the "Common Tongue").
3) A quick beef with GRRM: reindeer and elk are very difficult and impractical for even a single person to ride, due to their bone structure. Yet in the Varamyr prologue of ADWD, "[a] great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back," and then in Bran I, we are told that Coldhands, Meera, and Jojen all ride the elk simultaneously. Uhm. No? Even though the kids are starving, that's still like 350-400 pounds on the elk's shoulders/back, the equivalent of half the elk's body weight!
4) Did I *need* to research how Bran would make camp bread? No. Was it fun? Yes! Yeast rings are real; they were made from various materials, including wood, straw, or, yes, an animal spine formed into a ring. The ring would be soaked in beer as it brewed to absorb the foaming yeast. Once dried, the yeast could be used later by scraping it off the bone and soaking it in water with honey or dried fruit, which provided the sugar to activate the yeast.
