Mid August, 298 AC
Bran dreamed.
The crow was back, its third eye shining bright and terrible. It perched in the branches of an immense weirwood tree, its pale trunk so wide Bran could barely see the stars behind it. The weirwood's face was bigger than Bran, its eyes solemn. It reminded Bran of Father. The crow cawed, demanding Bran's attention.
"Why did the Andals cut down the weirwoods?" The crow asked.
"I don't know," Bran replied, confused. "For firewood?" The crow fluffed his feathers, displeased.
"Why do the weirwoods have faces?" The crow asked.
"I don't know," Bran answered again.
"What gives a weirwood great strength?" The crow asked.
"I don't know!" Bran cried.
Suddenly the crow was in flight, his dark wings shedding feathers as he flew. He landed on Bran's shoulder and pecked at his ear lobe. It hurt.
"You must learn these things, Bran. You must learn and tell your sister. She does not realize what she has done."
Bran shook his head. This crow was very odd. He was in Bran's dream, shouldn't he know Father and Sansa and Arya were gone?
"Arya is in King's Landing."
"Your other sister," the crow said, nipping at Bran's earlobe with his sharp beak.
"Sansa is there too! How could I tell her?" Bran pleaded, his ear burning.
"Distance does not matter in dreams. There you will find her."
The crow kept pulling on Bran's earlobe, and it hurt, it hurt so much, and Bran was screaming...
Bran awoke to Summer nuzzling his face, the direwolf's nose cold against his cheek. Bran pressed a hand to his throbbing ear. Droplets of blood stained his fingers.
Maester Luwin would know about the weirwoods.
