Mid February, 299 AC

Sansa stood on a wall of red stone, her green silk gown shimmering in the setting sun. Beside her was the prince, a golden crown upon his head. Two knights in white cloaks stood near them.

The prince was speaking, but Bran could not hear his words. The shorter knight stepped forward and struck Sansa, once on each cheek.

Yet Sansa did not move. Her eyes were glowing, the deep blue shining like a star. The knight stepped back, and Bran felt a chill as though he'd fallen through the ice on a frozen lake. Wolves were howling, leaves rustling in a wind that did not blow. Sansa's skin rippled, her body shaking, cracks echoing off the walls as her bones snapped. The short knight fled, and the other froze, his eyes white with fear. Sansa was screaming, her long hair shrinking back, fur sprouting from her hands and face, her nose stretching into a muzzle, her gown tearing as a howl pierced the night-

"Wake up, Bran," Maester Luwin said gently.

Bran opened his eyes. The deep red fur was gone, and everything was grey, from the grey of the maester's robes to his eyes and hair in the torchlight. A parchment was in the maester's hand.

"What is it?" Bran asked. It felt as though he'd just fallen asleep, the world outside still dark.

"A raven arrived from Riverrun," the maester said, lighting a candle on the table by Bran's bed. "It seems I owe you an apology, my prince."

Bran frowned.

"An apology?" And why was Luwin calling him a prince? The maester unrolled the parchment, reading clearly.

"By the will of the lords of the North and the lords of Riverrun, I, Robb Stark, do claim the crown of my grandsires as King in the North. Until such time as I wed and sire children, I name Brandon Stark as Prince of Winterfell and my heir."

Bran stared at the maester, his heart thumping. A week past he'd dreamt of a giant in broken chains placing a crown on a wolf's head. A strange crowd knelt before the wolf, bears and trout and a pink maiden dancing with a stream of white silk...

"I told you the dreams were true."

Maester Luwin had doubted Bran. The awful dream he and Rickon had shared before word came of father's death was not enough. "All of us have dreams that come true sometimes," the maester had said patiently. Nor did he change his mind after Bran dreamed of a pair of towers walking to Winterfell, even though the Frey boys arrived three days later, two blue towers flapping on their grey banners.

But now the maester's eyes were troubled as he sat on the edge of Bran's bed, one hand rubbing at a link of dark grey metal on the chain around his neck.

"I studied magic at the Citadel. The maesters had many books on magic, but perhaps one in a hundred maesters bothers to examine them. Why should they? Perhaps magic was once a mighty force in the world, but no longer. What little remains is no more than the wisp of smoke that lingers in the air after a great fire has burned out, and even that is fading. Valyria was the last ember, and Valyria is gone. The dragons are no more, the giants are dead, the children of the forest forgotten with all their lore."

"Old Nan says the comet smells of dragons," Bran replied. "Osha says it's blood and fire."

Almost without thinking, Luwin looked out the window. The comet blazed as it had since the day before they learned of father's death, a bloody wound against the sky.

"Dragons," the little grey man whispered, a look of fear and wonder on his face. Then Luwin shook his head as though pushing the idea away.

"Dreams are one thing, dragons another. But if you have such dreams again..."

"I'll tell you," Bran promised. The maester nodded, blowing out the candle as he wished Bran pleasant sleep.

The red direwolf whimpered, holding one paw in the air as she tried to walk on the other three. A ginger kitten and a calico cat nuzzled at the direwolf's fur, urging her on, guiding her through cramped dark alleys and abandoned buildings.

At last the cats let the direwolf rest in a dark corner behind a ramshackle three story building. The direwolf collapsed, whimpering quietly. The ginger kitten curled up at the direwolf's side, but the calico cat crept toward the building.


"I dreamed my sister was a wolf."

Osha raised an eyebrow and crouched beside him. Bran sat with his back against the heart tree, Hodor already gone to explore the pools.

"So she might be. You Starks might be kneelers, but you've the same blood as our folk."

Bran frowned. Starks didn't kneel, did they? Not to anyone but the king. At least Osha wasn't laughing. The dream was too strange to tell Luwin, but Osha was different.

"What's blood got to do with it?"

Osha laughed and ran a hand through her short hair. Her light brown skin shone like copper where droplets lingered from her bath in the pools.

"We share the ancient blood of the First Men. When the First Men made peace with the Children of the Forest, the old gods shared their gifts. Some could dream of the past. Some could hear the songs of root and stone and water. Some could slip their skins and share the skins of beasts." Osha shrugged. "Why shouldn't your sister share her wolf's skin as you do?"

Bran bit his lip, thinking. As though sensing his distress, Summer trotted over, his paws quiet against the soft grass.

"Her wolf died," Bran said. "I dreamed she was a wolf herself, but she didn't slip her skin, she changed it

."

The wildling woman rocked back on her heels, her brow furrowed.

"We have folk who can speak to beasts or share a beast's skin- we call them wargs, skinchangers, beastlings. But to become a wolf herself..." Osha shook her head.

Bran's skin tingled. "What's wrong with that?"

Osha glanced around, as though Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin was hiding behind a tree ready to scold her. But there was no one in the Godswood but Hodor and the direwolves. At last Osha spoke, her voice gentler than he'd ever heard before.

"They say a warg who shares a beast's skin too long forgets to be a man. He fills his belly as a beast but his own body starves. Little by little his memories fade, until there's nothing left but the beast."

And as Bran's heart clenched with fear, the direwolves began to howl.


Bran shifted uneasily. He'd been trying to reach Sansa for days without success, and finally thought to ask for the pillow that he'd slept on the last time he spoke with his sister. The embroidered pillow from Sansa's room was beautiful, with all the romping direwolves, but it was not comfortable.

At least he had Summer by his side, thanks to Maester Luwin. The maester had persuaded Ser Rodrik by claiming that Bran's health had weakened since the wolf's confinement in the Godswood. And besides, how could Summer pose any threat to the Walders when he was shut behind a barred door? Faced with the maester's cool logic and Bran's pleading eyes, the castellan had finally agreed.

Summer rolled over and licked Bran's nose. He'd missed his boy. The Godswood had his brother, and the trees, but it felt like part of the direwolf was missing.

I'm sorry

, Bran said. Summer gave a low whimper. He knew. He could feel Bran's longing, just as he felt his black brother's rage and his white brother's hunger.

What about Nymeria? Can you feel her? Can you feel Sansa?

Summer nuzzled Bran's cheek. It was time to sleep.

Round and round and round Bran flew, above the gathering storm clouds. He could hear a crow cawing in the distance, calling him northward. He ignored it, turning south. Bran sped past swamps and rivers, past burned fields and broken villages. He could feel his sister's call growing stronger, leading him to a small cave in the woods.

The red direwolf curled up in a ball, her snout pressed almost against her tail, a bandage of dark red cloth wrapped around one paw. A grey wolf stood beside her. Nymeria whined, pushing a lump of meat at the wolf that was Bran's sister. She wouldn't eat, she barely left the cave to drink water from the stream.

Sansa, Bran whispered. The red direwolf did not even twitch. Sansa, please, Bran tried again. You can't stay a wolf, you'll become one, you'll forget who you are.

The red direwolf whimpered. Her dreams were dark. She heard the ringing of steel and the screams of dying men. She saw a man in grey and white shoved to his knees, a sword raised above his head. She saw heads dipped in tar and torn at by crows. She saw a boy lying in a pool of blood, his body broken. She had killed him, but she couldn't remember why.

Over and over the memories played, and she fled. She didn't want to remember, she didn't want to return to such pain.

It's not all pain! Bran cried. The red direwolf shook her head. No. Father was gone, he'd never come back, but Bran wasn't losing Sansa too. Desperately Bran called up memories of his own.

Sansa dandling Bran on her lap in father's solar, cooing encouragement as he gripped a quill awkwardly and wrote his name in shaky letters.

Sansa tugging at Rickon's rumpled collar as they stood waiting for the king, promising to share her lemon cake if he behaved.

Sansa dancing in the great hall of Winterfell with Robb as her partner, laughing as he twirled her.

Sansa throwing a snowball at Arya, then running away shrieking as Arya gave chase.

You're not just a wolf, you're Sansa, you're my sister, come back, Bran cried. Remember? Don't you remember?

The red direwolf opened her eyes.