Mid March, 299 AC

Bran looked down from the dais, feeling small in the ancient high seat of the Starks. The seat was once the throne of the Kings of Winter, and its back was taller than Hodor. Carved weirwood leaves drifted down above Bran's head, and direwolves snarled on its massive arms, each face bigger than Bran's fist.

The only bit of comfort was the plush cushion Bran sat on, provided so that he could look over the table at the crowds below. It felt as though half the North had come to celebrate the harvest and King Robb's victories. The Great Hall was stuffed with knights and men-at-arms and servants and smallfolk, while the lords sat at the high table upon the dais.

At one end of the dais sat Mors and Hother Umber, the Greatjon's uncles, both with great beards as snowy as their furs. At the other end jolly Ser Wyman Manderly boomed with laughter. Lord Manderly had brought an entire retinue, knights and men-at-arms and two pretty granddaughters who reminded Bran of his sisters.

Beside the merman sat the moose. Since his father's death at the Green Fork, Daryn Hornwood was now Lord of the Hornwood. Bran couldn't understand why Daryn wanted to go to war, not when his mother looked so sad.

Bran had played the prince during the long meetings in father's solar, offering courtesies to each lord while Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin handled the affairs. Yesterday, Daryn Hornwood had asked leave to take all his remaining men south to avenge his father. He was most wroth when Ser Rodrik forbade it, saying King Robb had ordered Lord Hornwood to hold his keep, and hold it he must. His mother, Lady Donella Hornwood, had smiled then, the tiniest smile of relief, but now she picked at her food, her face lined with sorrow.

At least it had been interesting. Most of the audiences were long and boring, as Bran was not supposed to do much speaking. He had forgotten himself once, when Lady Glover's maester said he was only setting aside a tenth of the harvest.

"Winter is coming," Bran said, trying not to shiver as he remembered dreams of icy blue eyes and darkness without end. Ser Rodrik glanced at Bran, both approval and annoyance in his sharp eyes.

"You will set aside at least a fifth," Ser Rodrik commanded. Somehow Bran knew that was not enough.

"A fourth," Bran said firmly. "And plant the next crop quickly."

The steward was not pleased, but he spake not a word of protest. When he had gone, Ser Rodrik turned to Bran, his eyebrow raised. There'd be a scolding unless Bran was quick to defend himself.

"It's going to be a bad winter."

Bran folded his hands over his belly as he'd seen Lord Wyman do the previous day. It had made the fat man look serious, and Bran hoped the gesture might do the same for a cripple.

"Perhaps. Still, you should not have spoken, my prince," Ser Rodrik said.

"Few live with such an injury as Bran, yet his broken back may warn him. Many scholars have found that those with old injuries can sense the approach of rain or cold."

Maester Luwin was so matter of fact that Ser Rodrik didn't doubt him for a moment, and after some argument Ser Rodrik agreed to send ravens ordering all lords to set aside a fourth of the harvest for winter.

Now Ser Rodrik sat to Bran's left, his white mustache pink with wine, talking to Maester Luwin over the din of music and chatter and clanking plates. Rickon sat to Bran's right, shouting back and forth with the Walders, and Summer curled beneath Bran's feet, working at a juicy bone. Summer's presence was a special honor that had been denied to Shaggydog, but thankfully Rickon was too distracted to throw the tantrum he had threatened. Ser Rodrik said Shaggydog was as wild as Rickon, and Bran could not deny it.

He glanced at Osha. The wildling woman was serving wine at the tables, and her words came echoing back to Bran. We have folk who can speak to beasts or share a beast's skin- we call them wargs, skinchangers, beastlings. Bran could not trade his skin for a wolf pelt like Sansa, but he could taste the rich marrow as Summer cracked open his bone and feasted. Summer was a part of him, a part that could still run and leap, even if no one else knew or understood.

And yet, when the slim girl and the mossy-eyed boy came, Bran wondered.


In his dreams, Bran flew. Round and round he circled the world, faster than a raven, soundless as a shadow. The crow called him north, and Bran followed.

North he flew, to a cold dark cell, a fire burning in the hearth. Jon Snow raised his longsword as he faced a man with skin pale as milk and hands black as pitch. With a shout Jon cleaved the man's arm from his body, yet still the dead thing advanced. Further north, the crow cried, but Bran fled from the ancient voice. Warm, he wanted to feel warm, and he knew which way to go.

East he flew, to red sands beneath a sweltering sun. A girl on a silver horse led a ragged band of women and children and old men, and on her shoulder rode a black dragon streaked with scarlet. The heat was too much, too much, Bran longed for cool waters.

West he flew, to cold waves crashing beneath dark cliffs. Longships rode the sea, dozens and dozens of them, their sails swelling in the breeze. Theon looked up at a crumbling castle, a smirk upon his lips, and Bran was afraid. Sisters, he wanted his sisters, he wanted Arya who punched a ghost in the face and Sansa who soothed his hurts.

South he flew, to a village burning in the dark. Silver banners fluttered in the light of the flames, a purple unicorn on one and a scarlet bull on the other. Men screamed and wolves howled. His sisters were near, he knew it.

Further south he flew, to yellow woods bathed in the dim light of the rising sun. Grim men marched through the trees, armed with swords and bows. In their midst walked Arya, a scowl upon her face. Behind her trailed a black haired boy and two girls. One of the girls was trying to soothe a wailing baby, a look of fear on her face as a one-eyed man ordered her to keep it quiet.

Further, just a little further... Bran saw a tiny weirwood seedling, a white shoot with a single crimson leaf shimmering in the sunrise. Sansa shivered as she fell to her knees, her skin rippling as she pulled off her gown to reveal red fur...