Bran

In his travels with Ser Robar, Bran had seen many castles, keeps, and cities that had inspired awe in him. The Eyrie was higher up than he could see, with multiple fortifications protecting its only entryway. King's Landing was an immense urban sprawl that had more people in one area than he had even thought existed in the whole world. Still, in all his travels nothing he saw compared to the sight of Winterfell.

Until he got his first view of Highgarden that is. It was located on a broad verdant hill overlooking a river called the Mander, which Bran knew from his lessons was where House Manderly got their name from. The castle was surrounded by three rings of white stone whose crenelated curtain walls increase in height. The oldest towers, squat and square, dated from the Age of Heroes, back when the Wall was first built. Newer towers were tall and slender, round fortifications built in the years after the Andal invasion. The castle's structures were covered in ivy, grapes, and climbing roses. And outside its walls there were fields of golden roses that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Within Highgarden's walls were groves, fountains, and courtyards. Almost every space was filled with flowers, singers, pipers, fiddlers and harpers. The godswood contained three weirwoods; large, ancient, and graceful, that had grown so entangled over time that they looked like one single tree.

It was here that Bran found himself, kneeling by the deep pool of water that lay under the massive shade of the weirwoods with Summer by his side. He had come to pray to the old gods, as he tried to do often in keeping with the wishes of his father, but he kept getting lost in his thoughts.

With the tourney in King's Landing being canceled, Ser Robar had no reason to stay in the capital, and after the explosion and desolation, had wanted to leave the city as quickly as possible The same day Bran had been informed of his grandfather's illness was the same day he had accompanied Ser Robar as they left the city. That had been six months ago.

They had traveled to other places, to participate in other tourneys being held in the realm. There was the one at Pinkmaiden hosted by House Piper. Then the one at Crakehall Castle, hosted by House Crakehall.

Ser Robar did well in the melees in each of those tourneys, coming in second at Pinkmaiden and third at Crakehall, though he did not fare as well in the joust. Yet, Ser Robar was displeased with his competition at each of them. The tourney at King's Landing was going to bring in the best knights the land had to offer, and many had been enroute to the city when word had spread of the explosion at the Dragonpit and subsequent cancelation of the Tourney of the Hand.

Then the Tyrells had announced that they would be holding a tourney, and if anyone was going to put on one that would rival the one at King's Landing, it would be the Tyrells, who loved to show off their wealth. When the news had reached Ser Robar and Bran they had left Crakehall Castle ten days earlier and had been traveling north along the Ocean Road, almost at Lannisport. Ser Robar had ordered them to turn around at once, to head back south to Highgarden.

It had taken three weeks for them to arrive at the seat of House Tyrell. Because of who they were, the second sons of powerful lords, they were given rooms and invited to feasts with the family. Bran himself didn't have much interaction with the members of the main Tyrell branch, as even though he was a Stark he was still only nine years old and none were of age with him; though he was closer to his tenth nameday than he was to his ninth, not that it changed anyone's mind. Instead he spent most of his time in the company of the squires and other pages who were accompanying the various knights and lords that were making their way to Highgarden.

Like the others he watched as those knights and lords practiced fighting in the yard, testing each other to see who would be a worthy opponent in the tourney. To Bran's eyes there was no doubt who would be the winner of the melee if they decided to enter - Ser Garlan Tyrell, second son of Lord Mace Tyrell. Few of the others seemed to match Ser Garlan in skill with a blade and sometimes the knight would take on two, or even three, opponents at once. If Ser Robar wanted to pit himself against the best Westeros had to offer, he had found it.

"He's very handsome."

Bran turned with a start and saw Margaery Tyrell standing there. She wore a type of southern dress that showed more skin than anything any northern woman would wear. The few times Bran had seen Margaery he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and couldn't help but blush in her presence. Today was no different.

For once, she wasn't surrounded by a half dozen ladies-in-waiting, who were mostly younger cousins. She had her hands clasped in front of her as she gazed at Summer, who lay lazily next to Bran.

It had taken a lot of arguing to get the Tyrell guards to allow Summer into the castle. Already the direwolf was at Bran's shoulders and probably sixty pounds heavier. It was only through Ser Robar's interference that they didn't try to kill Summer on sight, not that the direwolf would have allowed something like that to happen.

"Thank you," Bran said, and then added as an afterthought, "my lady."

She smiled at him, as if he was something cute to look upon. She went to take a step forward, toward him, but hesitated as she continued to look at Summer.

"He won't hurt you," Bran said, reading her mind. "If he thought you a threat he would have already let you know he didn't want you around."

"That is reassuring, I think."

Margaery took small steps forward, never taking her eyes off the direwolf. Bran thought she was either brave, coming in here by herself, or very stupid. He had yet to decide which. She eventually got close enough and since Summer made no move to bite her, reached out a hand and began to scratch him behind his ear.

Summer closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. Bran smiled at the sight. Few people were brave enough to allow any part of their body near enough to Summer to pet him, and he knew his direwolf was a fan of being pet, at least as long as he had a full stomach.

"Is it true all of your siblings have direwolves too?" Margaery asked, eyes still on Summer.

"Yes, even my natural born brother Jon does."

"And the wolves are all as well behaved as yours?"

"Mostly. My brother Rickon is too young to properly control his."

"Truly, your family must have the blessings of the gods."

"That's what my father thinks. Blessed by the old gods, that is."

"Ah yes, I forgot your family prays to the old gods. How silly it all seems, praying to a tree."

Bran didn't say anything because he didn't know what to say in response. To him it seemed silly that she prayed to seven different gods who were all supposed to be the same god but he felt that would be a rude thing to say to one of his hosts. That was also the god of his mother and oldest sister, so voicing such a thing out loud seemed like an insult on them as well.

Margaery stayed a little while longer, asking Bran questions about himself and his siblings. For whatever reason she seemed particularly interested in any betrothals they might have, but outside of Robb being married to Wynafryd and Sansa being betrothed to Brynden Blackwood, Bran didn't think there were any. Perhaps this was all part of that gossip he had heard Sansa saying southern ladies liked to partake in?

She left soon after, and Bran realized he had to get back to Ser Robar, to perform his duties as a page. The knight had gone on a hunt that Bran had been considered too young to accompany them on but the hunting party should be arriving back at any moment.

"Stay here Summer. I'll be back later with dinner."

The direwolf tilted his head before letting out a harumph and rolling onto his side. Bran knew Summer understood him. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew.

Bran waited in the courtyard by the main gate with other pages and servants. He found he got along best with Waltyr Frey, who he was of age with and was the page for Lord Raymun Darry, head of House Darry and a knight from the Riverlands. Bran thought having five siblings was a lot. Waltyr said that he had twenty-one brothers, seven sisters, and more cousins, nieces, and nephews then he could count, and that didn't even include all the bastard ones. Bran was astounded to hear that Waltyr's oldest brother was older than Bran's grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully.

He listened in fascination as Waltyr described growing up in the overcrowded Twins, where all his older male relatives jockeyed for the favor of Lord Walder, hoping he would inexplicably renounce his heir, Stevron, and declare one of them the heir to the Twins instead. Then the hunting party returned with several deer carcasses thrown over the backs of horses.

Bran attended to Ser Robar, bringing the knight's horse to the stable and making sure he was fed and secured. When that was done he went to the rooms that had been given to them, to see Ser Robar had stripped himself of his outer clothes and was observing one of the many amazing views of Highgarden.

"Tell me Bran, and speak true, do you think I have a chance of winning the melee?"

"I do my lord," Bran answered after a moment's hesitation.

"It took you a moment to think on it," Ser Robar pointed out, turning to look at him.

"Well, I do as long as Ser Garlan is not in the melee."

Ser Robar chuckled. "Yes, he is very skilled with a sword. One of the best I've ever seen, though I was too young to see Ser Arthur Dayne wield his mighty sword. I would pay good coin to see Ser Garlan go up against Ser Jaime Lannister or Ser Barristan the Bold."

Bran had seen both those men in the training yards of King's Landing while they were there. The two had never gone against each other so Bran couldn't claim which one was the better of them. He suspected Ser Jaime but only because of the age difference. He was sure if Ser Barristan was still young, he'd win easily.

Later that night Bran had a strange dream. He was in a forest of dark and twisted trees that seemed to stretch to the stars themselves. There was snow on the ground. Not soft snow that had freshly fallen, but hard snow that was packed together after hours and days of sitting on the ground and could hold the weight of a man. He was dressed as he was when the king had first come to Winterfell all those months ago, a gray doublet that had the Stark direwolf running across his heart, matching gray breeches with dark boots and a white cloak lined with gray that hung from his shoulders. Despite his clothing, he felt a chill run up his spine and he knew that he was farther north than Winterfell, maybe even farther north than the Wall.

There was something beyond his sight, through the trees. Despite his inability to see it, he could sense it. His dream self moved forward, through the trees for what felt like hours until he came upon the oddest sight. Sticking out of the ground, its skin as pale as milk, was a giant hand clenched in a fist. And resting on the fist was more crows than he had ever seen before. There were easily over a hundred of the black birds. In fact, there were too many to count but something in his gut told him there were three hundred crows in front of him.

Then, as if appearing out of thin air, there was an avalanche of snow and ice that crashed upon the fist, sweeping the crows up in its midst. They flapped their wings and cawed in terror as they attempted to fly, to fly away from this avalanche they found themselves in but none made it. Every crow found itself swallowed by the snow and the ice as it rose to cover the entire fist, and their cawing stopped, and then there was only silence.

Dream Bran stood rooted to the spot, unable to move as he watched what unfolded in front of him. He worried he too would be swept away by the avalanche but it never came in his direction. When everything was left still and quiet, he found he could move again. So he took a step forward, only to see a crow's head pop out of the snow and look at him. But something was wrong, because crows didn't have icy blue eyes like that. More of the crows dug themselves from the snow, each of them with the same blue eyes, each of them looking at him. He wanted to run, wanted to scream but he couldn't.

And then he woke up.

Bran told no one about the bad dream he had. It's not like he had anyone to tell. Besides it was just a nightmare, it wasn't like he hadn't had those before. And there's only so many times you can call crying for your parents in the middle of the night before your father tells you that no matter how scary they might be, nightmares were just dreams, and he would need to learn to get over his fear of them on his own.

The dream of the crows and the fist didn't return to him the next couple of nights so it seemed that no matter how much his own thoughts kept going back to it, it wasn't going to be some recurring vision he'd have to face every time he slept. He thought Summer had been looking at him differently since that night but if the direwolf knew something, he wasn't saying anything.

He was drawn from his thoughts by Ser Robar heatedly saying something to a pair of knights. Bran was too far away to hear what was being said but by the end Ser Robar stormed away from them and over to Bran.

Ser Robar held out his shield, which Bran took. The knight was still scowling and must have noticed Bran's curious look.

"A knight is supposed to be honorable," Ser Robar said, "but many of them often forget that. I want you to remember, Bran, that people can be cruel to each other, even someone whose duty is to defend the innocent and weak."

Ser Robar was looking at someone, and Bran followed his gaze to see who at first he thought was a large man, only to realize it was in fact a woman. She was taller than many of the men around her, and broader of shoulder too. She was not what one would call a beauty, but Bran did see she had very blue eyes that reminded him of his mother's, eyes that were currently filled with tears.

"Who is that? What happened?"

"That is Brienne of Tarth, only child of Lord Selwyn Tarth. What the gods did not grace her in beauty, they have graced her in strength and skill with sword. Because that is not the way of most women, many men seem fit to mock her. Some to her face, and many more behind her back."

Bran felt sorry for Brienne and wanted to go talk with her but his duties as a squire found him needing to follow Ser Robar, who decided he was done training for the day.

He found Brienne again later at the dinner feast being held by the Tyrells, this their sixth night of being at Highgarden. The tourney was due to start in two more days, and more and more people packed the hall. Yet despite the tables becoming more and more crowded, Brienne sat at the end of a long table, head downcast, as she ate alone.

Bran slid into the seat across from her and she looked up at him in surprise. He had expected someone a bit older but found she still a young face. He realized she couldn't have been much older than Robb.

"Hi," Bran said.

Brienne looked around for a moment before turning back to him with guarded eyes. "Hi."

"My name is Bran Stark," Bran held out his hand, as he had seen his father do with the many lords and knights he had met over the years. "I'm a page for Ser Robar Royce."

Brienne grasped his hand and shook it. "I am Brienne Tarth."

Her hand all but his swallowed his. Her palm and fingers were rough with callouses. Bran marveled at the strength he felt in her grip before she released his hand.

"My sister would love you," Bran said, thinking of Arya.

Brienne flinched at his words, as if struck. Bran realized she thought he was mocking her, like those knights had been doing earlier. He felt sad for her.

"She would?" Brienne asked, doubtfully.

"Oh yes. She wants to be a warrior like Nymeria of the Rhoyne. She is a year older than me and she keeps stealing practice swords to practice on her own. And despite the fact she's not supposed to be using them, she's a better shot with a bow than me. Mother hates it and keeps trying to stop her but I think father is secretly pleased because she reminds him of my aunt who passed away before I was born. My sister even named her direwolf Nymeria."

Brienne gave him a small, shy smile. "Am I to assume that the giant beast I saw in the godswood is yours?"

"His name's Summer. I can introduce you, if you'd like to meet him."

"I think I would like that."

"Do you want to meet him now? It's his dinner time too."

Brienne looked unsure but after a look around, and seeing that no one was paying her any attention, she nodded and stood. Bran grabbed at the food on the table, picking pieces of each of the meats; duck, venison, and boar. He piled a plate high, knowing that the Tyrells put out so much food each night that a lot of it went to waste anyway and that Summer would eat it all without issue.

"Come on!"

Bran led her out of Highgarden's Great Hall, through its various courtyards, and into its godswood. It was a path he knew well. They walked in silence, Brienne slowing her pace so her long strides didn't leave him behind.

As soon as they entered the godswood Summer was there, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Brienne took a quick step back at his sudden appearance, hand reflexively going to her hip. Rather than go to Bran, who held all the food, Summer approached Brienne and sat in front of her. He looked at her with his big golden eyes and softly whined. With slow movements, Brienne reached out one of her giant hands and stroked the fur along Summer's neck. To Bran's surprise, Summer leaned into her touch. Summer enjoyed being pet by those brave enough to do so but his direwolf had only acted like this with Bran and his siblings, never anyone outside of the family.

It was then that Bran knew that while Margaery Tyrell might be the most beautiful to look upon, it was actually Brienne of Tarth who was the most beautiful person in Highgarden.

A/N: Time skip! The next chapters for the main three (Ned, Robb, Jon) will touch upon what they've been doing over the past six months. Some future chapters might be broken into two characters rather than just one.