Bran II

Bran stood in the wide open courtyard of the Citadel, surrounded by towering sandstone walls. At his side was Summer, who sat on his haunches as he was being observed by a fascinated archmaester named Marwyn, while more trepid maesters and acolytes stood much farther away. The Archmaester was short and squat with a thick neck and chest, and white hair coming out of his nose and ears. Bran did his best not to stare at the nose hair when he talked with theArchmaester but found he couldn't help but stare.

"Marvelous creature," Marwyn muttered.

Ser Robar wanted a new sword and the blacksmiths in Oldtown were some of the best in Westeros so they had journeyed from the seat of House Tyrell to the seat of House Hightower, a twelve day trip. The reason for his new sword was the prize money he had won from the tourney at Highgarden. Luckily for Ser Robar, Ser Garlan did not participate in the melee. If he had, then Ser Robar likely would have come in third, which awarded no prizes. With the second oldest Tyrell son an observer and not a participant, the knight from Runestone had come in second. In the end he had only been bested by, surprisingly, Brienne of Tarth.

While some of the other knights had been bitter about being bested by a girl, Ser Robar had shaken her hand with praise of her fighting ability upon his defeat. They had stayed another week in Highgarden as Ser Robar also took part in the joust, which he did not fare as well in. With the tourney ended, and prize money in hand, they had set out for Oldtown.

Oldtown was a city bisected by the Honeywine River, set along the mouth of the river where the water flowed into the Whispering Sound. Like King's Landing it was a city made of stone, with stone buildings and bridges, cobbled streets, and thick stone walls that surrounded it. Unlike King's Landing, the stone here was mostly sandstone, giving the city a different look and feel. Also unlike King's Landing, Oldtown didn't smell horrible. Instead there was a flowery scent that seemed to linger in the air, as the city streets were often lined with flowering trees and rose bushes.

Even though it was not near the size of King's Landing, Oldtown was centuries older and so the streets were even more of a labyrinth than those in the capital, and if it wasn't for Ser Robar he would have been lost multiple times. At first, Summer had been left to roam the lands outside of the city, as the guard had refused to allow the direwolf entry. Bran had pleaded, and Ser Robar had spoken of the direwolf's good behavior but the guards weren't to be swayed.

That had been six days of worry of the chance that someone would attempt to make Summer a new rug while they waited for the master blacksmith to finish Ser Robar's new sword. While they waited, Ser Robar would continue his education in the morning and then they would wander the city in the afternoon, where all everyone could talk about was the war in the Riverlands between Lion and Trout. Bran tried to make sense of all the talk but even with his lessons growing up a lot of the places and names being mentioned were not ones he could recall. Luckily Ser Robar was able to explain it in such a way that he understood, and he understood that the Riverlands were not on the winning side.

On the seventh day in Oldtown, they had been approached by Archmaester Marwyn, who had heard men talk about a direwolf outside the city walls and the rumors of a boy who had attempted to bring the direwolf into the city as a pet.

"You have the look of a Stark." Marwyn said upon meeting him, looking him over. Bran had his mother's auburn hair and blue eyes, though both had been darkening over the past year, but Bran had often heard that he looked like his father did when he was a child.

Ser Robar had stood at his side, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked at the short man. "Can we assist you, Archmaester?"

"Are you a Stark?" Marwyn asked, ignoring Ser Robar.

Bran looked up at the knight he served, who gave him a small nod. "I am."

"Yes. The blood of the First Men is strong in you. I can tell."

Bran didn't know what that meant so he didn't say anything.

"The direwolf seen outside the walls, is it yours?"

"His name is Summer," Bran said in affirmation. "I've had him since he was a pup."

"I have spent the past five days searching for you. Bring your direwolf to the Citadel. I wish to study it."

Summer was more docile than Shaggydog and Nymeria had been the last time Bran had seen his siblings direwolves, but he was still a direwolf. Would he allow himself to be studied? And what did that even entail? Was it going to hurt Summer?

Archmaester Marwyn seemed to sense his hesitance. "I will not harm your wolf," he promised. "Direwolves haven't been seen south of the wall in over two hundred years, and no maester has ever had a chance to examine one up close while it was alive. This is an amazing opportunity that I can not pass up."

"Summer can not be brought to the Citadel. The city guard do not permit the direwolf entry," Ser Robar explained.

That did not deter Marwyn. "I will send some acolytes to accompany you, they will get the guards to let the direwolf in."

That was how Bran found himself spending his morning, outside the city walls, watching while a pair of Citadel acolytes argued with a pair of city guardsmen about letting a direwolf into the city. Summer had come running over within ten minutes of Bran exiting the city, much to the fright of the acolytes. The direwolf had somehow known Bran was nearby and accessible, and had left wherever he was to be reunited with him again. Yet despite the distance the acolytes kept between them and Summer, they argued fiercely with the guards to allow the direwolf entrance, in the name of knowledge.

Like in King's Landing, the smallfolk fled before Summer like fish in disturbed water. Not having to jostle their way through the crowds made it so they reached the Citadel in no time. The acolytes and maesters that had filled the courtyard had all fled in a terror upon Summer bounding into their midst. The shouts and screams had been enough for Archmaester Marwyn to know they had arrived.

"What does he eat?" Marwyn asked, eyes focused on Summer.

"All kinds of meat and fish," Bran answered. "Whatever he can get his paws on."

"Does he hunt?"

"Yes, though sometimes he's content with just table scraps."

"Fascinating."

Marwyn made to reach for Summer's mouth but the direwolf looked at the hand with narrowed eyes. The Archmaester seemed to think better of it and pulled his hand back with a nervous chuckle.

"Do you think you could get him to open his mouth?" Marwyn asked, glancing briefly at Bran.

Before Bran could respond there was a bit of a commotion as another maester pushed his way through the crowd. The man's eyes widened at the sight of Summer and he seemed unsure of himself.

"I was told there is a Bran Stark here?" the new maester said, eyeing Summer warily.

"Maester Cordin," Archmaester Marwyn said, waving him forward. "Come see this magnificent beast the gods have seen fit to bless us with for study."

The Old Gods of the North, Bran thought to himself. Not your southern gods.

"I'll pass, Archmaester." Maester Cordin spotted Bran standing next to Summer. "You boy, are you Brandon Stark? Son of Eddard Stark?"

One of the dozens of things the Citadel did for the realm was track the family trees of each noble house; whether it was a great house like the Starks, or a recently landed knightly family like House Hasty. It helped in succession disputes, or in circumstances when a lord died without an obvious heir and they needed to see if there was any close enough kin still alive to inherit lands and titles. There were probably maesters who could name Bran's entire historical family tree better than any of his siblings.

"Aye, I am," Bran answered. He found his eyes searching for Ser Robar, who stood off to the side while this careful observation of Summer took place. The knight looked no different than a guard, back ramrod straight and hand on the hilt of his sword at his hip, ready to spring into action should he be needed.

"It is fortuitous you're here. We've received news from King's Landing, some of which pertains to your father."

"My father?" Bran asked, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

"You can read?" Maester Cordin asked, clearly not wanting to announce it in front of all those gathered.

Bran nodded his head, as part of the agreement of him becoming a page for Ser Robar involved the second Royce son continuing Bran's education in things like reading, writing, sums, and history, on top of all the other things he was teaching him. The maester held out the parchment he gripped in his hand, Summer's presence preventing him from taking another step forward. Bran moved to the man and took the parchment for himself. He read it over and could only stare at it in shock.

Ser Robar approached and gently took the message out of Bran's hands to read for himself.

"By the gods."

They left Oldtown that night, talk of Eddard Stark being arrested for treason following behind them. By good fortune, the master blacksmith had finished Ser Robar's sword, a finely crafted and honed steel blade carved with the runes of the First Me and a circular pommel of bronze also carved with runes, which they picked up shortly after leaving the Citadel. They had then gone to the inn they had been staying in to pack up their saddlebags, load up their horses, and depart from the city.

"Where are we going now?" Bra had asked as the walls of Oldtown slowly grew smaller in the distance behind them. Thoughts of his father swarmed his head and he wondered what could be done.

"I am taking you home."

"Home?" Bran asked, confused. "Does that mean I'm not to be a knight?"

Ser Robar turned in his saddle to look at Bran and shook his head. He turned forward again, a determined look on his face.

"You can still be a knight if you so wish, but my agreement with your father when I took you on as a page was that it was to be during a time of peace. You are too young to be a squire, and too young to accompany me to battle."

Bran looked at Ser Robar whose pale blue eyes seemed to look beyond the horizon in front of them. Bran rode closer to the knight, a frown on his face.

"Are you going to war?"

Ser Robar blinked and stared at Bran, as if taking measure of him. "The Riverlands and Westerlands are at war. There's belief that the North will be calling their banners soon if they haven't already. And I've heard rumors over the past day that Lord Tyrell has started calling his banners as well, likely to defend from an incursion from his two northern neighbors. Since it appears the Vale will be sitting the conflict out, I will offer my sword to another but first I must see you returned safely to your family."

"Why not take a ship?"

"Do you see a captain willing to let a direwolf on board?"

Bran tried to imagine Summer on a ship but was unable to. He shook his head. "No."

"Me neither. We will take the Roseroad to at least Bitterbridge, and then we can determine from there the best way to travel. Your uncle is the Lord of Riverrun so it makes the most sense bringing you there, but we've heard Riverrun is besieged and the Riverlands are overrun with Westermen so that might not be the safest choice. If need be, I will bring you to the gates of Winterfell."

Jon VII

They had been riding along the Green Fork for eleven days now, and Jon estimated they had to be halfway to the Trident. That mythical third crossing that Robb was hoping they'd find was looking less and less likely at being discovered for every day that passed.

Where the width of land between the Mountains of the Moon and the Green Fork shrunk, there were still small settlements of a few houses near the banks of the river, where the people were entirely self-sufficient and relied mostly on fishing the river to survive. It was surprising that there were no larger villages along the Kingsroad in this stretch of land but Jon remembered the stories his father would tell of the mountain clans in the Vale, who were so similar yet so different from the mountain clans in the North. Anything of notable size would draw the attention of the clansmen and the village would be raided and pillaged before it grew large enough to have its own sufficient protections and defenders.

When they passed by one of these small groupings of houses and had a chance to speak briefly with one of the smallfolk, the answers were all the same. None of them saw any other safe crossings to make on foot and no armed men had been seen this far north.

"Does anyone else feel like this is a fool's journey?" Ronnel Stout asked as they steered their horses along the banks of the river.

"Aye," Ser Kyle agreed. "But we must follow it through."

Ser Kyle Condon was the head of the guard at Cerwyn Castle, and Ronnel Stout served as the master-at-arms for Hornwood Castle. Both had also come from northern houses. That meant that they were not just loyal to the houses they served and the houses they came from, they had been raised to be loyal to House Stark.

"You'd figure if there was a third potential crossing, others would have discovered it long ago."

"Things change," Jon said, trying to recall his lessons with Maester Luwin. "A landslide into the river can alter the current, making an area with too fast a current suddenly safe to ford."

"Hmmph," was the only response Ronnel gave.

Most of their ride was in silence. It was difficult to keep conversations going over the course of the many weeks they had been together since they set out from Winterfell. They would talk for a bit before lapsing into several hours of silence until something caught their eye and then conversation would pick up again.

Jon had thought the two men, who were older and more experienced than him, would balk at taking orders from a teenage bastard but they took his orders well enough. They offered advice when they saw fit and Jon did his best to use that advice when making a decision. Robb had likely chosen the two men specifically because he knew they would not give Jon a problem, unlike many other men.

"Is that a rider?" Ser Kyle asked, leaning forward on his horse and squinting his eyes.

Jon scanned the horizon in front of him and was barely able to make out a black speck that appeared to be approaching them.

"Just the one?" Ronnel asked. "Another refugee? Maybe a lance who fled from a battle?"

They had seen plenty of people once they exited the Neck. The area east of the Twins and south of the marshes of the Neck was filled with smallfolk. It looked like the villages there had expanded rapidly, likely from those escaping the chaos in the heart of the Riverlands. They had seen them, the scattered groups that slowly trudged up the Kingsroad, with their gaunt faces and haunted eyes. Soon the peaceful land would be overflowing with common folk and there wouldn't be enough room for them, and any who tried to come to the area would be forced to either travel through the Neck and into the North, into the Mountains of the Moon that covered most of the Vale, or back south where armies clashed and brigands pillaged.

"That's no refugee," Jon said, as the rider got closer to them.

The rider could only be a knight. His horse and armor were grey and fluttering in the breeze behind him was a cloak that was a rippling blue and red. He wore no helm and as the distance closed between them Jon could see he had grey hair down to his shoulders, bushy eyebrows, and a weathered face.

"Northmen," the rider hailed as he approached them. They came to a stop and he pulled his horse several feet shy of them.

"How do you identify us as such?" Ser Kyle asked, voice suspicious.

The rider chuckled and gestured at the horses they rode. "Only northmen ride garrons."

Ronnel and Ser Kyle both looked down at their horses, smaller than the courser the rider rode. Jon instead took notice of the shiny black fish, wrought in gold and obsidian that pinned the folds of the knight's cloak to his shoulder. The rider noticed Jon's gaze upon his brooch.

"Recognize me do you?"

"I do, Ser Brynden Tully."

"The Blackfish?" Ser Kyle muttered, half in awe.

"And I recognize you," Ser Brynden said, eyes never straying from Jon, though his gaze did not hold the distrust and hatred Jon expected someone who was close kin to Lady Catelyn to hold for him. "My niece wrote about you enough, of how you resemble Eddard Stark more than any of his trueborn children."

Jon tried to keep his face from flushing at the words. Ser Brynden Tully had fought with his father in Robert's Rebellion. If Jon truly looked so much like his father, then it would make sense for Ser Brynden to recognize him so easily.

"What brings three northmen this far south? Where is the northern army?"

Ronnel and Ser Kyle shared a look, neither eager to answer. This was a mission from their liege lord, meant to be kept to themselves. How could they share it with this man?

"I doubt we have anything to fear from Ser Brynden knowing," Jon reasoned, sensing their reluctance. "He is kin of Robb's."

That was on top of the man being Lady Catelyn's uncle and the uncle of Lord Edmure Tully, who they were rushing to free from imprisonment. If there was anyone south of the Neck they could trust it was this man.

"We're seeing if there's another potential crossing of the Green Fork," Ronnel explained, "on Lord Robb's orders."

Ser Brynden nodded his head, a pleased smile on his face. "And I assume you didn't find any?"

"No, ser," Jon replied.

"Then you won't find one. There's none to the south, I've already looked."

Ronnel mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, "fucking Freys." Ser Brynden appraised the three of them for a moment.

"If Ser Brynden speaks truly, then we must turn back," Ser Kyle said. "Lord Robb must be made aware of the only options he has."

"So the North does march to war?"

"Yes, Ser Brynden. The banners were called and the army should be arriving at Moat Cailin shortly."

"Good. I will accompany you back to the army then."

Now the look was shared between all three of the northmen. Ser Brynden guffawed at the unsure looks on their faces.

"I fought in and survived three wars in my lifetime. That's three more than the three of you combined."

"Aye, he speaks true. I'm sure Robb will be glad to have the advice of a knight of legend such as yourself," Jon said, bowing his head.

"Don't try to flatter me, Snow," Ser Brynden said, as he spurred his horse past the three northmen. "I'm not my niece. I won't hold you being Ned Stark's bastard against you. It's not like you could help it. It's your father who stained his honor, not you."

Ser Kyle and Ronnel both turned their horses around, to head back north with Ser Brynden. Jon stared at the ground for a moment trying to process Ser Brynden's words and the emotions they brought up in him. After a moment he shook his head and turned to follow the others. They had to report back to Robb what they found, or rather what they didn't find.

After a few moments of silence, Ronnel had to satisfy his curiosity and asked Ser Brynden what he was doing here on the Kingsroad, and not at Riverrun or at least somewhere in the Riverlands leading men against the Lannisters. One would think the Blackfish would be leading the armies of the Riverlands.

"I was in the Vale, where I served my niece loyally as the Knight of the Gate for fifteen years. When Ned Stark wrote asking the Vale to call their banners against the Lannisters who marched on the Riverlands, I advised her to do as the Hand commanded. When the Riverlands were attacked I asked her to send aid to her brother. When Riverrun came under siege I begged her to send the men to save her childhood home; my childhood home. Each time she refused. I had no choice but to resign from my post. She might not hold any loyalty to the Riverlands, but I'm still a Tully and if little Edmure needs help, then help I shall.

"As I came down from the mountains on the High Road, I could see the Lannister forces besieging Darry. There were probably a hundred scouts north of the Trident, no doubt keeping an eye out for you northmen. There were too many to slip past, so I left the High Road and traveled north to a village at the base of the mountains. From there I rode west to the Green Fork before turning north again, riding along the bank, hoping to find a place to ford across. If need be, I was prepared to abandon my horse and armor and swim across."

Winterfell was far from any large source of water. While Jon had splashed around in the pool in Winterfell's godswood and some small ponds in the Wolfswood, he wasn't confident he could swim across a river like the Green Fork. More than likely the current would pull him under and there would be nothing he could do to stop it; nothing except meet the Drowned God the Ironborn kept talking about. The Blackfish must be a strong swimmer indeed to have such confidence to swim across the river, even at his age.

"What are my nephew's plans?" Ser Brynden asked.

"He told us nothing, ser," Ser Kyle said. "Just that he wanted us to look for another crossing."

"Did he tell you anything, Snow?" Ser Brynden asked.

"Some," Jon admitted. "He's kept a lot of it to himself but I know if we couldn't find a crossing then we'll cross at the Twins. He'll pay Lord Frey's toll to ensure the quickest route to Riverrun."

"He says that now but wait until he hears what Walder fucking Frey will want him to pay."