Chapter 5: Bran

In the heart of Winterfell, a stronghold of the North, the courtyard buzzes with activity. The air is crisp, and the sun casts long shadows across the stone walls. Young Bran Stark stands with a bow in hand, his focus intense yet wavering. He is watched by family—his father, Lord Eddard "Ned" Stark; his mother, Lady Catelyn Stark; and his noble blood brothers Robb and Rickon Stark. Also present is Jon Snow, Ned's illegitimate son who has been raised alongside Bran and his aristocratic siblings.

Bran takes a deep breath as he prepares to shoot an arrow. His previous attempts have not gone well; arrows have soared high over the target or landed far from where they were intended. Despite his determination, he struggles to find his rhythm. The laughter of Robb, Jon, and Rickon echoes around him as they watch his latest attempt go awry.

"Which one of you was an archer at ten?" Ned chides playfully, directing his question toward Robb and Jon. This moment serves to remind them that everyone must start somewhere. Bran feels a mix of embarrassment and encouragement from his father's words.

With renewed determination, Bran steadies himself again. He draws back on the bowstring while receiving supportive shouts from Robb and Jon. Their camaraderie fuels Bran's spirit as he aims carefully at the target ahead of him.

Just as he is about to release the arrow, a sudden movement catches his eye—his sister Arya Stark has entered the scene. Annoyed, Bran chased after Arya, while everyone laughed very hard.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Bran demands playfully as he chases after Arya, who bursts into laughter at her brother's dismay.

"I learned from Fenris!" she exclaims cheekily while running away from him.

As they run past stone pillars and flower beds tended by servants, they encounter Septa Mordane—their governess—who has been overseeing Sansa's needlework nearby.

Septa Mordane raises an eyebrow at Arya's antics and chastises her for abandoning her needlework duties: "You should be practicing your embroidery instead of begin chasing your brother!"

Arya rolls her eyes but knows better than to argue with Septa Mordane openly; she respects her authority even if she often rebels against traditional expectations placed upon her as a young lady of noble birth.

Just then Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and Theon Greyjoy enter the scene. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth and the distant sound of horses whinnying. Robb turned to Bran Stark, who sat in his wooden chair, his eyes bright with curiosity.

"Bran," Robb said, his voice steady yet filled with a sense of purpose. "Get ready. Father is going to take you to see him execute a Night's Watch deserter today."

Bran's eyes widened at the mention of an execution. He had heard tales of such events but had never witnessed one himself. "Will it be… bloody?" he asked, a mix of nervousness and apprehension in his tone.

Before Robb could respond, Arya Stark bounded over, her face flushed with enthusiasm. "Can I come too?" she asked eagerly.

Septa Mordane, ever vigilant in her role as Arya's caretaker and moral compass, interjected sharply. "No, Arya! You must not attend such things. It is not fitting for a lady."

Arya frowned but remained silent, her disappointment palpable. Robb glanced at both girls before shifting the conversation back to more pressing matters.

"Has anyone seen Fenris this morning?" he asked casually while scanning the courtyard for any sign of their friend.

Both Bran and Arya shook their heads in unison. Just then, Jory Cassel approached them from behind, having overheard their conversation. "Fenris was in Wintertown," he said matter-of-factly. "With Ros the Whore."

The revelation hung heavy in the air; Septa Mordane gasped audibly, her expression one of shock and disbelief. "What would possess him to seek out a whore?" she murmured under her breath.

Bran exchanged glances with Robb and Jon; something felt off about this whole situation. He noticed that Theon Greyjoy was unusually quiet, his demeanor almost too innocent as he stood slightly apart from the group.

Jon raised an eyebrow at Theon's behavior and quipped sarcastically, "Well, it seems like Theon must have said something to give Fenris a reason to seek out Ros."

Theon bristled at Jon's insinuation but quickly regained his composure. "And how do you know Fenris didn't get that idea from you? After all," he shot back with a smirk, "you were once a client of Ros yourself."

Jon opened his mouth to retort but paused as he considered Theon's words; there was truth buried beneath the jibe that made him uneasy.

Robb broke through the tension that had begun to build between Jon and Theon by asserting decisively: "Regardless of how this happened or who influenced whom, we need to go find Fenris now." His tone left no room for argument.

"Wintertown isn't far," Jory added helpfully. "We can ride there quickly if we hurry."

"Let's go then," Robb commanded as he mounted his horse with practiced ease. Jon followed suit while Theon hesitated for just a moment longer before climbing onto his own steed.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over Wintertown as Robb Stark, Jon Snow, Bran Stark, and Theon Greyjoy rode into the bustling settlement. The air was filled with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares and townsfolk exchanging pleasantries. The four young men were on a mission to find Fenris, a wild and enigmatic figure who had recently caught their attention.

As they dismounted their horses outside the inn—a rustic establishment with wooden beams and a thatched roof—Robb led the way inside. The interior was dimly lit, with flickering candles casting shadows on the walls adorned with hunting trophies. The innkeeper, a burly man with a bushy beard, stood behind the bar polishing a tankard.

"Good evening," Robb greeted him. "We're looking for someone—do you know a woman named Ros?"

The innkeeper's eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned forward. "Ah, Ros! Yes my Lord, I know her well. She was here last night with a wild-looking lad." He chuckled heartily. "I'd say he must rock her world if you catch my drift."

Robb frowned in confusion while Bran raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?" he asked innocently.

The innkeeper smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Let's just say that whatever they were doing in that room kept half the village awake all night long."

Bran looked puzzled as he turned to Jon for clarification. "What does that mean?"

Jon shrugged slightly but couldn't help but smile at the thought of Fenris making Ros happy. "Maybe it means they had quite an enjoyable evening together," he suggested.

Theon rolled his eyes dramatically, interjecting sarcastically, "Or maybe it means Fenris is just really loud when he's having fun." His comment elicited chuckles from Robb and Jon while Bran remained oblivious to the jest.

After some banter about Fenris's reputation and Ros's charm, they decided to seek out Ros's home directly rather than wait for Fenris to return to the inn. They navigated through narrow streets lined with quaint houses until they reached a modest dwelling adorned with flowers in window boxes.

Robb knocked on the door firmly yet politely. Moments later, it creaked open to reveal Ros herself—her hair tousled and her eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling with joy.

"Hello there," she said sleepily but warmly as she leaned against the doorframe. "How can I help you?"

"We're looking for Fenris," Robb explained quickly.

Ros nodded knowingly but then sighed softly. "He was here last night… but when I woke up this morning, he was already gone." Her expression shifted slightly; she seemed both content and wistful.

"Are you alright?" Bran asked gently.

"I'm fine," she assured them with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just tired after last night." She paused before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small bag of coins. "Here," she said as she handed it over to Robb. "This is Fenris's bag of coins; could you please return it to him when you see him? He left it behind."

Theon's jaw dropped in disbelief as he stared at Ros incredulously. "Wait—hold on! You're giving back his money? You never gave me back mine after our time together!" His tone was half-joking but laced with genuine surprise.

Ros laughed lightly at Theon's expense before shaking her head playfully. "Well, maybe you should have been more memorable then!"

Robb and Jon chuckled at Theon's expense while Bran looked between them curiously, still trying to piece together what had transpired during their absence from Winterfell.

"Thanks for your help," Robb said sincerely as he tucked away the bag of coins safely into his own pocket for safekeeping until they could find Fenris again.

"Anytime," Ros replied cheerfully before yawning widely again. "Now if you'll excuse me…" She started to close the door gently but paused one last time to add playfully, "…don't let Fenris keep you up all night!"

0o0o0

Bran was fully aware of the law decrees to deserters from the Night's Watch: execution. He is also aware of the traditions of the First Men: "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Today he was going to witness this personally.

The deserter from the Watch was Will. Two guards of the House Stark Guards dragged him before Lord Stark, ready with his family's Valyrian steel sword, the Ice, to carry out the King's Justice.

"Bran overhears Will says, staring at Father. "I know I broke my oath. I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall and warned them, but... I saw what I saw... I saw the White Walkers."

Bran heard of the stories of the White Walkers. From Old Nan. An elderly woman living in Winterfell, she was a retired servant of House Stark known for her tale-telling abilities. She has entertained the children of Eddard and Catelyn with stories throughout their childhoods, such as stories of the White Walkers; demons of the North who bring never-ending winter to all of the lands of the seven kingdoms.

"Don't look away," Bran hears Jon whisper in his ear. "Father would know if you did."

Bran stood there, his eyes were on his father with the ice, prepared to witness a grim execution. The air was thick with tension, and the weight of the moment pressed heavily on Bran's young shoulders.

He watches as father raised Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark, its blade glinting ominously in the pale sunlight. Bran's heart raced as he felt the gravity of what was about to happen. This was not just an execution; it was a lesson in duty and honor that his father had often spoken about but never demonstrated so vividly. As Eddard brought down the sword with a swift motion, Bran felt an odd sense of clarity wash over him. He did not flinch or turn away; instead, he absorbed every detail—the sound of steel meeting flesh, the gasp that escaped Will's lips as life left him.

Jon Snow stood nearby, watching with a mixture of pride and concern for his younger brother. Afterward, as they walked away from the scene, Jon placed a hand on Bran's shoulder. "You did well," he said quietly. "Not everyone can bear to watch."

As the party made their way back to Winterfell after the execution, the tension between Robb and Jon was palpable. They argued fiercely about the deserter and whether or not he died bravely, their voices carrying over the quiet countryside.

Bran rode quietly alongside his father, watching the exchange between his half-brothers with a mixture of curiosity and unease. When they reached a narrow bridge, Robb and Jon impulsively spurred their horses into a race, leaving Bran and his pony far behind.

Eddard rode up beside Bran, his expression grave. "Do you know why I executed the man myself, Bran?" he asked quietly.

Bran shook his head, says "The man was a deserter from the Watch."

"The First Men believed that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Eddard explained. "It is a matter of honor and responsibility. We Starks still hold to that tradition."

Bran nodded, understanding his father's words. He then asked, "Did the deserter really see a White Walker, Father?"

Eddard sighed heavily. "The White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years, Bran. It was likely just a story the man told to save his own skin.

"Bran looked troubled and asked "But what if he really did see one, Father? What then?"

Eddard's expression softened. "Man sees what he sees, Bran," he said simply, leaving Bran to ponder his words in thoughtful silence as they continued their journey back to Winterfell. The cool autumn air carried the whispers of ancient legends, and Bran couldn't shake the feeling that something ominous loomed on the horizon. But for now, he rode on with his family, trusting in their strength and unity to see them through whatever challenges lay ahead.

Bran, Eddard Stark, and their companions made their way toward the bridge. The air was thick with an unsettling silence, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves and the soft sound of water flowing in the nearby river. As they approached, Bran's heart raced with anticipation; he could see his brothers Robb and Jon standing at the edge of the bridge, their figures silhouetted against the fading light.

"Look!" Bran exclaimed, pointing ahead. "It's Robb and Jon!"

Eddard nodded solemnly, his brow furrowing as he took in the scene before them. The brothers were gathered around something on the ground—a large stag that lay dead in the road, its body partially disemboweled. The sight sent a chill down Bran's spine.

"What happened here?" Eddard murmured under his breath as they drew closer.

As they reached the bridge, Bran noticed Stormwind, Fenris's horse, standing nearby. The animal seemed agitated, its nostrils flaring as it snorted nervously. Just then, they spotted Fenris himself down by the riverbank. He was kneeling beside a small cluster of direwolf puppies—six tiny creatures that had just been born. Their mother lay lifeless nearby, a broken piece of stag antler lodged in her throat.

"Fenris!" Eddard called out as he approached cautiously. "What are you doing out here?"

Fenris looked up from where he cradled one of the puppies in his hands. His expression was a mix of sorrow and determination. "I was helping her give birth," he replied softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But she… she didn't make it."

Bran felt a pang of sympathy for Fenris; he could see how much this moment weighed on him. "What will happen to them?" Bran asked hesitantly.

Fenris glanced at the puppies with a mixture of love and despair. "I don't know," he admitted. "They're too young to survive without their mother."

Robb stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern as he examined the scene around them. "Direwolves haven't been seen south of the Wall for two hundred years," he remarked incredulously.

Bran watches his father as he contemplates their fate. "They are too young to survive without their mother," he said solemnly, his voice low but firm. "It would be merciful to end their suffering now rather than let them starve."

Bran stepped forward, his youthful face etched with concern. "No Father, please!"

"I'm sorry Bran." Eddard replied.

Fenris stepped next to Bran, his blue winter eyes pleading with Eddard. "Lord Stark," Fenris implored. "You found me when I was young and wild. How am I different than them? Don't they deserve a chance?"

Jon stepped forward cautiously but confidently. "Father," he said respectfully yet firmly, "the direwolf is more than just an animal; it is the symbol of our house—the sigil that represents us all." He gestured toward the pups with conviction in his eyes. "You have five trueborn children; it feels like an omen that we should care for these pups."

Eddard paused at Jon's words; they struck a chord within him. The Starks had always honored their traditions and beliefs deeply rooted in the land they called home. The direwolf represented loyalty, strength, and family—all values that resonated with each member of House Stark.

Bran looked up at his father with wide eyes filled with hope and longing. "Please," he whispered again.

After what felt like an eternity filled with silence punctuated only by the soft whimpering of the puppies, Eddard finally sighed deeply. He ran a hand through his hair as if trying to comb through all the conflicting thoughts swirling in his mind.

"Very well," he said slowly but decisively after weighing all options carefully against one another. "You may keep them—but you must promise me this: you will care for them yourselves." His gaze swept over each child present before landing back on Bran's hopeful face.

"If one should die…" Eddard continued gravely, "…the owner will be responsible for burying it."

The weightiness behind those words hung heavily in the air as Bran nodded vigorously, relieved at having avoided tragedy today.

One by one, the dire wolf pups were picked up and gently carried away. Just as the party was ready to leave Bran noticed that Fenris had paused for a moment as he detected something. Curiosity piqued, he approached cautiously and discovered a sixth pup—a tiny albino runt of the litter, shivering slightly in the cool evening air.

"Look at this little one!" Fenris exclaimed, lifting the pup into his arms. "It's a runt of the litter." He turned back to Jon with a soft smile. "I think it belongs with you."

Jon's brow furrowed in confusion as he took a step closer. "With me? Why would I take care of a pup?" But even as he spoke, he felt an inexplicable connection to the creature—both seemed like outsiders in their own way.

Fenris shrugged playfully but insisted, "You're both alike—misunderstood and strong in your own right." He placed the pup gently into Jon's hands.

Robb watched this exchange with amusement before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the fat bag of coins that Ros gave him. He handed them to Fenris without hesitation. "Here," he said casually. "Ros says you have forgotten this at her place."

Fenris looked puzzled as he accepted the money. "I gave this money to Ros? What's wrong? Why is she giving back to me?" His tone was light-hearted but laced with genuine confusion.

Theon's expression darkened at this mention of Ros—the beautiful woman who had captivated many hearts in their circle but had spent time, particularly with Fenris recently. A bitter edge crept into his voice as he interjected sarcastically, "I guess she trying to be nice to you." His words dripped with jealousy that was hard to miss.

Fenris raised an eyebrow at Theon's reaction; it was unexpected and puzzling. Why would Theon be so affected by this? Theon's cheeks flushed slightly—a deep crimson that contrasted sharply against his usual bravado.

"Why are you blushing?" Fenris asked innocently, tilting his head slightly in confusion.

"I'm not blushing!" Theon snapped back defensively, crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to shield himself from scrutiny. But there was no hiding it; everyone could see it clear as day.

Robb, and several House Stark Guards chuckled softly at Theon's flustered state while Jon exchanged glances with Fenris that spoke volumes about their shared amusement at Theon's expense.

"Come on now," Robb teased lightly, stepping closer to Theon with a smirk playing on his lips. "It's just us here; you can admit it if you are jealous of Fenris over Ros."

Theon shot him a glare that could have melted steel but quickly shifted back to indignation when confronted directly about his emotions regarding Ros or any other matters of affection.

"I not jealous!" he protested vehemently yet failed to mask the hint of vulnerability beneath his bravado.