Bran

At least Robb was back to his old self. More or less. For some reason he hated seeing him climbing on the walls and would either call him down or would hide his eyes as if the sight pained him. Which was odd. Robb had seen him climbing before and it wasn't as if anything could happen to him, could it?

He sighed and then looked up at the skies. Far above him he could see an eagle soaring upwards. Oddly enough his dreams of flying had diminished recently. He wished that they hadn't and that he could dream those dreams again. To soar like that eagle, to see things from the air that no-one else could.

The sound of a harp being plucked, the first notes singing sweetly in the air, caught his ear and he scrambled down the wall to the ground and then dashed around the corner. Domeric Bolton was there in the courtyard, his long black hair caught in a queue and his harp in his hand. In front of him were arrayed a number of people, mostly women, including Mother and Sansa. Not Arya though. He looked about and caught sight of an affronted figure stalking away with her eyes rolling. No, she'd probably end up watching Robb, Jon and Theon sparring.

To be honest Bran wasn't sure what to make of Domeric Bolton and he watched the man carefully as he started singing. He was very good at the harp as well as the song. Should a knight sing though? Domeric had spent time at the Redfort, with one of the finest knights of the Vale, and that was a worthy thing to admire. However, Bran wasn't sure about all this warbling.

He shrugged internally and then pricked up an ear. Metal clashing against metal. Yes, someone was sparring. He made sure that Mother wasn't watching him and then sidled away before making a dash for the practice yard. There he found Robb and Jon and Theon, all stripped to the waist and all holding practice swords – ones that were weighted properly but blunt. And to his fascination Robb was instructing the other two, watched by Arya to one side and a very interested Rodrik Cassel to the other.

"Keep your weight more in balance as you strike," Robb was telling Jon as they traded blows. "When you fight then your feet are important. If your opponent catches you off balance then-" he parried a blow, rolled his shoulders and then pushed Jon so hard that he lost his balance and fell over. "-You lose."

Theon smirked at Jon, who was looking annoyed from his position on the ground, and then struck out at Robb, who dodged and then parried once, twice and then caught Theon a nasty slap on the ribs with the flat of his sword. "And watch your eyes! Too much movement betrays what you're going to do next!"

"That bloody stung!" Theon groaned, before narrowing his eyes and attacking again. Robb met him blow for blow before turning inside Theon's thrust and shoulder charging him the same way that he had Jon, who was now on his feet and ready for another go.

Not that he got very far. Jon swung up and over to his right, was parried, thrown off balance and then somehow ended up back on the ground again. "Damn it," he cursed, "You don't fight fair, Stark."

Robb paused and then looked over at Rodrik, who was smiling sourly. "Is war fair Rodrik?"

The sour smile grew sourer. "Never. If it is then you're doing something wrong. And he's right lads. Watch your feet and don't indicate where you're going to attack next. You need more training."

A hand fell on Bran's shoulder and he jumped slightly, before looking up. Oh, it was Father. "I thought I'd find you here," he said kindly. "Watch and learn my son. It'll be you soon there."

Bran thought about that and then swallowed nervously as he saw Theon and Robb joke about how many bruises they'd have in the morning. The three nodded respectfully at Father, who nodded back, but Bran thought that he saw an additional weight to the look that Father sent to Robb, some wordless message that he could not decipher. Oh not another one with the language of the eyebrow.

"I hear Domeric Bolton singing," Father said jovially. "You do not want to hear?"

"He's singing, Father," said Bran as he tried not to roll his eyes. "And playing the harp. Haven't seen him sparring yet."

"You should see him ride a horse," Father said seriously, which made Bran look at him quickly. "He's a skilled rider Bran. He's very, very, good. If you like I can ask him if he can pass on any lessons to you."

He thought about this for a moment and then he nodded. "Thank you Father."

Father smiled at him and then sighed. "I need to talk to you Brandon."

Brandon. That was not a good sign at all. It meant that Father was being very serious. Even worse, Father then escorted him up to his solar, the place that was normally forbidden to anyone outside the circle of people that Father most relied upon these days.

Bran sat down in the chair that Father had indicated and then looked about nervously. Then Father sat down opposite him and gazed at him levelly. "Bran."

"Yes Father?"

"I want you to stop climbing the walls of Winterfell. The towers too."

He eyed Father for a long moment. "Alright."

But Father was not satisfied with that. "I mean this, Bran. No empty promises. I want your word."

He looked at father indignantly and then wilted slightly. "Alright." He sounded a bit petulant in his own ears, but if he had to get this out of the way then he would.

But again Father was not satisfied, because he stood up and walked over to one side, before returning – Bran gulped – with Ice. "Bran," Father said hoarsely, "Swear that you will not climb the walls and towers of Winterfell on Ice. The sword of your ancestors."

He stared at it for a long moment, as tears gathered in his eyes. This was a promise that he had to keep, a promise that Father would not forget or forgive if he ever broke it. This was unfair of Father! And then he looked up and saw the sympathetic but implacable eyes of Father.

Bran reached out with a trembling hand and placed it on the hilt of Ice. After a moment Father's hand covered it. "I swear that I will not climb the walls or towers of Winterfell," he choked out.

Father smiled at him. "Thank you Bran."

He nodded at the words, his vision blurred with tears – and then he ran out of the solar, sobbing with grief.