Jon Stark

He was worrying a bit about taking Ghost and the other direwolves with them to the Nightfort. It wouldn't be dangerous, not exactly, but Father and Frostfyre would not be coming with them – he had too much to do at Castle Black.

So far the people going to the Nightfort were as eclectic a group as he could imagine. Himself, Robb, Theon, Tyrion Lannister, Alliser Thorne (a man who seemed to dislike him for no particular reason), a small group of men of the Night's Watch and the King Beyond The Wall, Mance Rayder. Oh and apparently someone called Thormund Giantsbane. The last two were due later that day, once the last of the Lords of the North were gone. Apparently some of the last of them were lingering a little, to speak to Father.

Father. He would always think of Eddard Stark as his father. He'd always been there for him, even if Lady Stark had not. Well, not until recently. She'd been tentatively kind, fumblingly supportive. In private she had apologised and then gone off to the Sept to pray.

He sighed and then knocked on the door to Maester Aemon's quarters. Hearing a barked 'Come!' he pushed the door open and then entered, closing the door behind him. "You asked to see me Maester Aemon?"

The Maester looked up from his books and smiled cheerfully at him. "I did indeed young Jon. I hear that you are preparing for your trip to the Nightfort?"

"We leave tomorrow, at dawn."

"You should be there by noon or just after then, if this weather continues fair." He paused. "I remember the last time I saw that place. It was a great castle once, a true fortress for the Night's Watch."

He smiled slightly. "Tyrion Lannister seems both excited and afraid of the place."

"He has every reason to be. One of his ancestors commanded there once and seems to have left something for him there." Jon frowned at him and the old man waved a hand in dismissal. "You'll find out once you are there. Do not let your guard down there. Renegades have been known to make rest there on occasion."

"So there is danger there, then?"

The oldest living Targaryen smiled thinly. "Why, there is danger everywhere, if you look hard enough. And you… you have more reasons than most to look over your shoulder." He sighed. "I wish that this…. burden… had not fallen to you, my boy. This burden of your real heritage. It does my heart good to see you – but I know that you will have to hide that heritage if you want to live.

"A great irony struck me this morning. There was a time when two members of our family would come together and talk of great and terrible things. The breeding of dragons, the politics of King's Landing, the future crushing of cities in Essos, war and war and yet more war. And yet here we are, the last two men in our family, divided by many leagues from your aunt, talking of nothing more than survival. And yet it is right that we do so. You must live, my boy. Live and have no grandiose plans. You cannot afford it."

His mind reeled. "I don't think I'd ever even consider anything grandiose," he replied faintly. "A quiet life is all I've ever wanted."

Something flickered over Aemon's face, a combination of relief and sadness, leavened with shame. "I wish that I had more to give you than mere words. I wish that I could give you something more meaningful than advice, a legacy of land or men or gold. I have none of those things. As it is I have but two gifts for you. One will help protect you in the wars that are to come. The other is… well, it is something that you or your descendants might one day be able to use. So to speak."

The old man stood and then walked over to a great chest, next to which was a far smaller and far dustier chest. He pulled out a key and worked on the lock to the larger chest. "Tell, me, young Jon, have you ever heard of a man called Brynden Rivers, also known at Bloodraven?"

Jon thought back through the list of Targaryen kings and family members that Maester Luwin had once made him memorise. "Erm…. He was the bastard half-brother of Daeron II?"

"Quite so," Aemon said as he threw the chest open with a surprising amount of vigour, before carefully searching through the contents. "He was a rather remarkable man. He fought in the first Blackfyre rebellion, was Hand of the King to first his nephew Aerys I and then to Maekar I." He paused and a small and wintery smile fluttered on his lips. "Maekar was my father. A stern man, but a good one. Anyway, when I became Maester here at Castle Black Bloodraven also joined, or rather was forced to join, the Nights Watch. He was… a strange man. An albino for a start. He lost an eye fighting against Bittersteel in the First Blackfyre Rebellion, but he was still a terror with a bow. Damn it, where did I leave it? Aha!"

The old Maester turned around, holding a long object covered in cloth, before walking back to where Jon was waiting. "Bloodraven was a great leader of men and it was not long before he became Lord Commander. Some said that he was a sorcerer, but I just knew him as a friend and a great man, a man who knew the value of duty and commitment. He vanished one day in a solo ranging beyond the Wall, something that he was increasingly prone to do. But before he left he entrusted me with this." And with that he pulled the cloth back a little to reveal the hilt of a sword.

He stared at it. The wavy crossguard… the flames on the pommel… "This is Dark Sister," he whispered. "This is a…" He looked over his shoulder at the door. "This is a Targaryen heirloom!"

"It's just a sword," Aemon replied dryly. "A sword made from Valyrian steel, but still just a sword. And a foreboding is upon me that you will need it. You leave tomorrow. I know Donal Noye, the smith here, well. By tomorrow it will have a new hilt and a new pommel. And it will be yours."

"Maester Aemon, I cannot, it's not mine, it can't be mine…"

"It is yours. Listen to me, Jon Stark! I told you before to let the boy Jon Snow die and become the man Jon Stark. This sword was made for one purpose – to kill. I am an old man who will die soon. I am a hundred years old, my boy. This sword has lain in this chest for almost half my life. 'Take care of it,' Bloodraven said. 'It's for whoever of our family that comes here next.' You have come here. It's yours."

Jon reached out with trembling hands and pulled it from the cloth, hefting it for a moment as he felt its weight. Then he pulled it slightly out of the black scabbard. Yes. It was Valyrian steel. "Thank you," he whispered. "This is… this is… beyond anything I imagined."

"Pass it on to your sons," Aemon said with a slight smile, before taking it back. "It will be ready for you at dawn. Now – here's the other thing. Something I have not laid eyes on since a very black day in our family's history."

And with that he strode over to the small chest, which he picked up with an odd look on his face, almost a wince of distaste. "Here."

Jon took the chest with a frown. "What is it?"

Another key appeared in Aemon's hands, this one far smaller than the last. He fiddled with the lock again and then opened it. Jon peered inside. And then he felt the blood flee his face.

"Every Targaryen, well male Targaryen, sometimes the females too, has a dragon's egg placed in their cradle," Maester Aemon said in that strange flat tone. "That was placed in mine. It's real."

Jon traced a finger over the iridescent swirls on the surface of the first real dragon's egg that he'd ever seen. "Why give it to me?"

"Why?" There was a combination of smile and snarl on the face of the older man's face. "Because of that terrible thing called tradition. Because it is your birth right. Because perhaps you can succeed where I failed and hatch it. Because I hate the very sight of the damn thing after the news came to me of the death of my beloved brother at Summerhall and I want to be rid of it! Because… it is time for me to let go of such things. It's better off with you than me. Better with a young man than an old one."

Jon stared at the sword and then the egg. "Maester Aemon – great-great-granduncle Aemon – these are not small bequests. They are great ones."

But Aemon shook his head at that. "They are both gifts and curses. Never forget that. But we are family and I do not think that you will let me down in this. Now – I have some books over here about the Nightfort that you might find interesting." And with that he led Jon over to the table nearby.

Tywin

He leafed through the long list of reports and other documents, made a few small notes in a ledger to one side and then carefully put away the quill and the little bottle of ink. Only then did he stand and walk over to the window.

From here he could see the roses that she had planted, so many years before. The old gardener tended to them most carefully. He'd known Joanna when she had been but a child and the old man had been fond of her. And now, decades on, he took care of the roses that she had loved so much. He nodded a little. That was good.

He wondered sometimes, with a slight sense of despair, what Joanna would have made of things these days. Well for a start she would have frowned at the general state of things. Jaime was still in that damn white cloak, Cersei was still a spoilt imbecile and Tyrion... Tyrion was still the dwarf who had killed his mother.

He knew that Joanna would have loved Tyrion even if he had been a dwarf, he knew that Tyrion was not at fault for the death of Joanna... he just couldn't help it. Every time he looked at the lad he saw the reason why Joanna was not here, alive and well, fussing over those roses and grinning at him impishly.

It was foolish of him and petty. But by all the gods he missed her every day. A part of him had died with her. He shook his head slightly and grimaced a tad, before returning to his books.

It was a knock on the door that disturbed him from a particularly messy little squabble that was being waged on paper between two minor houses who were fighting over a small scrap of land. "Yes?" He looked up to see Dacre standing at the doorway. He looked... somewhat baffled. "What's the matter Dacre?"

"My Lord, there's a man here. He says that he needs to seek your permission to tend the Stone Garden."

Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Does this man have a name?"

"Rickon, my Lord. He... he claims to be from the Isle of Faces."

For a moment the other eyebrow came up, before both went down into a scowl. "The Isle of Faces," he said flatly. "Impossible."

"That's what I said my Lord. But he claimed that it was the truth and that there was an ancient agreement that one day the Stone Garden would be tended again."

He leant back in his chair and did his best not to stare. Now, that was indeed an old agreement, an ancient promise. One that very few knew about and which had had always thought was nothing more than a family tale. "Very well. Let him in."

"Yes my Lord." Dacre strode off and Tywin rubbed his upper lip with a finger for a moment.

When Dacre returned he was escorting a short and rather nondescript man dressed in dark green clothes and with a dark green cloak with a hood of some kind. He wore a cloak pin that looked like a silver antler and he was carrying a small saddlebag. As soon as he laid eyes on Tywin he bowed, although not as deeply as Dacre obviously thought was proper, given his scowl.

"Lord Lannister, I presume."

"I am. And you would be the man who claims to be from the Isle of Faces. I find that hard to believe. The Green Men do not leave their island."

"Until now. The Green Men are abroad again."

"Why?"

The man tilted his head slightly and looked at him. "The Call was sent. It was heard all across the Realm. On the Isle of Faces... well, all I will say is that it was a day that I will never forget. The trees themselves spoke."

He looked at Rickon carefully. He detected a touch of the Riverlands in his accent. But he was still unconvinced. "Many of spoken of the Call. The Green Men have been secluded on their island for centuries. And yet you say that you have broken your seclusion?"

A small smile crossed the other man's face. "The Green Man said that you might be a bit hard to convince. Very well – perhaps this will convince you." He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a something small and silver, which he then placed on the desk in front of Tywin.

The moment he laid eyes on it he froze. It was half a medallion. There was exactly half a tree on it.

"I understand that when you were Hand of the King, many years ago, you were once sent a message from the Isle of Faces. That it still existed, that it spoke for those who worship the Old Gods South of the Neck. And that one day it would send the other half of the medallion that was sent that day. Here is the other half."

He remembered that day. Aerys and he had laughed over the message at the time. But he'd kept the medallion – it was in a chest somewhere. "Dacre said that you were asking permission to enter the Stone Garden? Why?"

"To tend to the Heart tree there."

"There is no Heart tree, just a weirwood tree."

Rickon just smiled in reply. "May I have your permission to enter the Stone Garden then? It has been many centuries since a Green Man was here."

"You may enter it." He paused as unease ran through him yet again. "Wait. You said that the Green Man had left the Isle of Faces?"

"I did."

"Does this man have a name?"

"He did once. He said that he will meet you again one day."

"Again? I have met him before?"

"You have. You were a cupbearer at the time, at the Court of Aegon V. Your pardon, Lord Lannister. I have much to do." And he bowed and left.

Tywin stared at the space where the Green Man had been for a long time, his mind whirling like a leaf in the wind. He'd been young when he had been cupbearer. Very young. The Green Man apparently remembered him from that far off and happy time, the time before Summerhall. The Green Man therefore had to be quite old. Who on earth could he be?

And then he shivered as something else occurred to him. There was a Green Man in the Stone Garden, tending to the weirwood tree there. It was like something out of legend. Something was happening, something was in the air. For a long moment he felt almost... afraid. He was not in control of this matter.

Ned

A fist thumped at the door and he sighed a little and then faced the door. He was not looking forwards to this. "Come!"

The door opened to reveal Lord Ryswell and Lady Dustin. They both looked... well, uncomfortable. Barbrey Dustin was not a young woman any more but she was still a fine-looking one. She was, as always, dressed in black to show that she still mourned Willam Dustin. If there was one thing that he regretted from his time in the South it was that he had been unable to bring back the bones of those who had fought with him at the Tower of Joy. Barbrey Dustin was someone who would never be able to let go of that fact.

"Lord Ryswell. Lady Dustin. How may I help you?"

Rodrik Ryswell looked at him and then glanced at his daughter. "Barbrey," he said meaningfully. "Tell him."

Barbrey Dustin glared at her father a little and then stepped forwards slightly. Her cheeks were a little red, a sign of some emotion. "Lord Stark, there... there has been fog on the barrows for some weeks now. Fog on the Long Barrow especially. And on Great Barrow. The smallfolk says that the dead are restless. They talk of... of there needing to be a Lord Dustin again." And with that she shot a look of pure anger at him. "I do not know what to do." The last words came as if they had been forced from her.

Ned just looked at her as if she was raving mad. "Fog?"

"Fog," Lord Ryswell said in a low voice. "It stays to the barrows of the old Barrow Kings. It will not move. And it's been there since the Call went out."

Ned stared at the two of them. "And this is the first time that you have now told me? No word went to Winterfell. No word of this came to me. Why?"

Barbrey Dustin had gone red in the face, whilst her father was as white as a sheet. But Ned knew why. Her hatred for him was still deep and raw, even after all these years. He had taken her husband South and never bothered to return his bones after his death. Worse, he was not Brandon. She had loved her brother fiercely. The fact that the Lord Paramount of the North was Eddard Stark and not Brandon Stark rankled. The fact that she was not married to the Lord Paramount of the North also rankled.

He wanted to sigh and then pinch the bridge of his nose. He couldn't however. Those two would view it as weakness. And according to Robb when he had marched South there had been a very small number of men from House Dustin. Barbrey had been a thorn in his side for some time, much to his grief.

This was something that he had been hoping to avoid. There was still no news about who Barbrey had designated as her heir, as Willam and she had not had the time to have any children before his death.

He eyed her carefully. He knew better than to ask what her Maester thought of it. She did not like Maesters, or 'grey rats' as she called them. "Are there any records of this ever happening before?"

Her eyes darted around his face. "No, Lord Stark."

"But there is fog on the barrows and no-one knows why?"

"Yes, Lord Stark."

"I will ask Maester Aemon here to search the records of Castle Black for any references to this. And send a raven to Winterfell. Certain records are there, left by my ancestors. Word of this should have come to me before though. Especially if this is tied to the Call."

"I... I didn't think that... I mean..." Barbrey Dustin did not sound as if she was enjoying the words she was speaking.

"Lady Dustin," Ned said gently. "The Call went out for a reason. The Others are coming for all of us. Not just for Winterfell, for all of us. If anything unusual happens then you need to tell me. To send word."

"It's just fog," she hissed, before seeming to collect herself. "But it won't move. And the smallfolk... whisper. About House Dustin being gone."

He looked at her and then sighed. "Not entirely," he muttered. "You have heard of the return of the Company of the Rose?"

Father and daughter looked at each other and then at him. "Aye." The word came from them both.

"There are Dustins amongst them."

Barbrey Dustin's eyes went wide – and then they narrowed. "Dustins? Truly?"

"Aye. Or so it seems. I will be meeting all of them. I will assess the truth of who they claim to be. Let me be clear about this – you are the Lady of Barrowtown, Lady Dustin. You are in charge of Barrowtown and you are sworn to House Stark. If these new Dustins can assist you and help you in this matter then that is enough for me. But it must be resolved. We must know why there is fog on the barrowdowns."

A still red-faced Barbrey Dustin nodded and then she and her father strode out. Ned watched them leave and then shook his head. Those two had long been a problem. Perhaps recent events might solve that problem.

The hour that followed saw the last of the Lords of the North leave Castle Black, including the GreatJon, Roose Bolton and Howland Reed.

"The Last Hearth will be sending more dragonglass to the Wall," the GreatJon boomed at him as he heaved himself into the saddle. "And I'll shout at my idiot son a bit. He's a good lad, but he's got cheese in his ears at times." And then he was gone, riding South with the others.

And after another hour the main gate of Castle Black groaned open North of the Wall. The first people through the gate were led by Mance Rayder. The King beyond the Wall – or whatever he was these days – was wearing a cloak that might once have been black, but which was now a dark grey colour, along with boots and a jerkin that spoke more of the North than beyond the Wall. He led a horse on which was a brown haired women, younger than Rayder, dressed in a hooded cloak. Another woman followed, bundled up in a cloak and hood as well, this one with honey-coloured hair, and after that in strode a large man with red hair, a red beard that you could lose a small dagger in and a look of slightly hesitant confidence.

Rayder and the group walked up to Ned, who now had Jeor Mormont on his right and Robb, Jon and Theon to his left and nodded carefully. "Lord Stark."

"Rayder."

The former man of the Night's Watch was about to open his mouth again when all of a sudden he caught sight of Frostfyre and fell silent. "Ah," he said, before seeing the smaller direwolves. "You Starks don't do things by halves, do you?"

Ned couldn't help the laugh that erupted from his mouth. "No," he said eventually. "We don't. We think that the Old Gods sent them. Just as they spoke through me earlier."

"What?" The red-headed man asked in loud bemusement. "Through you?"

Rayder glared at his lieutenant for a moment. "You'll have to pardon Tormund, his mouth operates without his brain giving permission at times."

"Oh, you should meet the GreatJon. But you should also see Maester Aemon."

A throat was cleared to one side and the old Maester paced forwards. "It's good to see you again, Mance Rayder. As you can see – well, so can I."

Rayder and this Tormund both stared, looking astonished. "Your eyes... you can see?"

"Evidently," Maester Aemon said. "Thanks to the Old Gods and Lord Stark. And may I ask who your other companions are?"

"My... ah." Rayder visibly composed himself, before helping the brown-haired woman down. "This is Dalla. My wife."

"Lord Stark." She was calm, cool, not at all discomposed and all in all impressive. Mance Rayder had chosen wisely.

"And this is Dalla's sister, Val." The hood came down and Ned blinked. If Dalla had been impressive, Val was even more so. Young, blue-eyed, utterly composed and with a gaze that seemed to take everything in. Oh, and very beautiful. He looked at his eldest son, nephew and ward. They were all staring at Val like a direwolf puppy would stare at a bone with some raw meat attached to it. Yearning was the word.

Rayder nodded slightly and then turned to the gate, where the first of his people were coming through. And what a collection they were. Old and young, men and women, some dressed in furs, some dressed in thick tunics, some dressed in what looked like pieces of armour. Some had horses, others shaggy little grey donkeys, some dragged litters others small hand carts. Dogs trotted next to some families, lanky little things that looked more like wolves at times. Goats were herded through, along with white-coated sheep and even the occasional shaggy cow.

Mance Rayder stood by Ned and watched them pass South, that long line of humanity that represented the Wildlings, the Free Folk, call them what you will – fellow men and women who were fleeing for their lives from something unimaginably terrible. After a while Ned realised that Rayder's eyes were shining from unshed tears.

"Perhaps some food for your family?" Ned suggested gently. "I think that we need to talk."

Rayder smiled a strained smile. "Yes," he said thickly, before clearing his throat and trying again. "Yes. That might be a good idea. Your pardon, Lord Stark, Lord Commander. I promised those people that I'd get them somewhere safe. Away from the White Walkers. Somewhere where they'd not see their children turned into wights. I've kept my promise."

Jeor Mormont turned and looked at his former brother with an odd, almost sympathetic, look. "It's good to be reminded of that," he said and then helped to escort Rayder to his office, where he poured out mugs of ale for all three of them. "Luck," he toasted.

"Aye," they all chorused and then drank, before Rayder turned to Ned. "Well now, Lord Stark. Yes, we do need to talk. I imagine that you'll need my word again on keeping that lot under control. I'll not lie to you, I've got a lot of influence with them, but my word is hardly law."

"Oh, I know that. But some influence is better than none. Besides, there's a few things you should know about. There's some people already in the Gift. The Mountain Tribes from the Vale for a start."

Rayder paused for a moment and then drank some more ale with a gulp. "The Old Blood sings, does it not?"

"Oh, it sings. The King is coming to Winterfell too. He has found a Durrandon artefact, a something called Stormbreaker. Old things are waking up."

"Aye," Rayder said quietly, "Aye." Then he looked at Ned. "So – your boys are here, then? You still plan to go to the Nightfort tomorrow?"

"Will you be ready?"

"I will. Tormund too." He stared at the fire for a moment and the skin drew tight at his temples as he seemed to take a deep breath. "Lord Stark, Lord Commander, if we survive this winter, if we live through this war of the living against the dead, then we must have a new beginning beyond the Wall. I have dome much thinking on this and we must try and repair the breach between men North and South of the Wall. The Free Folk were once scouts for the Night's Watch. I would have them return to that old alliance. It will not be easy. But it must be done. I would have..." He took a deep breath. "I would have my child born into a world of hope and not a world of death and hate."

Ned blinked and then exchanged a considering glance with Jeor Mormont. "Your wife is with child then?"

"She is."

He smiled slightly. "So is mine. And your thoughts echo mine. I would have peace on the Wall. Peace beyond the Wall."

Rayder shifted uneasily in his chair. "We need peace. I am just... unsure about how to go about this. I have influence, but I am no king. If Dalla gives birth to a son then he will not be King Beyond the Wall after me. I have given some thought to it however. I would offer alliance between your family and mine." He was very pale now, like a man walking willingly on thin ice. "Val is a great beauty. I would offer her as a marriage alliance to one of your sons, if I may."

Ned felt his eyebrows fly up for an instant, before he got them under control. Then he leant back in his chair and thought deeply. It was an interesting offer. It would start to mend the gaping wounds between North of the Wall and South of it. It would bind Rayder closer to Winterfell. And it would cause his wife to gape at him and half the great houses of the North to wonder if he had concussion. Once people moved beyond that, however...

"I think that this is something we must carefully discuss, Rayder," he said eventually. Then he smiled slightly. "Perhaps it would be easier if you had a title? Lord Rayder of House Rayder, perhaps?"

The other man looked at him questioningly, before throwing back his head and laughing. When he recovered he seemed to realise that Ned was not laughing and that the Lord Commander had an eyebrow raised at Ned – which then came down as he seemed to come to the right conclusion.

"You're not serious?" Rayder barked.

"I am," Ned replied. "You need us and we need you. Alliance."

The King Beyond the Wall stared at him – and then he put his hand out. Ned took it. "Alliance."

Jeor Mormont nodded, before standing up. "And now comes the dickering, so I shall get more ale."

Arya

It was strange, having to think so hard. And she felt that in the last few weeks she'd thought more about life than she ever had before. Winterfell felt almost quiet these days, with Father and Jon and Robb and Theon away. She missed the booming laugh of the GreatJon, the quiet jokes of Lord Reed and above all she missed Jon's quiet wisdom.

Because she needed wisdom right now. She was a warg. She knew that now, beyond any shadow of a doubt. So – what now? She'd been so busy trying to be a warg that she hadn't really ever thought about the implications of it all. What would she do as a warg? Yes, she could bite Septa Mordane's toes and then run away, but what if the Septa hurt Nymeria afterwards, by throwing something at her? She'd never thought of that. Why hadn't she thought of that?

Too busy trying to be warg.

She sat on her bed and looked at her direwolf, who looked back at her with her head tilted to one side. And then she concentrated, concentrated hard. It was still difficult to do, easier than it had been at first, but still hard.

After a moment she closed her eyes, opened them again – and then found herself looking at her own face. The white eyes were always a bit of a shock. She wondered how Mother would react if she ever came upon her body when she was warging. It wouldn't be easy to explain.

She gathered herself and then jumped off the bed. Having four feet was still interesting, but she'd long since mastered walking, had progressed to scampering and she might even be up to running soon. The tail was still a bit of an odd thing to control, but she was getting used to it.

Having trotted twice around the room to get her bearings (and her balance), she then walked over to the door, nosed it carefully open, stepped through, pulled it closed and then looked up and down the corridor. Perfect. No-one around. She darted down it, turned left at the end and then came to a halt. She had a decision to make. Keep exploring or-

Something whiffled in her ear and she almost yelped with surprise. When she turned around she saw that Summer was there, right next to her. The other direwolf was staring at her, tilting his head from side to side as if baffled about something. She glared back at him – and then Summer seemed to blink rapidly and then sit back on his haunches and resumed staring.

She stared back at him – and then he huffed quietly and trotted up the corridor. Halfway to the next corner he turned and looked at her, as if trying to tell her to follow him. Somewhat baffled she followed him.

Much to her interest Summer led her straight to Bran's room. The other direwolf nosed the door open and then led her to the bed. There she could see a motionless figure lying there, face turned to one side. Bran. It was Bran. And his eyes were white.

She stared at her brother, astonished. And then she looked back at Summer, who was staring at Bran as well. At which point the colour returned to Bran's eyes. He blinked everal times and then sat up. "What a strange dream," he muttered – before spotting her. "Nymeria? What are you doing here?"

She huffed and then yipped at him. And then she reached deep inside herself and returned to her own body. Bran was a warg too. She felt a vague sense of frustration that she was not unique, along with a joy that Bran was a warg as well.

Excited she got to her feet and then pelted down the corridor. Nymeria was just leaving Bran's room as she arrived and her puzzled direwolf looked happy to see her. She knocked very briefly and then darted into the room.

"Arya?" Bran asked sleepily. "What's wrong?"

"You were warging!"

"What?"

"You were warging! You were in Summer?"

"What? How do you know?"

"Because I was warging too! I was in Nymeria. I was in the corridor and then Summer came up to me and blew in my ear and then he led me up the corridor and into your room and I could see that you had white eyes, totally white eyes, which is what happens when you warg, and then you woke up – and you asked me what I was doing here! But you thought I was just Nymeria! You're a warg too Bran!"

Her brother stared at her as if she had gone raving mad. "What?"

She scowled at him and then walked over to the door and closed it. The two direwolves were next to the fire and were curling up and getting ready to go to sleep. "We need to talk," she told Bran seriously. "There's a lot you need to know."