Blake

Bran Stark had been found at the base of the Broken Tower, apparently having fallen during one of his climbs. His body had been bent and broken, though Maester Luwin claimed that he would survive. Given he'd fallen a fairly decent distance onto hard packed dirt, well, surviving that was a miracle at best. Blake was thankful that the sweet boy survived, even if the worst was yet to come. If he woke up without the use of his legs, then he would be considered useless by most families. It would be very hard for him to continue the family line, and to become a knight, which had been his dream. Even the most desperate gold digger would have some doubts about marrying a man unable to walk, even if he was in line to inherit Winterfell. The gods may have been merciful in granting him his life, but they were also cruel in the price exacted for it.

"Those direwolves have been keeping me up all night." Uncle Andrew complained with a sip of mulled mead. Blake was inclined to agree, with the bags under her eyes nearly as dark as her hair. The howling was grating to hear, especially given she was certain one of them was right under her window all night.

They broke their fast in the hall of the Guest House, as the Starks were too busy and heartbroken over the sudden accident that befell their beloved son. Blake sat at a table away from the Lannisters, as was the norm the past few days. The air smelled of burning wood and damp fur, a mix of warmth and foreboding. Blake sat at one end of the long table, her hands wrapped around a cup of mulled wine, though she had hardly drunk from it. Several of her Father's knights and bannermen joined them, eating, drinking, and shouting about the wolves keeping them up at night as well.

Blake ignored his complaint as she pressed the cup to her lips, taking the smallest of sips. The sweet and spicy concoction flowed down her throat, warming her slightly. "Do you think Lord Stark will accept Uncle Robert's offer?"

Uncle Andrew released a dry chuckle, the sound low and rumbling like stones rolling down a hill. He set his cup down on the rough-hewn table, his eyes narrowing as if weighing the question. The mulled mead sloshed slightly, its rich, spiced scent mingling with the acrid smell of smoke from the hearth. He eyed the Lannister siblings, Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime and the Queen, who were engrossed in their own conversation, for the briefest of seconds.

"Eddard Stark's honor is as thick as the walls of Winterfell," Andrew said, leaning back in his chair. His voice carried the faintest trace of derision, though he lowered it out of respect for their hosts—or perhaps fear of their wolves. "Honor and pride go hand in hand. Lord Stark will consider it, aye. But accept it? That'll depend."

Blake tilted her head, her short dark hair falling over her shoulder as she did so. "Depend on what?"

Andrew smirked, a faint gleam of mischief in his eyes. "Depends on whether he can stomach swallowing his pride to please a king who has all but turned into a bloated shadow of the man he once called brother."

To some, that would and could be considered as treasonous talk, yet Uncle Andrew was the King's cousin, even if he was closer to Father than Uncle Robert. Blake didn't respond immediately as she considered his point. She turned her gaze toward the distant window, where the pale light of morning struggled to cut through the heavy storm clouds that loomed over Winterfell. Snow was beginning to fall, soft and silent, blanketing the yard in fresh white. The direwolves had quieted for now, but their absence was almost as unsettling as their howls.

"The Maesters do not know when young Bran will wake." Uncle Andrew continued, taking her silence as acquiescence. "Or whether he will live to the new year."

Blake tightened her grip on the cup, her knuckles whitening as the warmth seeped into her palms. "He'll live," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "The boy's a Stark."

"Endurance and recovery are two different things, my dear niece. A broken boy is a heavy burden, even for a family as proud as the Starks. They'll keep him, of course, what else can they do? But how long before his presence becomes a constant reminder of their grief? And what of the boy himself? A life without purpose can weigh heavier than death. You said he wished to earn a knighthood, yet now he can't even ride a horse." Uncle Andrew raised his eyebrow as his lips turned into a sad smile, offering pity, despite his words content.

"A broken boy isn't a lost cause. There are other paths besides knighthood, other ways to serve a family." Blake defended. Becoming a Maester meant renouncing his family name, but there were always more options. "The gods will decide his fate, and when he wakes, we'll see what he chooses to do."

Andrew shrugged, taking another long sip of his mead. "If the gods haven't decided already."

All Blake could do was hope her Uncle was wrong. She looked away, turning her attention back to her mulled wine.

She wasn't hungry anymore.

Blake spent the rest of the day wandering the grounds, the air somber and cold like the North it was. Before she knew it, dusk had already started to fall, and darkness would soon overtake Winterfell. The Broken Tower loomed against the pitch black sky, its jagged stones frosted with snow and ice. Blake pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she crossed the courtyard, her boots crunching against the fresh layer of snow that coated the ground. The cold air stung her cheeks, but she ignored it, her focus fixed on the dark silhouette of the tower.

The dark would be her ally, especially with Winterfell being filled to the brim with watchful eyes. She soon reached the base of the Broken Tower, where Bran had been found broken and unconscious. The sounds of the keep, clanging swords in the training yard, distant laughter from the Great Hall, and the low murmur of voices, faded into a muffled hush in the distance.

With her Aura enhanced eyes allowing her to see better in the dark, Blake scanned the bricks carefully. The bricks were uneven and aged, their surfaces slick with ice and snow. It did seem plausible he could've just slipped from high enough up, if he made the wrong move. Yet, something about it bothered her. He had been climbing for quite some time, he wasn't an utter novice at it.

Thankful for the trousers she had decided to wear in lieu of a dress or skirt, Blake started to climb. The icy chill of the stones seeped through Blake's gloves as her fingers gripped the weathered edges of the Broken Tower. Each foothold was a gamble; the ice and snow had rendered many of the stones slippery and treacherous. This seemed to reinforce her initial theory of an accidental slip, because even with her Aura helping her, this task was very difficult. She needed to work out more, her muscles still weren't in peak condition, even with her secret exercises. Once she returned to Dragonstone, she'd spend more time in the yards, especially since there was a good chance war was coming, she'd need it. The wind whipped around her, biting against her cheeks and tugging at her cloak, but she pressed on.

Blake soon reached an opening in the side of the Broken Tower, and pulled herself inside. The interior was dark and smelled of rot and decay. As she set foot on the floor, she could hear a groaning below her, as the wooden floor dipped somewhat. She'd have to watch her footing here, it was in disrepair and falling through to her death would certainly be ironic, given the circumstances.

Still, most of the floor seemed like it could support several people, as long as they took care to avoid any rotten boards. A squeakcaused Blake to quickly pull out a dagger, holding it in a reverse grip as her amber eyes scanned the rest of the ruined room. From a corner, beady red eyes stared back at her, as Blake leveled a glare at it.

It was a stupid rat, and this cat was never fond of rodents. She always did prefer fish, stereotypical as it may be. Blake released a breath and lowered her dagger, satisfied there wasn't an actual threat present. The rat skittered back into the shadows, chirping and clawing its nails into the cold stone. Blake sheathed her blade but kept her hand near the hilt as she moved through the room, keeping her footsteps sure and steady. Her enhanced senses made it easier to navigate the dark, but even they couldn't eliminate the eeriness of the place.

She went to one knee, a gloved hand touching the wooden floor, her eyes scanning each piece. Suddenly, something caught her eye, a faint hint of color amongst the dust and debris. Blake crouched, brushing away the grime, and uncovered a small piece of torn cloth. She held it up to the faint moonlight filtering through the cracks in the wall.

The fabric was red, fine and richly dyed, far too expensive for any servant or commoner, unless they belonged to a certain House. Blake narrowed her eyes once more, running her thumb over the material. Red and gold were the colors of the Lannisters, and while it was possible this was a mere coincidence, Blake sincerely doubted that.

Someone had been here; someone who didn't belong. The torn fabric wasn't enough evidence to condemn the Lannisters, but it was a start, and it was enough for Blake to believe that Bran's fall was no mere accident. She clenched a fist with the torn fabric in the middle of her palm. Blake couldn't jump to conclusions, not yet at least. If the Lannisters were involved, she would need more proof. The stakes were too high to act on a hunch, Father had raised her better than to jump into a situation headfirst.

Whatever had happened to Bran Stark, whatever secrets the Lannisters may or may not have had, Blake knew one only one thing.

This wasn't over, not by a long shot.

A/N

Time to start slinging out chapters fast. This arc will soon end.