BRAN V
"The snows fell softly like a white blanket over the land. He padded over dry needles and yellow leaves, pines and sentinels surrounding him at all sides. The wind blew cold with the smell of the hare, as he trailed to find it. He sniffed at the air. It was in front of him, somewhere. He went on.
His boy-self and the rest of the man-pack were behind him. Their fire was crackling through the night at times, but they would also need meat to sate them. The hare would not be enough for them though. He would eat it himself, when he caught it.
He was tracing the scent up a small ridge of blueberries and red lingon, and there it grew stronger. There the prey had been, hopping over the crest on its grey-brown hindlegs. It was a full and fat prey, especially for a hare.
The chase sent him further on, through brushes and over dead logs where mushrooms grew, the soft, smooth tapper kind that stood out to the sides, looking almost like pale meat. But alas, it was not.
Then he went down again, padding faster and faster over the thicket of the forest floor, growing restless with the pursuit as the scent grew stronger but still there was no sight of the hare closeby.
When he finally caugh up to it, it was an easy match to hunt it down. His legs were long, and though the hare hopped and leapt in all directions, the vexing ways that it always did, he wrestled for the supremacy of the motion, leaping to pounce down on it and breaking its neck with a bite.
His jaws found blood, streaming out from its neck, slaver began to drool from his jaws, as he cracked the hare's neck again, feeling a more definitive crunch this time. The prey was still. And so he put it down carefully, and ate.
His jaws grabbed into the meaty flesh of the hare, only somewhat as large as the length of his jaws, his mouth, as he felt the warmth of its red meat, the blood still pumping, and he gorged himself to sate his hunger.
His black brother was further away to the east, as per usual, hunting after his own prey. He was glad for it. Sometimes his brother's fury would be good, but other times it could easily scare smaller prey away. He only trusted his brother in the pursuit of big game. Deer. Roe deer. They had seen a young elk one time, with its mother. He knew what they were, but still they looked strange, their tall spindly legs and drooping maws pointing down.
When they caught a regular deer, they would feast on it together. It was more than enough for them. Then later they might bring it to the men, to the two clad in white glimmering man-rock, for them to take from them. They barely thanked them, and he did not like the sight of the older man's strangely dead eyes, as he stared down at them, but it did not matter much. It was for the boy, his broken little boy-self. For both of their boys.
He padded around for a while, seeing if there were any birds or else about after finishing the meal. But no. Whatever fowl there might have been, the sound and smell of the blood must have frightened them away. He licked himself off, the best way he could on his own, and drank some water from a nearby stream, before circling back the long way he had came, going back down south and east again.
The pine needles were assembled almost like a path for him, as the moonlight shone upon the forest floor. His boy-self would have thought it beautiful, if dreary. His wolf-self thought it only useful, a sweet and nice path, to find his way back.
The forest began to lighten up, ever so slowly, as he saw and felt his brother approaching from his left, his massive black shape like an empty shadow of night in the light grey mist of late night, early morning in a little while further to come. He had had no luck in his hunt, he thought at first, but then he saw the small green and brown feathers of something prickled around the dark grey muzzle of his mouth. He had caught a bird, then. Perhaps a tjader or a grouse or else.
They greeted eachother, and his brother helped him lick his blood off of him, from his mouth and neck. It was that service he was thankful for most of all, as his brother was otherwise growing wilder and more independent for every passing day. But still, they were brothers, and would continue to be so, he knew, for as long as the same was true of their man-selves, and longer than that as well.
...
When Bran woke up, Senelle was making breakfast for them. Bird eggs from a magpie nest that Meera had found close by, as well as strips of tender meat from the deer Summer and Shaggydog had felled only yesterday. It was not so old yet, and they had fried it up on the fire, on top of one of Erryk's knee plates from his armour, that they used for a pan. Instead of butter, they only had tree sap, making it taste horribly bitter, but Bran forced himself to tug down as much as he could.
They began packing up and riding south in less than an hour later. Erryk put Bran up on Grey Lightning and gave him the reins to the horse while he prepared with the saddle bags.
They rode on for close to two hours, as the sun came up, then took a quick break, and then continued on for yet another two. They rode south and trailing west, correcting their course according to the vague directions of Ser Erryk and Lady Leona, but in truth they only knew to go south, guessing their way forth. White Harbor would be to the south, yes, but also to the east.
They had already passed over the White Knife, the long river that cut the North in half, just east of the Wolfswood. That had been dealt with around six days into their escape, and after that they had all felt safer. They had stayed away from trailing it due south, though. That would have been too eye-catching, as there would surely be small villages all along it. Instead they had continued on east for another two or three days, and then slowly, gradually turned south and then south again for the rest of their journey. Now they were far away from the reaches of Winterfell, far east, deep in the forested North, and heading on southward towards the home of the Manderlys.
...
It was noon before they knew it, and they reached a place where the stream of water was heard close by. Queen Catelyn commanded them to a halt.
"This must be the small eastern side-river of the White Knife", Ser Erryk contemplated. "If it is, we should track it south. It will lead us straight to White Harbour."
"And you are certain that there is such a tributary here?" Mother asked him. "It might just be a small river of any type. I am a riverlander myself, and used to such things, but by the Seven, there seems to be thousands of lakes and rivers in this great cold land", she declared.
The river was large, shaded by the branches of old granes, willows, redwoods, sentinels and fir trees, and wide enough for twenty horses to swim across, if they would only have abided by the cold of it.
"As certain as I can be, My Queen", Erryk confirmed. "I have never been just here, it is true, but I still know the North well by maps and memory. This is the third large side-... the third tributary", he corrected himself for the queen's sake, "that runs into the White Knife. It runs straight south for many miles, all the way down to the coast and the city."
"It does", Lady Leona said, raising her gentle sheepish voice for the first time in several hours. "I am from east of here. We are getting closer now, just to the south of here, Your Grace."
"If that is true, we would be well to still stay on a courteous distance away from it..." Mother contemplated. "There will be settlements here, fisherfolk and the like, who fish from the river."
"A wise choice, Your Grace", Erryk said, "we will keep a mile or two east. As long as we can sense the river flowing in the distance, we will ride close once or twice a day to make certain we are on track."
The wolves would know, Bran thought, but he could still not tell Erryk. He did not seem to like the idea of having a warg around. He had thought Jojen was one, not that it was his own prince that he was sworn to protect.
Bran almost wondered if he would have laid his sword on them, on himself and Rickon both, and the wolves as well, if he had found out. The Glovers must hate wargs, since they lived so close to the Wall and endured the raids of wildlings, as Old Nan had told him at Winterfell.
But no. Erryk would never hurt them, Bran was sure, especially not Rickon, whom he took care of almost like he was his own son, letting him ride on his lap most of the time, and showing him the rough edges of his whetstone when he went to sharpen his sword. Rickon was always fascinated by the patterns on it, as well as the smell of the oil on the cloth. They did not have any oil left other than for the weapons, and had not washed their hair in a fortnight. Perhaps that was why, Bran thought.
His own darker and smooth fringes were slowly coming down over his eyes, but he supposed that he liked it. He would not let Mother or Senelle cut his hair anymore. Not now, that they were up North. It made him feel like Father at times..., only a young, crippled Father. But on horse, at least, his father would have stood just as tall as he did."
...
The wolves were still howling at night, both of them. It did not matter if Erryk or Mandon tried to stop them, to curse at them for giving away their position.
In a way, it should not be a problem. The North was full of wolves, the regular, smaller kind, as he had heard Grand Maester Pycelle tell of many times before when he had asked. If there were any people about in the forest who heard them, they would most like just assume that it was a pack of regular wolves and not the royal direwolves of House Stark.
And Summer and Shaggydog did sound like an entire pack of wolves all on their own, the mere two of them. They filled the air up, filled half the forest with the sound. Summer's howling was longing, filled with grief, for Bran's broken body and for what had happened to them, while Shaggydog's was a more savage, angry sound.
Bran thought that they must miss their siblings, the same way that he and Rickon did. His younger brother had come around to the situation pretty well, but sometimes he would get sad again and wonder why Father or Arya did not come. They would soon return to them, Mother had to promise, over and over again, but Rickon did not seem to believe her very much.
"What are you thinking about?" Jojen asked him all of a sudden, from where he was sitting at the back end of the red destrier, at the forefront of the line.
"Nothing", Bran said.
They had swapped seating arrangements several times, mostly to spare the horses from the weight. Mandon now walked most of the time, close to Mother's Steady East at the back, while Erryk sat with Rickon in his lap on Great Red, the plump Lady Leona, tall thin Lady Eresa and little Jojen behind them, and they all rode at a significantly slower pace, fearing less for any attackers and more for losing their strength before reaching their destination.
Mandon held the reigns to the brown Steady East at the back, the one Rickon still called the Molly horse at times, keeping watch over the rear, with Queen Catelyn and skinny Meera Reed on its saddle. She looked even more like an older version of Arya when so close to Mother, Bran thought.
Only Senelle and Bran sat on Grey Lightning in the middle. The old palfrey was tired, and thin, but so far it was walking on, having possibly improved somewhat in the past couple of days. For a couple of hours each day, to help it coalesce further, Leona and Eresa and Jojen would hop down from Great Red, and Meera would take their place, while Bran and Senelle moved back to Steady East alongside Mother.
Bran could tell that Mother was also getting increasingly worried for the horses, and was close to suggesting that they all hop down from the saddle to walk for most of the day. So far, however, she held up her initial invitation for her bannermen the Reeds to join them on horseback. As a Tully, and the queen of the Seven kingdoms, she had to uphold her politeness and hospitality to both her own ladies-in-waiting and to their newfound guides and travelling companions.
As far as Bran was concerned, the fat Lady Leona and the weasel-like Lady Eresa could very well have suggested to walk on their own, if they had been less spoiled. He cared more for the horses – whose tangible nervousness and fatigue he could sense inside his wolf-self most of the time – than for his Mother's lady retainers, who were as good as useless up here, where there were no banquets or fine feasts for them to chatter at.
He was close to useless as well, in a sense, for being crippled, but he at least had Summer, and Rickon had Shaggydog, who helped to protect them and hunt for prey that they all shared in over cookfires in the evening. Erryk was careful to only let the smoke up when the sky was beginning to grey at night, making it less conspicuous for any villagers or foresters that might be close by.
The Reeds, for their part, would not have minded walking, if it could take some strain off the horses, Bran knew. They were as good as native to these lands, even though they were from the Neck, further to the south-west, and used to walking long distances in the forests and swamps of the North.
Meera could read his thoughts, it seemed, as she suddenly turned around to face Queen Catelyn.
"Your Grace...", she asked, "I was wondering whether me and my brother might walk from here on. Perhaps we could all walk. It would be a well-needed lightness to our poor mounts."
Mother looked down on her young lady crannogwoman prodigy, before deciding to consent with the suggestion.
"You are right, my lady. The horses could well need some rest. We will stop here, and change."
Mandon gave a whistle to Erryk at the front, and they did as told. Eresa was miserable, as she always was, but Lady Leona did not look overly disappointed, all in all, Bran saw. She would soon be at her home lands, and she would have grown up close around these lands as well. Further to the east were the Sheepshead hills, where she was from, as a Woolfield and the wife of Ser Wylis Manderly, and mother to Wynafryd and Wylla, back at King's Landing. He was sure that she must miss her daughters, the same as Mother missed Sansa and Arya.
...
They sat down and tied the horses to a grove of trees where a young weirwood stood, looking east.
"Are you tired, my prince?" Senelle asked Bran.
"No", Bran lied. He did not want to admit such things in front of everyone else present. He was his father's son. He could not show himself tired.
The Reeds treated him as an adult, as a prince in truth, not like a child.
"It would be good if we reached White Harbor", Jojen said, where he sat solemnly underneath the weirwood tree. "And sooner rather than later."
"My brother has the green sight", Meera said. "He dreams things that haven't happened, but sometimes they do."
"There is no 'sometimes', Meera."
A look passed between them, him sad, her defiant.
"Tell me what's going to happen", Bran said.
"I will", said Jojen. "If you tell me about your dreams."
The forest seemed to grow quiet then, somehow. Bran could still hear Mother and Lady Leona speaking further away, and the rustling of leaves, the grunted whickering of the horses, but it was as if he could only sense his own heartbeat for a moment. He was... inside himself, at Jojen's request.
He thought of the golden man, and the three-eyed crow, remembered the crunch of bones between his jaws and the coppery taste of blood.
"I... I haven't had many dreams lately", he said.
"We all hear you waking in the middle of the night, my prince. It is not only Osha who is afraid of something", Meera said.
"Tell us what frightens you so much", said Jojen. "If you tell me your dreams, I will tell you mine, and how I knew to come and look for you. Why I asked my father to send us out here."
"You asked your father because... You wanted to see the king, my father", Bran said, as it was obvious, "and give His Grace your regards and fealty".
"That too", Meera said, "but it is not for King Eddard that we came this time. It is for you."
"I dreamt of a winged wolf, bound to earth with grey stone chains", Jojen said, unmprompted. "It was a green dream so I knew it was true. A crow was trying to peck through the chains, but the stone was too hard and his beak could only chip at them."
"Did the crow have three eyes?"
Jojen nodded.
Summer raised his head and gazed at the mudman with his dark golden eyes.
"When I was little, I almost died of greywater fever. That was when the crow came to me."
"He came to me after I fell", Bran blurted. "I was asleep for a long time. He said I had to fly or die. And I woke up. … Only I was broken and I couldn't fly after all."
"You can if you want to", Meera said. "If you come with us, to where he lives."
"The crow?"
Meera nodded.
"You are the winged wolf, Bran", said Jojen. "I wasn't entirely sure when we first came, but I see now that you are. The crow sent us here to break your chains."
"But I don't have any chains", Bran protested. "Well... apart from that I cannot walk anymore."
"You don't think so, my prince? See. My prince, that right there... The words we speak to you, the fealties we hold for you, and the ones you do for us. Those are chains. You are chained to your father, to your mother, to your house, the same as we are. Only... you are a prince. And even a crown can be a type of chain, and a throne room a prison."
"Well... Where is this crow then? Greywater Watch?" Bran asked.
"No. It is up North."
"At Winterfell? I don't want to go back there. They tried to kill me."
"You won't. It is not at Winterfell."
"At the Wall?"
Bran had wanted to see the Wall. Grand Master Pycelle and his father had told stories about it, of the great men of the Night's Watch, of old Lord Commander Qorgyle, the Dornishman who'd become a northerner, and of course Jaime Lannister, the Lion-Clad-in-Black, who was his uncle Benjen's brother-in-law, or cousin-in-law, or... Something.
His bastard cousin, Jon Snow, whom he had gotten to know well during their first five or six days at the castle, had gone up there to take the black while Bran had stayed in his room. He had wanted to see him off, but his Mother would not let him meet anyone. Perhaps they could meet again if he went up there, Bran thought.
"It is even further north", Jojen said. "But to get there, and to fly... you need to break your chains."
"How do I break the chains? I am born a prince. My father is the king. I must be a prince. And serve my people, as my father and brother. As Robb will when he becomes king. And my people are south, in King's Landing."
"Your people are all of the realm, if your father is the king of all seven kingdoms", Meera reminded him. "And you will still be able to serve them all. There are dangers you need to protect them from."
"The Others..." Bran almost whispered.
"They are coming back", Jojen confirmed.
"Why?"
"I do not know. But I know they are. I have seen it. You must come with us, once we reach White Harbor. Not down to King's Landing."
"But my Mother, and Rickon, and Father and...-"
"You may see them some time again. But not now", said Meera. "Trust me, Bran. The crow is waiting for you. Your destiny is waiting for you. Open your eyes."
"They are open, can't you see?"
"Two are open." Jojen pointed. "The third is still closed. The crow gave the third eye to you, but you have to open it. With two eyes, you can see that oak tree over there. With three eyes, you can see the acorn that it once was, and the stump it will one day become."
…
…
…
Later that night, as the camp lay quiet, Bran whispered to Osha, who was close by.
"Osha? Are you awake?"
He did his best to try and not wake Senelle. She was a light sleeper, ready as always to defend the queen in case anything were to happen to her, so it was almost impossible, but on this night, she lay closer to Mother, and with her shawl over her head, trying to remain dry from the rains. Perhaps she would not hear as well, Bran hoped.
Fortunately, the wildling woman's hearing was as that of a shadowcat. She immediately sprung her eyes open, to stare at him. He almost screamed, but calmed himself when he saw her features change and smoothen out.
"What?" She whispered back, as silently as possible. Her words were like snowflakes dancing.
"Are you awake?" He asked, stupidly.
"What do you want?"
"Do you... Do you know the way north?" He asked her.
She became tired of the whispering then, as she rearranged her sleeping furs and stood up, as silent as a mouse, as stealthy as a cat. She motioned to Bran, and he let her pick him up.
He saw Mother's sleeping face, and the red ruffled hair of Rickon where he was laying, snugly tucked in a comforting embrace between Queen Catelyn and Lady Leona, as they stood up.
Mandon was still keeping watch further away, but he had not heard them yet, it seemed. He was standing up, propped up next to the pine tree, with his gaze turned around the camp, to any possible pursuers in the night, and not to see if his prince or the wildling woman awoke. They snuck away.
When they reached a small grove of thornbushes some fifty or sixty feet away, Osha put him down and they could talk in hushed voices.
"Do you know the way north?" Bran once again asked, repeating his question from earlier.
Osha looked at him.
"I've come from there, haven't I? Aye, I know the way, little prince. But I'm ne'er goin' back there."
"Well... How does one get there?"
"It's easy enough. Just go north of the ice dragon in the sky and chase the blue star in the rider's eye."
Bran had heard of the ice dragon before. Grand Maester Pycelle had taught them about the constellations before, and even showed them in his long Myrish lense one time. They had all been excited then.
It had been night-time, the hour of the bat, or the wolf, or even later perhaps. Sansa, Bran and Arya had all been sitting huddled close at the front, along with Wylla, Haelda and all the rest, with Robb standing up to look while Grand Maester Pycelle had instructed him how to turn the knobs on the strange long cylinder-shaped device.
"Yes... Very good, my Prince", Grand Maester Pycelle had said, as he helped Robb turn and look. "If you watch closely up you may see the Red Rider, the Horseman, so named for the red stars in the lines. It is a man holding a large bow and arrow on top of a horse. And there is also another rider beside him, though less clearly seen. Together, they are known as Harlon the Huntsman and Herndon of the Horn in the Reach, after the founders of House Tarly. Some in the Free Cities call them Dothraki riders, as well... But the stars, my prince, are far older than either of them, older than bows and arrows, or horses, or the fancies of men."
"I see it", Robb said. "I've seen them many times before. Let Bran have a look."
Bran had become all excited with tingling then, for his first chance to see through the Myrish looking-glass. At first he had not seen anything. He had half expected the lines from Grand Maester Pycelle's book to be drawn out in the sky, for him to easily follow and trail along, but it was not nearly as clear as that. Still, with a little time and instruction from Grand Maester Pycelle, he had been able to see the contours of the two riders. It helped that they stood out. Especially the bow of the foremost rider was particularly eye-catching against the empty backdrop of blue-black night sky.
He remembered those times well now, and longed back for the Red Keep. He longed for his brother Robb, and Grand Maester Pycelle's many myriad lessons, about the stars and the far away lands of men and beasts, and even of sums and letters, he found. But he also knew that if he wanted to see any of the wonders of the world for himself, and not only through the Grand Maester's books, he would have to grasp for it himself. He would have to open is third eye and fly, as Jojen had put it.
The ice dragon was further north in the sky than the riders, facing towards the Iron Gate and Duskendale and Rosby beyond. Up here, as they had seen once or twice in the night when the trees had not been in the way, here it was still pointing up north, but it was all closer somehow. It pointed up, towards the Bolton lands, and the Umber lands, and towards the Wall, and even beyond...
Bran turned to Osha again.
"If you are from beyond the Wall... Have you seen any giants? Are they still there? Are they real, or are they all dead? And the children of the forest? And... the rest..."
He stopped himself from speaking of the Others. It was considered ill luck to do so. Father had told him to not speak of such things in vain. And even though Osha claimed to be fleeing from them, he would rather not take the word into his mouth, unless she did again. And maybe not even then. There was something about talking of them, especially up here in the North, that gave Bran a chill that went deep into his bones.
"The giants I have seen. The children I've heard tell of. And the white walkers... They are coming."
Bran shuddered.
"Why are you asking me all this, little prince?" Osha said.
"Because I want to know. Down in King's Landing, noone has seen such things. It's all histories and legends. Old stories from Grand Maester Pycelle's books."
He stopped himself, suddenly, realizing what he had said.
"Well... A book, a book is...-"
"I know what a book is, little prince", Osha said annoyed, "though I can't say I've seen many with my own eyes. Most of us free folk use runes instead, if we need to get something down. Lasts for longer. Paper and parchments will rot, or be like to swirl away in winter times, but runes on rock or bone will last, come storm or rainfall or snows. You just trust me on that, little prince."
"Well... I simply... I mean... I only want to know if the stories are true. About the giants, and all... It is so exciting."
"It's not very exciting, if you ask me. They smell awful. And they are hideous to look at as well."
"But still... They are huge! Larger than any man, or beast."
"They ain't larger than their mammoths."
"There are mammoths still there as well?" Bran was practically screaming his whispers with excitement, even though he had to keep quiet in order to not wake Senelle or his Mother, or any of the Reeds, who had hearing like shadowcats.
"There sure are. Though not as many as there used to be. They have been hunted, by the Thenns, and by some others as well. And each winter fells some few. Though not as many as fells us, of course. It is not a nice place, little prince. That is why I want to gow down south."
"But I... How could you leave such a place? It's all like a story! I would love to be there", Bran insisted. "To look at giants and mammoths..."
"I said they stink, don't I?"
"I could always cover my nose up when I went forth to see them", Bran countered. "And then maybe they would let me ride one."
"They would not", Osha promised. "Not for king or king's blood. The giants don't believe in such things. Not even Mance Rayder has been allowed to ridden on a mammoth, as far as I know."
"Will you tell me more about the mammoths?" Bran pleaded. "Please, I just want to know more."
"Is it knowing things we're after now?" Osha said. "Well, in that case, I could ask you something, then."
"Go on", Bran encouraged.
"Have you seen gold? Have you seen fine fat men and women, living in a happy warm land down south with all the food and drink and seed and meed they could ever need? Where none of their children need go hungry? Where noone needs to starve? Where there are three whole kingdoms as a shield between you and what wants to cut you down and feast upon your innards in the night?"
Bran was taken aback by the question.
"I... I have", he confirmed. "There are no people starving in King's Landing. Well, not now anyway. It's still summer. It has been, for all my life."
"Aye, little prince... You think on that the next time you want to know things. You think on whether you can fill your belly, or warm your little broken legs in the night with your knowledge. You think, and then maybe you will be rid of your will to know."
Bran though on that. She had a point, of course. He had wanted to see Winterfell, to see his uncle Benjen, fathers' brother, and his cousins, to see Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lion-Clad-in-Black, whom his father had exiled to the Wall close to twenty years ago, even before Robb had been born. He had wanted to climb up and see the crows and ravens on top of the Broken Old Tower. And he'd fallen...
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he would do best to stop asking and wondering. But the Reeds were just as curious as he was, though they knew more already. Does it ever end? Bran thought. If even Jojen does not know what is beyond the wall... Even Osha, who has been there, she has seen the giants, but she has not seen the children with her own eyes...
He wanted to go home, of course, but he would also like to see a giant or two. And a mammoth, or two, or three, or half a hundred, in their giant herds, roaming across the valleys of the cold plains of the North, even if they stunk a little. Surely Grand Maester Pycelle would understand his curiosity, if he had been with them. Or the grey, rat-like Maester Luwen at Winterfell, who had helped him to heal after his fall. Yes, Bran decided. They would know. They would understand better, the worth of all things she had seen.
She did not even use books, he thought, relying on runes instead. She was just a superstitious old wildling woman. But a man of curiosity, a man who knew the worth of asking questions... He could write an entire book himself of the things he had seen, if he'd seen them. Maybe he would. His father would not object to him becoming a maester, he was sure. He had wanted to become a Kingsguard, like Jory, to protect his father and Robb, and to be a brother to Jory and Erryk and Ser Barristan and all the others... But with his legs now as useless as they was, the only thing he might hope for when they got back to King's Landing was to be a maester, or else the prince and lord of some small holdfast in the crownlands. Maybe Rosby, if Lord Gyles were to die within the coming years. He had not seen very much in health when they'd left the city.
But no matter what, he would still like to know things. After all, what was a crippled prince to do all of his days if not use his mind? He had looked forward to being allowed to practice more with Ser Aron in the courtyard, to practice at wooden swords with Robb and Gerion and Quentyn in time, perhaps in another year or two, when he would turn nine. But now, he had only his mind to see to.
...
They went back to the camp, Osha laying Bran down beside her on the make-shift sleeping rushes and saddlebags as Mandon still stood as an immoveable statue further away, his gaze still turned outward, looking to the northwest.
Bran did his best to get his legs into position again, bending down in silence and pulling at them. Finally, he tired, and let them be as they were. He could not feel them, at any rate.
The woods was still silent. Only the sound of owls and crickets were heard around them, and the ground, filled with pine needles and grass, was cold and wet.
"Osha... " Bran whispered again, finally. "I have to know, most of all... What do they say about the three-eyed crow... north of the Wall?"
The wildling woman looked deep into his eyes, staring with a sense of doom for a still moment, before she shook the question away.
"They say all sorts of mad things north of the Wall. Sleep now, little prince. You Go to sleep."
