┌────── ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ──────┐

└────── ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ──────┘

CATELYN STARK

. All Catelyn could do was stare at her boy, her second to youngest son, and worry. Was he going to be okay? Was his life finally over? He had been so excited to head south, to squire, and have an actual chance at proving himself. To be something other than the second son of a second son.

Now he was nothing. Dead at worst, crippled for life at best.

All because she prayed to the gods to let Bran stay.

"It's time we reviewed the accounts, my lady," Luwin's voice was far away, barely registering in her head, "You'll want to know how much this royal visit has cost us."

No she didn't. She didn't care about that anymore. The accounts meant nothing when she was faced with the possibility of losing her child.

"Talk to Poole about it." She ordered, hoping it would be enough to send the Maester away. She didn't want to see anyone. She didn't want to talk with anyone. All she wanted was to sit next to her boy, her precious boy, and spend as much time with him as he had left.

But Luwin wouldn't leave her alone. No one would leave her alone.

They were all scared she would break. That she would succumb to grief like the Lady Ashara had seven and ten years ago.

But she was a Tully of Riverrun, a Stark of Winterfell. Steel had been forged in her blood when she had lost her mother and younger brother at twelve, and again when Brandon went south and never returned.

She was no weak woman.

But her children were. Her children needed protection. They were still of summer, and winter was coming.

So she would stay by Bran's side until he woke up. She would stay by his side, watching over him as a mother should. As her mother watched over her when she had gotten ill. No one would tear her away.

"Poole went south with Lord Stark, my lady," Luwin continued while irritation boiled in Cat's stomach. Ned shouldn't have gone. She saw that now. Ned should have stayed here until Bran was better. He should have stayed to support her, to support his son. Wasn't that what a husband did? Wasn't that what she had signed up for all those years ago in the godswood? Something dark clawed at her stomach, but she shook it away. Ned was needed elsewhere, to keep him from Robert was selfish, no matter how much she wanted it.

"We need a new steward," Luwin listed, almost treading on eggshells around her, careful not to say anything too offending, "And there are several other appointments that require our immediate attention—"

Cat whirled around at the Maester, fire burning behind her gaze, "I don't care about appointments!" Her voice echoed off the cold walls of Bran's room, and the Maester stumbled back.

"I'll make the appointments," Robb spoke up, and Catelyn turned her gaze toward her eldest son. How long had he been there? Was he always there and she didn't know? "We'll talk about it first thing in the morning."

The Maester nodded, "Very good, my Lord. " He bowed before leaving the room, "My Lady."

Cat sighed, sinking back into her chair, clutching the doll in her hand. It's resemblance to the Crone little, except for the head she was currently shaping.

The woven star sat on her lap, awaiting the newest addition of the seven, and Catelyn's throat closed up as she recalled the last time she stayed up with a sick boy in Winterfell, and the promise she had made then.

Perhaps the gods thought it a perfect punishment then, to take her boy from her. She watched Robb open the windows, the bloody howling of the wolves growing louder, piercing her ears. They sounded so sad, so distraught, but Catelyn couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear any more grief.

She could only stomach her own.

Robb refused to face her, something Ned had done when he disapproved of Cat. She had seen it many times during their discussions of the bastard.

"When was the last time you left this room?" Robb asked, trying to be strong. Trying to sound like his father.

Cat's gaze floated downward, continuing to carve the head of the doll, "I have to take care of him."

"He's not going to die, mother," Robb spoke confidently, "Maester Luwin says the most dangerous time has passed."

She clutched the doll tighter. Maester Vyman had said the same thing before her mother had gone. The Maester's words had done nothing to save her mother, and Luwin's had done nothing to save her son.

They were pretty things, meant to soothe and comfort, but when you're a mother those are luxuries. You worry about your children until the end of your days.

"What if he's wrong?" Cat questioned, catching the heir by surprise, her grip grew tighter, "Bran needs me."

Robb whirled around, an incredulous look in his eyes. The eyes she had given him. "Rickon needs you!" He protested, his voice growing louder, "He's six. He doesn't know what's happening. He follows me around all day, clutching my leg, crying..." Robb trailed off, hanging his head as he turned back toward the window, "I need you." He finally confessed, "Father is gone and without him, I have no idea...."

He trailed off again, and guilt wracked her chest. A sharp pain bloomed underneath her ribs, a physical reminder of her neglect of her sons.

Her eyes flitted toward her bedridden boy, his face serene, like the moon hanging above them. He needed her too. She couldn't leave him, she just couldn't. The howling pulled her away from Bran, the wolves' sad songs only a reminder of her neglect. She had abandoned her sons in favor of the other. But it was necessary. She wouldn't hear the news second-hand. Not like her mother. Not like her brother.

Bran was her child, and she would be there to see the outcome. If only she could get the howls out of her head. But they echoed repeatedly, calling to her, asking her to care, "Close the windows! I can't stand it!" She yelled, standing up from her spot, Robb's eyes growing wider at her outburst, "Please make them stop!"

Robb sighed, hesitating for a moment before turning back toward the open window, the northern wind cooling the room down, threatening to blow out the candles. Robb's hands paused on the shudders, his back tensing as he moved away, her request unfulfilled.

"Fire," He uttered, shock and fear writ across his face, he turned toward Catelyn, an urgent look in his eyes, "You stay here. I'll come back."

Catelyn could only stare in shock, even after Robb was long gone, she stayed at the window, watching the tiny fire grow in size, spilling out the windows of the library.

Footsteps were silent behind her, but the breathing was ragged. She turned slowly, meeting the crazed gaze of a sallow faced man with greying skin, a twisted smile on his lips.

"You're not supposed to be here." He uttered, his smile dying at the sight of her. "No one is supposed to be here."

A chill ran through Cat's bones, and suddenly she found herself wishing that Robb had stayed with her.

The man glanced at Bran before turning his dead eyes back to her, "It's a mercy. He's dead already."

A glint of silver flashed in the candlelight and Catelyn's stomach dropped, "NO!" She yelled, running toward Bran, hand reached out in a futile attempt to stop him. He grabbed her wrist and backhanded her, the force of the blow sending her collapsing onto the furs. Before she could retaliate, a fist was grasping the top of her hair, pulling out strands, the sharp pain nothing compared to what he was going to do to both of them if he had his way, the sound of steel sinking into flesh was heard and she raised her hands up, protecting her throat in case that was the next spot he would go for.

Blood rushed over her thighs, staining the worn dress she hadn't changed out of. But when she dared to look down, she realized it wasn't her blood.

It wasn't his knife. The blade slid out of the assassin's stomach and Catelyn's weight was thrown to the side, slamming into the wooden bedside table.

She was unharmed, she thought. She had protected Bran and she was unharmed.

When she caught sight of her hero, they were blocking the assassin's blows, a head of dark curls obscuring her face, but Catelyn knew who it was.

Shock pulsed through her as Nymeria Martell battled the man who had tried to kill Catelyn. The man who tried to kill Bran.

The woman held the assassin in a chokehold, hands positioned to break his neck at any point. "Who sent you?!" She demanded, her accent slurring her words slightly. It was angry, it was fury. The man refused to answer and the Princess tightened her grip, this time bringing her knife closer to his jugular, "With one nick I can drain all the blood in your body, but it'll be slow....painful. Tell me who sent you and maybe I'll give you the mercy of a quick death."

Catelyn saw the resemblance fully now. The hot-blooded dornishwoman looked like the Red Viper, standing above her prey with a gleam in her eyes. Cat had seen it on many faces at Winterfell. On her own brother's face.

It was pride. And it was her downfall. The man used his strength to slam Nymeria into the wall and snatched the knife from her hand, slicing her palm before turning back to Bran.

Catelyn was weak, but she would not let him harm her son. She moved to position herself in front of the bed when a snarl was heard, and a silvery-grey blur sunk its teeth into the assassin, his screams dying as his throat lay exposed on the floor, vocal cords torn out and swallowed by the wolf who was now settling in next to Bran, placing his snout over her son's stomach, bright yellow eyes never leaving the door.

NYMERIA MARTELL

The antidote was already causing the wound to scab over, blood no longer draining from the cut in her hand. She'd never make a mistake like that again. Pride had been her downfall, much like Oberyn in that regard.

Martells were proud, she mused, but to let that get in the way of a kill, of their objective....it would do no good.

Doran knew this. It was why he had sent her here. He had pride, but not enough to cut off the Starks completely. They would be valuable allies, especially when it came to King's Landing. So here she had remained. And they were lucky she did.

Lady Stark had remained unharmed, Nymeria showing up before the catspaw could eliminate both of them. She examined the dagger before her, the fine Valyrian steel gleaming as she held it at just the right angle. The black dragonbone was smooth, with a golden pommel on the end. Sheathing it, Nymeria handed it back to Lady Stark, the two of them alone in the room where the young Stark boy slept.

"Whoever commissioned it was wealthy," Nymeria announced. Lady Stark had asked her to discover who owned it, seeing as she was the only knife and dagger expert in Winterfell at the moment, "Wealthier than the crown I would say."

Nymeria wasn't hiding anything from the woman. She knew the Lannisters had something to do with Bran's fall, or else Lady Lannister wouldn't have been in such a foul mood the next day. Everyone else was gone during the hunt when the boy fell. Except for the Lannisters.

They were rash. It was plausible they had sent the catspaw to silence the boy.

Luckily, there was one Lannister incredibly close to Winterfell with a certain resentment against the Lady of the house.

"You're sure?" Lady Stark asked, her Tully blue eyes widening at the assessment. She suspected it too, and Nymeria's words were confirmation.

She nodded. Valyrian steel was priceless in Dorne. They had no ancestral weapon to call their own, and while Doran wasn't nearly as upset about it as Tywin Lannister, Oberyn was, even going to far to try and travel to the Doom of Valyria in an attempt to forge his own. Doran had chastised him for it, Nymeria thought it was lucky her uncle didn't contract greyscale in his journey.

Since then House Martell had given up on Valyrian steel, and as Nymeria stared at the gleaming dagger before her, she wondered how such a simple blade could be worth so much.

Lady Stark tightened her hold on the scabbard, moving to close the door to ensure no one would hear them. "What is said must never leave this room."

Nymeria's eyebrow cocked. Oberyn was right, the Starks were a trusting lot. Even if someone had saved her life, Nymeria wouldn't trust them with family secrets. But this was what Doran sent her to do, and if Lady Stark wanted to divulge her plans to them, she wouldn't protest.

"I have reason to believe that my son's fall was no accident," Lady Stark confided, thus confirming Nymeria's suspicion, "And I believe the same people responsible for his fall are the ones who sent the catspaw,"

Nymeria nodded. She was just stating facts at this point. Lady Stark wrung her hands, eyes flitting between her bedridden son and the dagger on the end table.

"The only people wealthy enough to own a blade like that are down south," She spoke cryptically, making sure to never utter the House name even in private, "And we would be at the mercy of the gods if their liege lord found out about our accusation," Lady Stark stepped out from behind the desk, handing the dagger to Nymeria, hilt first. "I know I have no right to ask it of you, but I need to know."

Nymeria understood her request. King's Landing was a month away, the Wall was only a few days ride. She grasped the dagger in her hand, brown meeting blue in a silent agreement.

BRAN STARK

He dreamt he was flying. He had become a raven, cloaked in black feathers. His nose became hooked, hardening into a beak that allowed him to crack even the hardest of seeds, his body soaring high above the realm, until he finally perched on the Wolf's Head near the broken tower. His feathers had melted back into skin, and his beak at became crooked, replaced with human bone.

"Fall" something crowed beside him.

Bran whipped his head to his side, and by his side was the raven he had been, tilting his head slightly at the younger boy.

"Not fall," The bird crowed again, "Fly."

It all came rushing back to him. Golden hair, howling wolves, steel against steel. The things I do for love.

Bran's blood froze, and beside him, the raven seemed to let out a disappointed sigh. "I fell," He replied, trying not to feel silly for talking to the animal. Was this what death felt like? That must be it. He was somewhere in the Seven Hells, faced with his own torture until he could earn his way out.

He had died when he hit the ground, and now he was left with only the raven for company.

"Not fall," The bird repeated, "Fly."

"You're wrong!" Bran yelled, already irritated with the bird. What kind of punishment was this anyway? A stupid one, he decided. His father would have agreed with it. A stupid punishment for a stupid decision, Bran imagined Father saying.

Tears suddenly sprung up in his eyes and Bran fought to push them down. He would never see his family again. He would never see Father or Arya or mother. Never spar with Robb, Jon, and Theon. Or discuss stories with Rickon and Sansa.

It was unfair, he mused.

"Not fair," The raven crowed again, and this snapped Bran out of his thoughts. Could the bird read his mind? "Life not fair."

"At least someone gets it," Bran huffed, drawing his knees close to his chest. He remained in that position for not much longer, because the bird had flown directly at his head, almost sending him into a repeat incident, Bran's reflexes the only thing keeping him from falling.

No, he told himself. Not falling. Flying.

He finally held enough courage to look down, and what he saw burned itself into his memory. Winterfell was below him, Ser Rodrick going about his day the same way Vayon Poole was. But that wasn't possible. Vayon Poole had joined Father in the south.

The map seemed to shift, pulling him forward until he was watching a red-headed woman with a solemn face pore over a drawing of a dagger, her eyes concealed from Bran's vision. The sail flapped in the winds of the Narrow sea, the bow pointed south. Where Bran was pulled again.

He was to go south with his father. He was to go south to be a knight.

But what he saw he cursed. Sansa writhed in her bed, clutching her pillow closer to her while Arya sat opposite their sister, trying to drown out Sansa's sobs with her own secrets, keeping them close to her heart. Never letting another soul touch them. He sees Father on his knees before the King, this time with a haggard look in his eyes, and pleading words leaving his lips.

The Trident. Something whispers in his mind. They're at the Trident.

And all Bran can see is shadows. One tastes of ash and wears the terrible face of a hound, another golden and beautiful and familiar. Bran knew how bright that shadow could shine. And there's one more. One with blood as black as Dragonstone, cold and made of stone. A giant looming over them all.

He's pulled away before he can investigate further, for a brief glimpse at the far east, where dragons squirm and wish to be freed from stone. Their roars are heard by no one except Bran, who sees a large purple shadow beside a much smaller one. He is unsure which the dragons belong to.

The Wall is his last stop. Or so Bran hopes. Jon is growing cold, his doors closed off to his brothers. But when a figure made of moonlight appears beside his bed, entering his room like it was second nature, Jon thaws. Bran knows the moonlight. And a terrible scream echoes in his mind, while stories of Others and the shadow lands of Asshai play in his mind, looming over the Martell Princess and his brother.

The raven pulled him even further. Beyond the Wall, where wildlings are scattering, abandoning their homes to head south. But then he moves even further. To a land he wasn't sure existed. In the Land of Always Winter, he catches a glimpse of creatures long forgotten. Another giant looms over them all. His visor matching the shadow Bran saw earlier. He's cold. And the spires of ice make him want to shrink into himself and never return. But his curiosity gets the better of him. Again.

So Bran removes the visor, and regrets the moment he does.

Icy breath blew into his lungs, expelling out of him and into the air.

His eyes flew open.