The flames devouring the eastern storehouses cast dancing shadows against the grey stone walls of Winterfell, transforming the ancestral architecture into a grotesque spectacle of light and shadow. Robb Stark directed the efforts with the authority of someone born to command, though the sweat soaking his forehead and the soot staining his face revealed the brutality of the battle against the unleashed fire.
"Form a line from the north well!" he ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos with the same sharp clarity as winter wind. "Archers watch the stable roofs! Any spark that flies, bring it down with wet arrows!"
The ingenious strategy began to bear fruit. Buckets passed from hand to hand with military efficiency, while men stationed at elevated positions, armed with bows and soaked arrows, intercepted flying embers before they could spread the fire to adjacent structures. The fire's roar, though still formidable, began to yield to northern determination.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, his characteristic white beard now greyish with ash, approached the young lord panting.
"The western section is contained, my lord," he reported between labored breaths. "But the main storehouse... I fear we'll lose it completely."
Robb nodded, his gaze calculating losses and priorities with the pragmatic coldness that emergencies demanded.
"What exactly did it contain?"
"Mainly grain from the last harvest, some tanned leather, and farming tools," the master-at-arms responded. "A significant loss, but not catastrophic for our reserves."
The young Stark narrowed his eyes, evaluating the pattern of flames with renewed attention. Something about how the fire had spread awakened his suspicions.
"This fire began at least three distinct points simultaneously," he observed, pointing to the different columns of smoke rising toward the night sky. "This is not chance's work."
Ser Rodrik frowned beneath his thick white eyebrows, understanding darkening his countenance even further.
"A distraction," he murmured, his hand instinctively seeking his sword's hilt. "For what purpose, my lord?"
A chill ran down Robb's spine, a primitive presentiment that had nothing to do with the North's cold.
"Bran," he whispered, his brother's name barely audible beneath the crackling of collapsing beams. "Bran is in danger!"
Without waiting for confirmation, the young lord turned toward Theon Greyjoy, who supervised the archers with the characteristic arrogance of ironborn sons.
"Theon! Continue directing the fire containment!" he ordered, already striding away rapidly. "And double the guard at all castle entrances!"
"Where are you going?" shouted the young Greyjoy, confusion evident on his soot-stained face.
"To protect my family!" was the only response he received, Robb's silhouette already fading among the shadows cast by the walls.
The heir of Winterfell traversed courtyards and corridors with the desperate speed of one who fears arriving too late. His boots echoed against the ancestral stone, the sound multiplying in the empty passages. Most of the garrison had been deployed to fight the fire, leaving entire sections of the fortress with minimal protection.
Exactly as whoever orchestrated the distraction planned, he realized with growing fury.
Upon rounding the last corner leading to Bran's chambers, the absence of the guard who should have been posted before the door confirmed his worst fears. With his heart hammering against his chest, he drew his sword in a fluid movement and pushed the door with his shoulder, prepared to face any threat.
The scene he found inside the room left him momentarily paralyzed.
Dark stains of blood spattered the stone floor, forming a grotesque path from the entrance to the bed where his brother lay. Ethel, the Volantene merchant, held a dagger whose blade reflected the candlelight with an unnatural gleam characteristic of Valyrian steel. Beside him, the red priestess lit what appeared to be aromatic herbs in a small bronze brazier, while murmuring words in an unknown language.
His mother stood beside Bran's bed, her expression oscillating between horror and the icy fury that only Catelyn Tully was capable of manifesting. Summer, his brother's direwolf, had his muzzle stained with fresh blood, his fangs exposed in a continuous growl directed toward the now-empty door.
"What has happened here?" demanded Robb, his voice tense with a mixture of confusion and alarm.
Catelyn turned her blue eyes toward him, momentary relief slightly softening the tension lines on her face.
"An assassination attempt," she responded with chilling calm. "While the castle's attention was focused on the fire, an armed man with this dagger"—she pointed to the weapon Ethel held—"tried to kill your brother."
Understanding fell upon Robb like an avalanche, cold and crushing.
"The fire was deliberate," he confirmed, slowly lowering his sword though not sheathing it. "A perfectly calculated distraction."
Ethel nodded gravely while extending the dagger so Robb could examine it.
"This is not a common assassin's weapon," the Volantene pointed out. "Valyrian steel with a gold hilt and an embedded garnet. A piece worthy of a great lord's treasury or even the royal family."
The implication was disturbing. Robb took the weapon, surprised by its lightness despite its ornate construction. The balance was perfect, the blade so sharp it seemed to divide the air itself.
"Where is the assassin?" he asked, returning the dagger to Ethel.
"The guards have taken him for interrogation," Catelyn responded. "Though I doubt we'll get much from him. He reeked of wine and seemed more a pawn than a mastermind."
"A pawn armed with a dagger worth enough to buy a mansion in Lannisport," Robb observed, suspicion crystallizing in his mind. "Someone very powerful wants Bran dead."
"The question is who," Melisandre intervened, her crimson eyes glowing with supernatural intensity in the light of the burning herbs. "And what secrets might a child who climbed apparently deserted towers have discovered."
The silence that followed weighed like lead. None needed to articulate the question floating in the air: what had Bran seen that justified such determination to silence him?
Robb finally sheathed his sword and approached the bed where his little brother lay unconscious, apparently oblivious to the chaos and violence surrounding them. His childish face remained serene, long lashes motionless against pale cheeks.
"The fire is practically controlled," he informed, gently running a hand through Bran's brown hair. "I left Theon supervising the last hotspots. Fortunately, we only lost one main storehouse and part of a secondary structure."
Catelyn nodded, though it was evident her mind was occupied with more immediate concerns than material losses.
"We need to increase the guard," she declared. "Not just for Bran, but for all of Winterfell. If someone has dared attack a Warden's son within his own walls..."
"We will," Robb assured, placing a hand on his mother's shoulder in a gesture meant to convey more confidence than he actually felt. "The North remembers this betrayal."
The ancestral phrase of the Starks, normally a warning to their enemies, now acquired the weight of a solemn promise.
Melisandre rose from where she had been preparing her herbs and potions. The aroma emanating from the brazier had transformed the room's atmosphere, infusing it with an ethereal quality that seemed to blur the boundaries between the tangible and the dreamlike.
"If you permit me," she said, her voice melodious but firm, "I would like to continue with the ritual that might help your brother find his way back from the shadows where his mind has wandered."
Catelyn looked at Robb, a silent question in her eyes. The young Stark, though formed in the North's pragmatic tradition that distrusted foreign magics and rituals, nodded slowly.
"Maester Luwin's medicine has failed to wake him," he acknowledged. "And after what happened tonight, it's clear that time is not on our side."
Melisandre inclined her head respectfully before addressing Catelyn.
"The ritual requires privacy and absolute concentration, my lady," she explained. "The presence of those who share blood ties with the child may be beneficial, but other observers could interrupt the delicate threads I will attempt to weave between this world and the plane where his consciousness wanders."
Ethel, catching the hint, performed a measured bow.
"With your permission, I will withdraw to allow my associate to work without distractions," he offered. "However, I would suggest that two trusted guards remain posted outside the door at all times."
Robb nodded, grateful for the suggestion.
"So it shall be. And I personally thank you for your intervention tonight. Without your presence and that of..."—he looked toward the direwolf, whose fur still showed patches darkened by dried blood—"Summer, my brother probably wouldn't have survived until my return."
Ethel smiled with a circumspect expression, inclining his head slightly.
"Sometimes, my lord, fate places the right people in the right place and time," he responded with an ambiguity that went unnoticed in the moment's tension. "I will pray to the gods, both yours and mine, for young Brandon's swift recovery."
With these words, the merchant left the room, gently closing the door behind him. In the corridor, two northern guards already occupied positions on both sides of the threshold, their faces hardened by news of the attempt on their lord's son.
Inside the room, Melisandre had begun tracing complex symbols with what appeared to be reddish sand on the floor around Bran's bed. Her precise and fluid movements revealed years of practice in similar rituals.
"What we are about to attempt," she explained while working, her voice acquiring an almost hypnotic tone, "is not properly a physical healing. Broken bones and damaged tissues will follow their natural recovery process. What we seek is to build a bridge between worlds, a path that Brandon's lost spirit can recognize and follow back to his body."
Catelyn, now seated beside the bed's head, gently held her son's motionless hand between hers.
"Is there any risk?" she asked, the inevitable question of a mother faced with practices beyond her understanding.
Melisandre's scarlet eyes met Catelyn's with stark honesty.
"There are always risks when crossing the veil between worlds, my lady," she admitted. "But at this moment, the greatest danger to your son comes not from this ritual, but from those willing to burn Winterfell to silence him permanently."
The priestess turned toward Robb, who watched her preparations with a mixture of fascination and wariness.
"Lord Stark, I will need you to position yourself at the foot of the bed," she instructed. "And if possible, have the wolf position itself on his master's right side. The bond they share will be fundamental to what we attempt tonight."
Robb obeyed, positioning himself where the priestess had indicated. Summer, as if understanding every word, settled in the designated place, his enormous head resting on the mattress edge, inches from Bran's hand.
Melisandre lit seven red candles, placing them at specific points of the diagram she had traced. Next, she extracted from her robes a small vial containing a thick, dark amber liquid.
"A few drops under the tongue," she murmured, approaching Bran. "To strengthen the connection with his animal and facilitate transit between planes of consciousness."
With experienced fingers, the priestess gently separated the child's lips and deposited three precise drops of the mysterious liquid. Then she closed the vial and began chanting words in a language neither Catelyn nor Robb recognized. The chant's rhythm was hypnotic, with modulations that seemed impossible for a human throat.
The room's air became dense, almost palpable. The red candle flames stretched vertically, immobilized as if time itself had stopped for them. A supernatural silence descended upon the chamber, so profound that even distant castle sounds seemed to fade away.
Summer emitted a long, piercing whine, a sound that raised the hair on Robb's neck. The direwolf's eyes momentarily acquired a whitish gleam, as if reflecting a light nonexistent in the room.
And then, when the tension seemed unbearable, the miracle occurred.
Brandon Stark's eyelids trembled visibly. A weak movement at first, almost imperceptible, that gradually gained intensity until his eyes opened suddenly.
But they were not the eyes Catelyn and Robb remembered. The pupils were dilated until they almost devoured the iris, and in them shone an ancient and disturbing knowledge that was deeply unsettling in a child's face.
"Bran," Catelyn whispered, leaning toward her son with tears overflowing her eyes. "Oh, Bran, my little one..."
The child blinked slowly, as if adapting to a reality that seemed strange after his long sleep. When he spoke, his voice sounded raspy from disuse, but with surprising clarity.
"Mother," he said simply, recognition gradually illuminating his features. "Robb."
A trembling smile formed on Catelyn's lips as she clasped her son's hand between hers.
"You're safe, darling," she assured him, tenderly brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. "You're home."
Bran observed the room with a gaze that seemed to pierce the stone walls, finally fixing on Melisandre. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if perceiving something in the priestess that escaped ordinary perception.
"The crow guided me back," he murmured, the words barely audible. "Through the darkness. It showed me... it showed me..."
His voice broke and a shudder ran through his small body. Robb immediately leaned forward, placing a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Don't strain yourself now, Bran," he said gently. "You have all the time in the world to tell us what you saw."
The child weakly shook his head, an incomprehensible urgency tensing his youthful features.
"No," he insisted. "There's no time. I saw them coming from beyond the Wall. There are too many and they bring the cold with them."
Catelyn and Robb exchanged a worried look. The words sounded like the feverish delirium of a convalescent child, but there was a disturbing conviction in his tone.
"You need rest, my little one," Catelyn murmured, gently stroking his cheek. "You've been asleep for weeks."
Something in Bran's expression changed, a shadow of understanding crossing his childish face. He tried to sit up, only to discover his legs didn't respond to his will. Panic briefly flashed in his eyes.
"I can't... I can't feel my legs," he whispered, fear breaking his voice.
Robb hastened to support his brother's shoulders, helping him recline against the pillows again.
"The fall was serious, Bran," he explained with all the gentleness he could muster. "Maester Luwin says you'll need time to recover completely."
It was a merciful lie. The maester had been clear in his diagnosis: Brandon Stark would never walk again. But that was a truth too brutal for the child's first moment of consciousness.
Bran contemplated his brother with a gaze that was disconcertingly adult.
"I won't walk again," he affirmed with a certainty that chilled Catelyn's blood. "I saw it in the dream. But I will fly, Robb. I will fly higher than anyone."
Melisandre, who had remained in respectful silence during the family reunion, stepped forward. Her presence seemed to have intensified during the ritual; the ruby at her throat pulsed with its own light, like a supernatural heart beating to the rhythm of flames that still burned perfectly vertical.
"The young wolf has returned, but he needs rest," she declared with a voice serene but authoritative. "What he has experienced during his journey beyond the veil has been exhausting for his spirit."
As if to confirm her words, Bran's eyelids began to close heavily, though he visibly fought against the exhaustion invading his body.
"I don't want to sleep again," he protested weakly. "The dreams... they're too real now."
Catelyn kissed his forehead with infinite tenderness.
"We'll be here when you wake," she promised. "You won't get lost in the darkness again."
The child nodded slightly, his eyes finally yielding to the weight of fatigue. His breathing became deep and regular, but it was evidently different from the comatose state he had remained in for weeks. It was, simply, the restorative sleep his body and mind needed.
When they were sure Bran slept peacefully, Robb turned toward Melisandre, gratitude and suspicion waging an evident battle in his expression.
"You have returned my brother to us," he acknowledged in a low voice so as not to disturb the child's sleep. "And for this, House Stark is in your debt. However..."
Melisandre completed the thought with an enigmatic smile.
"You wonder what price such a miracle carries, and whether you should fear the consequences of allowing foreign magic in your ancestral home."
Robb nodded, admiring the woman's frankness.
"Northerners naturally distrust what we don't understand," he admitted. "And what I've witnessed tonight transcends my understanding."
"Some gifts require no payment, Lord Stark," the priestess responded, her gaze drifting toward the window where the sky began to lighten with dawn's first hints. "At least, not from you. The Lord of Light has his own designs, and your brother has a role to play in the great war that approaches."
Catelyn, who hadn't taken her eyes off her sleeping son, looked up sharply.
"What war do you refer to?" she asked keenly.
The priestess didn't respond directly. Instead, she moved toward the door with fluid and elegant movements.
"Dawn has come," she declared. "And with it, new truths that must be revealed in due time. For now, celebrate your son's return, Lady Stark. Tomorrow will be time for other conversations."
With these enigmatic words, Melisandre left the room, leaving behind an aroma of exotic spices and the persistent echo of her ritual chant.
Robb and Catelyn remained beside Bran's bed, observing the peace that had finally returned to his childish face. Summer had settled completely on the bed, his enormous body protectively curved around his master's motionless feet. The bond between them seemed to have intensified after the ritual, as if they now shared more than a simple connection between human and animal.
"Do you think he really saw something beyond the Wall?" Robb asked in a low voice, remembering his brother's strange words upon awakening.
Catelyn sighed, exhausted by the night's extreme emotions but with renewed determination shining in her blue eyes.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I do know these haven't been coincidences: Bran's fall, the assassination attempts, these foreign merchants arriving just when we needed them most..." Her expression hardened. "Your father always says winter is coming. I fear he refers to something more terrible than cold and snow."
Robb nodded gravely, his youth momentarily eclipsed by the weight of responsibilities falling on his shoulders.
"Whatever it is, we'll face it," he declared with the characteristic determination of the Starks. "As we always have: together, strong and resilient as ice itself."
Mother and son remained in vigil while Winterfell slowly awakened around them, the night's events gradually transforming into rumors that would course through halls and courtyards for days. Servants and guards would exchange increasingly exaggerated versions about the fire, the assassination attempt, and the young lord's miraculous awakening.
But beyond the stone walls, beyond the forests and hills of the North, ancient forces began to move after centuries of lethargy. Brandon Stark's awakening marked merely the first beat in a symphony of events that would forever alter the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
The following morning dawned clear but cold, with that type of crystalline clarity characteristic of the North even in full summer. News of Brandon Stark's awakening had spread through Winterfell with the speed of fire in a dry field, transforming the somber atmosphere that had prevailed for weeks into cautious joy.
Nevertheless, the atmosphere in the corridors maintained an undertone of tension. The failed assassination attempt had shaken the very foundations of security that the fortress's inhabitants took for granted. Guards had doubled at every entrance, and no one, from the humblest servant to the highest-ranking officers, entered or left without rigorous scrutiny.
Ethel and Melisandre advanced through the main corridor leading to the Great Hall, escorted by two stern-looking men bearing the direwolf emblem on their hardened leather jerkins. The missive they had received at dawn was brief but unequivocal: Lady Stark requested their immediate presence for a private audience.
"The board has been reconfigured during the night," Ethel murmured, his voice barely audible to his companion. "The question is whether our pieces have advanced or retreated."
Melisandre's scarlet eyes gleamed with that unshakeable certainty that characterized her.
"The Lord of Light would not have guided us here to face a dead end," she responded. "The child has returned transformed, just as the flames showed me. Now the true dance begins."
Before Ethel could respond, the Great Hall's heavy doors opened before them. Unlike the formal commercial audience of their arrival or the animated dinner of the previous night, the space now presented itself somberly empty. The long communal tables had been removed, and only a medium table remained, arranged perpendicular to the raised platform where the Starks normally sat.
Around that table, in an arrangement that deliberately suggested equality among those present, waited Catelyn and Robb Stark. And between them, supported by strategically placed cushions that compensated for his inability to sit by himself, was Brandon Stark.
The contrast between the unconscious child of the previous night and the one now observing them with unsettling intensity was striking. Though physically still the same —pale, thin, evidently weakened by weeks of inactivity— something fundamental had changed in his gaze. His eyes, of a typically Stark blue-grey, now seemed to contain unfathomable depths, as if they had contemplated horizons that no seven-year-old child should be capable of conceiving.
At his chair's feet, Summer lay alert but calm, his grey fur gleaming with almost silver tones under the morning light filtering through the high windows.
"Come forward," Catelyn invited with a formality that contrasted with the intimate setting. "Take your seats."
Ethel and Melisandre obeyed, occupying the places arranged before the Stark family. The absence of servants or guards within the hall did not go unnoticed; what was about to be discussed required absolute privacy.
"My son has awakened," Catelyn began, going directly to the point with characteristic northern frankness. "The maesters could not accomplish in weeks what you achieved in one night."
There was no accusation in her tone, but a cautious gratitude mixed with the inevitable suspicion of one who has spent too much time navigating the treacherous waters of court intrigue, even from the apparent safety of the North.
"The merit is not ours, Lady Stark," Melisandre responded with calculated humility. "We simply serve as conduits for forces that transcend our individual understanding."
Robb, whose face showed marks of exhaustion after a sleepless night, leaned slightly forward.
"My mother and I are eternally grateful for what you have done," he declared with evident sincerity. "However, recent events have awakened questions we cannot ignore."
Ethel nodded understandingly.
"Questions about our true identity and purpose in Winterfell, I suppose."
"Among other things," the young Stark confirmed.