Wolves howled through Winterfell, their cries long and piercing, making sleep impossible.
Ever since Bran's fall, his direwolf had been howling beneath his window at all hours.
At dawn, Tyrion left the library of Winterfell after a sleepless night of reading. On his way out, he gave the ill-mannered Joffrey two sharp slaps and ignored the Hound's glowering threats. He strode into the guest hall. The breakfast laid out in the dining room had gone cold and stale. With such a calamity hanging over Winterfell, no one had much appetite.
Jaime, Cersei, and the princes and princesses were seated together, speaking in low voices.
"Has Robert not risen yet?" Tyrion asked as he sat down at the table without waiting for an invitation.
His sister cast him the same look of contempt she had worn since the day he was born.
"The King never went to bed. He stayed with Lord Stark all night, nearly heartbroken." Everyone knew how deep the bond was between the King and Eddard Stark.
"Our good Robert does have a large heart," Jaime said lazily, a faint smile on his lips.
Tyrion knew his brother's careless temperament well enough and chose not to argue. During his long and miserable childhood, Jaime had been the only one to show him even a trace of affection and respect. For that alone, Tyrion was willing to overlook many things.
You should be keeping vigil in the sickroom as well, Tyrion thought. If Joffrey were truly to be betrothed to a Stark girl, such a union would bind the families even closer. Cersei ought to show some gesture of concern. But Lord Eddard and House Lannister were far from harmonious, and his siblings' pride made any display of false courtesy unlikely.
A servant approached.
"Bread," Tyrion said. "Two of those small fish. A cup of good dark ale. And some bacon. Crisp."
Though Great Lord Tywin granted him no special favors, the name of House Lannister ensured that he never lacked gold or good food. At the very least, he was not reduced to playing the fool for scraps.
He studied the twins across from him, his sister and brother. Both wore deep green garments that matched their eyes. Their golden curls marked them unmistakably as Lannisters. Gold adorned their wrists, fingers, and throats, making them gleam as though carved from the same mold.
The slightly plump Prince Tommen spoke up.
"Uncle, how is Bran?"
"When I passed the sickroom last night, his condition had neither worsened nor improved. The Maester says there is still hope."
"I hope Bran doesn't die," Tommen said timidly. He had always been a gentle child, unlike his elder brother Joffrey.
"The name Bran carries ill luck," Jaime said thoughtfully. "Eddard once had a brother named Bran, killed by the Targaryens. This boy was named in his memory."
"We'll see, brother," Tyrion replied, tearing a piece of bread as the food was set before him. "This time, the name may not prove so unlucky."
Cersei looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean by that?"
Tyrion met her gaze and smiled.
"Nothing at all. Only that Tommen's wish may come true. The old Maester says the boy's chances of surviving are good."
Tommen and Myrcella both brightened at that, their laughter light and innocent. But Tyrion paid more attention to the fleeting glance Jaime and Cersei exchanged. It lasted only an instant.
A dwarf, like a bastard, had to learn to read the shifting warmth and cold in people's hearts. In that, Tyrion often felt akin to a bastard brother.
"The gods of the North are cruel," Cersei murmured, lowering her eyes. "To let a young child linger like this. How vicious."
...
In Bran's chamber, Lady Catelyn sat at his bedside, keeping vigil over her child day and night. Meals were brought to the room for her, and though a hard pallet had been set there, she had scarcely closed her eyes.
Her once thick auburn hair had become hopelessly tangled, as if she had aged overnight. The red-haired beauty who once shone across the Seven Kingdoms now seemed to be slowly withering.
She insisted on feeding Bran herself, spooning into him a mixture of honey, hot water, and herbs. She would not leave his side for even a moment.
Eddard and the King stood nearby. Eddard's heart felt as heavy as stone. The boy lying in that bed was his beloved son, now reduced to this.
Bran was gaunt, little more than skin and bone. Beneath the blanket, his legs were twisted into a shape that turned the stomach. He had not awakened. His eyes were sunken deep, stripped of their usual brightness, like two dark hollows. It seemed that even a faint gust of the northern wind could scatter him.
"The boy's injuries…" the King began, unable to stop himself from asking Maester Luwin once more.
Though he stifled a yawn, he had stayed awake through the night with Eddard and Catelyn, watching over Bran as if he were his own son.
A Kingsguard stood not far behind him. Two white knights were taking turns at his side, ensuring his safety.
"Your Grace, forgive me. Young Lord Bran has a strong chance of surviving. But he will most likely forget what happened when he fell. The greater difficulty lies ahead. He will never walk or ride again, and he will not have children of his own."
Maester Luwin's aged face was drawn with pain. He had delivered each of the Great Lord's children and watched them grow. He took no pleasure in bringing such grim news.
"The gods…" the King sighed. Thinking of Bran's future, he could not decide whether the gods were cruel or merciful. If they were merciful, perhaps they should have granted the boy a swifter end.
"I have prayed to the gods day and night," Catelyn said faintly. "I begged them to let Bran stay with me. Perhaps they have answered."
Her voice sounded distant, as though her strength were draining away piece by piece.
"Your Grace. Lord Eddard. May I come in?"
Jon knocked before entering. The staircase had felt so long that he counted each step as he climbed. He knew Lady Catelyn did not welcome him, yet he still wanted to see Bran. Whether he would go north or south, he had not fully decided, but either path would likely mean he would not return to Winterfell for a long time. His father's journey south was to face war, to confront that fierce young king.
"Come in, child," Eddard said gently, beckoning him closer.
The King stared at Jon in surprise. Seen up close, the resemblance to Eddard was undeniable.
"Your blood indeed. The likeness is exact."
Catelyn's face remained stiff and unreadable. She wanted to lash out, but with the King and Lord Eddard present, this was no moment to drive away the bastard.
"Forgive me for only coming now. I was afraid," Jon said, tears running down his cheeks despite his effort to hold them back. "Please don't die, Bran. Robb, my sisters, and I are all waiting for you to wake up."
Outside the window, the direwolf began howling again. Bran had not yet found a proper name for the young wolf.
"The boy has courage," the King said softly to Eddard. "Will he go south with you?"
"That has not been decided. The Wall, or south," Eddard replied. Once he left, Catelyn would not allow Jon to remain at Winterfell, especially now.
"Damn it, don't send the boy to the Wall. It's so cold there a man can barely piss. He's still a child. He knows nothing of women. One day he'll regret it. King's Landing has no shortage of beds. You can bring your own son with you."
The King spoke bluntly. Better the boy in King's Landing than here, enduring Catelyn's temper.
"We will speak of it later," Eddard said, frowning. His original plan had been to take his two daughters and his second son Bran. Now Bran could no longer travel. As for Jon, would bringing him to the Red Keep be wise or unwise?
"Your Grace, you have stayed with us another night. Your body will not bear it, and the Queen as well," Eddard said carefully.
"If she's impatient, that's her problem. That Lannister woman is a nuisance," the King barked, his voice booming through the chamber.
"Even so, you must take care of your health, Your Grace," Eddard insisted.
"I am quite well. It is the two of you who should take care," the King replied.
"And Eddard, we cannot remain here much longer."
He could not help but say it. He worried for Eddard, yet he still needed to bring him south.
No one knew when the fires of war would return to Westeros. Every report Varys brought filled the King with unease. Soldiers. Fine weapons. He had to prepare sooner rather than later.
"I will obey your summons, Your Grace," Eddard answered, his voice heavy. Only the old gods could understand the turmoil in his heart.
He had never wished to go south. Bran's tragedy only deepened the shadow within him and scattered his thoughts. He no longer had the heart to study Great Lord Cregan's old southern campaign strategies. The only thought left to him was to increase the guard for the journey.
He wished the King would withdraw the appointment of Hand and allow him to remain in Winterfell, to stay beside Bran. But from the look of things, the King would not abandon his resolve.
Winter is coming, Eddard thought. When the pack stands together, the wolves live. When alone, the wolf dies.
Yet he had no choice. He would have to leave Winterfell and the North he loved, and take Sansa and Arya south with him.