CATELYN
Three days had passed since the fall, and still he lay motionless beneath layers of silk and bandage, suspended between breath and silence. Catelyn sat beside his bed, one hand wrapped gently around his. She had stopped praying after the first day. Now she simply watched. Counted his breaths. Traced the shape of his fingers with her thumb, over and over, as if memory could keep him from slipping away.
The scent of Yi Tish medicine hung in the air — pungent roots, bitter herbs, that strange resinous tea. It had soaked into the linens, the bandages, the wood of the chair she barely left. She knew the smell now as well as she knew Bran's face.
They had cared for him with eerie calm — Physicians Leng and Lihua moving without haste, murmuring to one another in that fluid, gliding tongue. They brought ink, bone braces, pastes the color of moss and honey. They marked his skin with curling symbols, read swelling in patterns she didn't understand. No leeches. No knives. No blood.
They'd cared for him.
And, apparently, for her.
She hadn't meant to sleep. She hadn't wanted to. But the tea had been warm and bitter and slipped down her throat before she realized it. Later came broth, fragrant with roots and something sharp she couldn't name. She hadn't asked what was in it. She'd only refused a second cup — and still, somehow, she'd woken with her cheek pressed to Bran's pillow and two hours lost.
It felt like betrayal.
"They drugged me," she muttered aloud.
"No," said Maester Luwin quietly, entering the room. "They gave you something that let you sleep after two days awake. There's a difference."
She didn't answer. Her eyes never left Bran.
Luwin approached the bedside, hands folded into his sleeves. He checked the markings on the bandages — black ink lines, re-inked with a precision that made her uneasy.
"They update the symbols every few hours," he said. "Not decoration. Measurement."
"So they say."
"They've done things I've never seen, My lady. When the fever swept the wet nurse few moons ago, they brought it down without bleeding. The girl from Tall Hearth with the obstructed birth — she should've died. They turned her sideways, something with pressure points. The child lived."
He touched Bran's leg gently through the blankets.
"The spine's not broken. That much they're sure of. There's damage, yes — swelling. Nerve pathways unclear. But he lives."
Catelyn's fingers tightened around Bran's hand. She didn't cry. She'd done that the first night, when he was still bleeding from the mouth.
"Three days," she said. "Three days and still no change."
"It's too early to know what he'll be, if he wakes."
"When," she corrected.
Luwin said nothing.
Outside, horses stamped in the yard. Saddles were being strapped. The king would ride soon.
"They said they'd be back by sundown," she said, more to herself than to him.
"They will."
Catelyn stared at her son, at the faint smear in the corner of one bandage. The Yi Tish would fix it. They always did.
"I should have stayed awake," she said.
"You were awake for forty-two hours, my lady," Luwin said gently. "You sat through the first stabilization, the spine brace, the swelling index, the initial nerve tests. Your body took what it needed when you couldn't stop it."
She hated how reasonable that sounded. And she hated that he was right.
"I'll stay," she said. "You tell the others what you must. I'll stay with him."
Luwin bowed. "I'll see that you're not disturbed."
She didn't thank him. Her hand never left Bran's.
RUYAN
The eastern solar of Winterfell lay cloaked in winter silence, moonlight filtering through narrow windows to cast pale patterns across the stone floor. Ruyan sat behind a simple wooden desk, her posture precisely straight despite the late hour. Before her, a single oil lamp burned with unwavering flame, its light pooling across the polished surface like liquid gold.
The door opened without sound. Lihua entered with measured steps, closing it behind her with equal care. She carried a leather folio bound with dark cord—unremarkable to any observer, yet containing information gathered with meticulous discretion over the past three days.
"Princess," Lihua said, bowing low before approaching the desk.
Ruyan inclined her head fractionally. "Proceed."
Lihua placed the folio on the desk and opened it with deliberate movements, revealing several sheets of fine parchment covered in neat script. She lifted the first page, holding it at the proper angle to catch the lamplight.
"Updated observations from the tower," she began, her voice neutral as water. "Dust patterns near the window show older disturbance. The timeframe remains inconclusive — it may have occurred prior to the incident. No bare footprints were present in the settled layer."
She turned the page.
"A sweeping arc across the floor is consistent with the hem of a long cloak or gown. Again, undated. It confirms presence, but not sequence."
"A single strand of blonde hair was recovered from a floor splinter. Length suggests it belonged to an adult. Weathering is moderate — no way to determine how long it remained in the chamber."
She turned another page with care.
"From the physician's examination: debris beneath the boy's fingernails — thread, consistent with fine wool. This links to the moment of the fall. But the fingertips show no abrasions. No splinters. No defensive contact."
Then, without change in tone:
"Additionally, a rider from the Vale arrived the day before the fall. Quiet, but not unseen. We were not summoned."
Ruyan's expression remained unchanged, her dark eyes absorbing each detail.
Lihua closed the folio and stepped back. "The tower remains sealed. Guards posted discreetly. No one has returned in three days."
Silence settled. Then Ruyan spoke, her voice like still water.
"You may withdraw."
Lihua bowed again, deeper this time, and exited without further word.
Ruyan remained at the desk long after the door had closed, the oil lamp burning low beside her. Outside, Winterfell slept fitfully. The boy hovered between breath and shadow. And now the Vale was moving.
By sunrise, she had moved the next piece into play.
The morning sun cast geometric patterns through the latticed screens of the bamboo pavilion, transforming the breakfast table into a chessboard of light and shadow. Ruyan had chosen this setting deliberately—not the formal dining hall with its heavy Northern stones, but this delicate structure she'd had built in the godswood, where Eastern architecture met Western earth.
"Your Grace," she said as Queen Cersei approached, inclining her head with precise courtesy. "Lord Tyrion. Ser Jaime. I trust you slept well."
The servants had already arranged the meal: Northern porridge enriched with shredded venison and drizzled with ginger syrup, crispy bacon paired with candied sweetroot, tea served alongside mulled wine. A diplomatic fusion, each dish suggesting cooperation without demanding it.
"As well as can be expected in such a... rustic setting," Cersei replied, her golden hair catching the filtered light as she took her seat. The silk cushions—an Eastern touch—seemed to displease her, though her expression remained nominally pleasant.
Ruyan poured tea with her own hands, a gesture that in Yi Ti indicated either great honor or great suspicion. "One adapts to the North. The same way one adapts to stone."
Tyrion accepted his cup with apparent appreciation, inhaling the steam. "Jade needle tea, if I'm not mistaken. From the mountains near Trader Town?"
"Lord Tyrion has a discerning palate." Ruyan allowed the smallest smile. "Though these leaves grew in our Winterfell glass gardens. Northern soil, it seems, adds its own character."
Jaime Lannister slouched in his seat, armor glinting despite the early hour. He'd barely touched his food, his green eyes scanning the pavilion's exits with practiced nonchalance. A swordsman's habits, perhaps.
"Your integration of Eastern cultivation has been... thorough," Cersei observed, her tone balanced on the knife's edge between compliment and condescension. "Though I wonder how the old Northern families view such changes."
"Change is the nature of living things, Your Grace. Those who resist it become history. Those who embrace it make history." Ruyan lifted her own cup, breathing in the familiar comfort of properly steeped tea. "Lord Stark, of course, embodies such wisdom. He adapts while maintaining tradition."
"Does he?" Cersei's tone sharpened slightly. "Some might call the Starks... inflexible in their ways."
"Perhaps." Ruyan selected a piece of candied sweetroot with her chopsticks, the gesture deliberate in its foreign precision. "Though I find him remarkably open to new perspectives."
The lie was smooth, deliberate. She had not spoken with Lord Stark yesterday. He had not left his solar since.
Silence settled over the table, broken only by the distant sound of morning birds and the whisper of wind through bamboo. Ruyan let it extend, observing without appearing to observe.
"How fares young Brandon?" Cersei asked suddenly, her voice carrying forced lightness. "Such a terrible accident. Children can be so reckless."
Ruyan set down her chopsticks with deliberate care, her dark eyes finding Cersei's green ones.
"He is neither alive nor dead," she said, her voice soft as silk yet sharp as the blade at Jaime's hip. "His spirit lingers near the door of death, unsure whether to cross the threshold or turn back to the world of the living."
Her words hung like incense — half-mystic, half-accusation. Cersei's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her cup. Jaime's studied indifference cracked for just a moment—a fraction of a second where his jaw clenched before relaxing again.
"Surely the maesters—" Cersei began.
"Maesters treat the body," Ruyan interrupted smoothly. "The spirit requires different medicine. In Yi Ti, we understand that some souls hesitate at the boundary, especially when circumstances has pushed them there prematurely." She lifted her tea again, letting the implication settle.
Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his mismatched eyes sharp with interest. "Your healers believe young Bran might recover?"
"Belief and knowledge are different rivers that sometimes share the same sea," Ruyan replied. "Physician Leng reads the swelling patterns. The breath rhythms. But Brandon himself must choose his path."
"Choose?" Jaime's voice carried forced levity. "You speak as if the boy has any say in the matter."
Ruyan turned her dark gaze to him, unblinking. "The body is a vessel, Ser Jaime. When it cracks, sometimes the spirit leaks out slowly. Sometimes it pours forth all at once. Young Brandon's vessel is not shattered- merely cracked."
The Kingslayer's hand flexed against the table—just once, involuntarily—before stilling. Beside him, Cersei had gone very still, her queenly mask firmly in place even as something uncertain moved behind her eyes.
"You speak of spirits and choices," she said carefully. "In King's Landing, we trust in more... practical approaches to healing."
"Practicality has many faces, Your Grace." Ruyan selected a piece of venison-laced porridge with deliberate precision. "In Yi Ti, we find that disturbed souls can tip the balance toward death."
The pavilion fell silent again. Through the bamboo screens, servants moved in the middle distance, careful not to approach unless summoned. The morning sun climbed higher, shortening the shadows across the table, leaving fewer places for secrets to hide.
"What an... interesting philosophy," Cersei managed, her smile sharp as winter ice.
"Truth often is," Ruyan agreed mildly. She gestured to the untouched dishes. "Please, enjoy the meal. Northern hospitality demands it, and Eastern courtesy insists upon it."
As conversation reluctantly resumed—Tyrion inquiring about Yi Tish texts, Cersei making rigid small talk about the weather—Ruyan catalogued every tell, every hesitation, every forced laugh. The rider from the Vale had brought news that changed the morning's temperature. And her mention of Brandon's condition had struck nerves.
She poured more tea, her movements fluid as water, and filed each observation for future consideration.
"More bacon, Ser Jaime?" she offered, her voice carrying nothing but perfect courtesy. "Your appetite seems poor, Ser Jaime. In Yi Ti, that is considered... an imbalance of spirit."
The knight's green eyes met hers for one charged moment before he reached for the offered dish.
"Just adjusting to the taste," he said with a practiced smile. "Nothing more."
"Of course," Ruyan agreed. "Nothing more."
She inclined her head and sipped her tea, gaze unreadable.
The clues remained fragments. A blonde hair, adult-length. A sweep pattern consistent with formal garments. The thread beneath the boy's nails — too fine for roughspun. The maids had been eliminated easily; none wore robes long enough to drag dust. The guard rotations didn't align. The noble children had been accounted for elsewhere.
It meant nothing yet. But it meant something.
Not evidence. Not certainty. Just a shape beginning to form in shadow.
The breakfast continued, each participant playing their role with practiced care. But beneath the pleasantries and exchanges, the air grew heavier — not with certainty, but with pressure. Something unsaid threaded through every glance, every pause, every calculated smile.
When the Lannisters finally departed, Ruyan remained in the pavilion. She lifted her teacup, the last of the warmth gone. The leaves at the bottom told no fortune she trusted.
She didn't yet have answers — only behaviors, timings, tensions. Enough to begin a pattern. Enough to map who showed discomfort, and when.
And Ruyan, above all else, knew how to keep score.