Bran went to the godswood first, from there the climb to the First Keep was easy, and to the broken tower. The crows gathered there, waiting for him. The rooftops of Winterfell were his second home. From the heights he could look down on all of Winterfell: the men at their drills in the yard, the dogs racing through the kennels, the cooks bent over their gardens, the girls whispering at the well. Up there, Bran felt like the lord of the castle.
Someday, Bran would be a knight. Not just any knight, but a Kingsguard, like in Old Nan's stories, the greatest knights who ever lived, Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, the White Bull, Ser Arthur Dayne, Barristan the Bold. Bran knew their stories and dreamt of them often.
And there was another name Bran loved best, Ser Arthur Manderly, his foster brother. To Bran, he had always been a knight, though only moons past had he won the spurs, besting grown men in both the joust and the melee at King's Landing. Robb said he had even thrown down Ser Jaime Lannister. They said Ser Barristan himself had given Arthur his knighthood.
Arthur was older than Robb and Jon by a little. For a while, Bran had thought Arthur was his own brother. Only later did he learn of Ser William Manderly, Arthur's father, the knight who had defeated Ser Barristan at the Trident and crossed swords with Arthur Dayne himself. They said their duel was so fierce it left them both dead.
Each day, Bran saw Arthur best men twice his age in the yard. Ser Rodrik called him the finest sword he had ever known. To Bran, Arthur was all a knight should be: brave, wise, and kind. Yet Bran thought him sad too. For he had no father nor mother to see his deeds.
Bran went up the sentinel tree in the godswood, the bark rough beneath his hands. From the high branch, he swung across to the roof of the armory, light as a squirrel. Beyond was the guards' hall, and from there the blind side of the First Keep. He pulled off his boots and looped them to his belt, for soft feet made no sound on the stone, and he wanted no guards shouting for his mother.
The leap carried him to the keep's wall, and there he froze.
Arthur was waiting, seated with his back to the ancient stones, long legs stretched before him. He looked up with those sea-green eyes and smiled. "I thought you'd come here soon enough."
Bran's face lit up. "How'd you know?"
Arthur smirked. "Little winged wolf. Don't forget who showed you the way up these walls in the first place."
Bran grinned at that. Arthur never scolded him for climbing as Maester Luwin did, nor forbade it like his mother. He had said once there was no sin in being curious, so long as you did not let curiosity make you a fool. It was Arthur who had shown him this path to the broken tower, warning that its own walls were crumbling and unsafe.
"What are you doing here?" Bran asked.
"Admiring the view. Come." He rose in one smooth motion and began to climb the face of the First Keep.
Bran followed quick as a shadow. The First Keep was the oldest part of Winterfell, squat and round, taller than it first seemed. The stone was weather-worn, the cracks wide enough for fingers and toes. Rats and spiders lived there now, and gargoyles clung to its heights, their stone faces blind and broken. Bran's fingers found holds as easy as breathing. He could feel the roughness of the stone, smell the damp moss in its seams, hear the caw of the crows circling above.
When they reached the roof, Arthur motioned for Bran to sit beside him. Winterfell sprawled beneath them, the yard where Robb trained with steel, the glass gardens glimmering green. Beyond the walls, the wolfswood darkened the western sky, while to the south, the winter town lay quiet, its chimneys smoking. Farther north, Bran could see the mountain range, their peaks jagged and white with snow.
Arthur drew a long breath and let it go. "Our castle in White Harbor sits on a hill above the city," he said softly. "From the tallest tower, you can see the ships in their harbor, the river flowing out to the sea. The whole world seems to shine from up there. It is a magical place." His eyes swept the horizon. "Yet this…this is no less."
Bran tried to picture the city, the harbor, the endless blue-green sea. It felt as far away as the tales Old Nan told, yet Arthur spoke of it as though it were just beyond the wolfswood. Someday, he would see it. He would ride his horse to White Harbor and stand in the tallest tower beside Arthur, looking out over the ships and the sea. Perhaps by then Arthur would be lord of White Harbor, and Bran would wear white armor of the Kingsguard.
"Father says Sansa, Arya, and I are to go south with him," Bran said. "We'll leave in a few days, won't we?"
Arthur looked at Bran, his pale hair blowing against the wind. "Aye," he said softly. "After the hunt tomorrow, and the feast."
"You'll go hunting again?" Bran asked. Since the king had come to Winterfell, he had gone hunting thrice already, and each time they had returned with deer and boar, the hounds baying, their mouths red with blood.
Arthur laughed, low and easy. "King Robert means to have a stag on his table tomorrow night, so aye, we'll ride."
"Can I come too?" Bran blurted. "I can use the bow now. I've been practicing, just as you told me."
Arthur turned his head, surprised. "You have?"
"Yes. Every day." Bran lifted his chin, proud.
Arthur's smile was warm. "I'm proud of you, Bran."
The words made Bran glow inside. "So…can I come?"
Arthur's smile faded into something softer. "I don't think your lady mother would have it, not yet."
Bran's face fell. "Mother never lets me do anything."
Arthur reached out and ruffled his hair, as if Bran were still little. "She only worries. She does let you climb, doesn't she?"
"No, she doesn't," Bran said hotly. His mother had forbidden it a hundred times, and yet he climbed all the same.
Arthur's mouth curved into a grin. "If Lady Catelyn truly wished it, she'd have locked you in the dungeons long ago. She did that with your older brother."
Bran's heart stuttered. "She did that to Robb?"
Arthur's face grew grave. "No, Bran. Not Robb. Your other older brother. The naughty one. The rebellious one. Lady Catelyn had him locked away before you were born, and none have seen him since."
Bran's belly knotted. Another brother? No one had ever spoken of him. Why had Father never said? What if Mother grew tired of him, too, of his climbing and questions, and locked him away in the dark? He imagined stone walls and iron bars, damp straw and rats with red eyes. His heart thumped faster.
Arthur's shoulders shook with the effort of holding back a laugh.
Bran narrowed his eyes. "You're jesting, aren't you?"
Arthur could not keep it in. He laughed, rich and full.
"You're a knight now," Bran said crossly. "Knights don't lie." His cheeks burned hot.
"My pardon, little lord," Arthur said, still grinning. "I couldn't help myself. I told the same tale to Arya once. You should have seen her, she near wept."
Bran blinked. "She did?"
"Aye," Arthur chuckled. "Like a little girl."
Bran tried not to laugh, but the image of fierce Arya crying set him giggling. "She is a little girl."
"And you're only a boy," Arthur said gently. "Your lady mother has every right to fear for you. When you are older, you may hunt as much as you please."
Bran nodded. He knew what Arthur meant, though he did not like it. It was hard to be only a boy. He scuffed at the stone with his bare heel until a pebble clattered down the wall. "Will Robb and Jon go to the hunt?" he asked at last.
"Aye," Arthur said. "Your lord father thought it time they joined a proper hunt. Most of the lords will ride."
Bran felt the sour pinch of envy. "When will you leave?"
"At dawn." Arthur tilted his head back to the sky, where the crows wheeled above the keep. Then he glanced at Bran. "Are you excited for King's Landing?"
Bran brightened at once. "Yes, very. I can't wait to see the White Sword Tower. And Father says he'll introduce me to Ser Barristan." The words came out in a rush, for the thought of it still thrilled him.
Arthur's smile was gentle. "And what do you think of the princes?"
Bran's excitement dimmed. He remembered yesterday in the yard, Joffrey strutting with his gold hair gleaming in the sun. "I don't know," Bran said, frowning. "Prince Tommen is kind, but he's always afraid. Of his mother, of his brother. Prince Joffrey…he's arrogant and a bully. I don't like him."
Arthur chuckled softly. "You see clearly enough. And when you meet Ser Barristan, what will you say to him? Will you ask about his duel with Maelys the Monstrous, or how he rode alone into Duskendale to rescue his king?"
Bran bit his lip. "Would he even talk to me? He's so famous. He's the greatest knight in the world."
Arthur's eyes shone. "He has his duties, aye. Yet he's not so different from any other. When he has time, I think he would spare a word for you."
Bran's heart raced. "There's something else," he said, hesitating. "Do you think…would he take me for his squire?"
Arthur grinned, sudden and bright. "That he certainly would. Who would not want a little wolf at his side? A future commander of the Kingsguard."
Bran stared, wide-eyed. "Really? You're not jesting again?"
This time, Arthur's voice was soft, without laughter. "No jest, Bran. If you wish it, I could send a letter to Ser Barristan myself. I'd write of your virtues, your courage, your skill with the bow and sword. And I could speak with Lord Stark, ask him to arrange your training under the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
Bran's breath caught. For a moment, he saw it all before him, the White Sword Tower gleaming in the sun, the seven white cloaks at their table, and he seated among them. His armor pale as snow, his sword shining in the light of the Red Keep. He saw Ser Barristan smiling down on him, calling him squire, teaching him the strokes that had slain Maelys and saved kings.
"I would like that," he whispered. "I would like that more than anything." Bran shifted on the stone. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "But what if I'm not good enough? What if I never become a Kingsguard?"
Arthur looked at him then, "Don't be afraid, Bran. You can do it."
Bran blinked hard, but the tears still pricked. "Sometimes I think I can't. Arya's better than me with a bow, and I'm not strong like Robb. Not even quick like Jon."
Arthur's voice was quiet, steady. "You can do anything you want, Bran. You only need to work for it."
Bran's throat tightened. He hated the sting in his eyes, hated sounding weak. "I'm not like you," he burst out. "I'm not perfect. I still get scared…like a little boy."
Arthur laughed, not unkindly. "I get scared too, Bran."
Bran's face burned. "Don't lie."
Arthur did not answer right away. He turned his face to the distant mountains, their white peaks sharp against the fading sky. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "Do you know how I came by Nightfall?"
Bran knew the sword well, dark Valyrian steel that drank the light. Arthur wore it always.
"Of course I do," he said quickly. "Everyone does. You killed the Harlaw assassin in the Greyjoy rebellion. He meant to kill the king, but you stopped him. The king gave you Nightfall as reward."
Arthur's mouth curved in something that was not quite a smile. "Aye. Everyone knows as much. But they don't know what came after. When I close my eyes, I still see him. A boy, not older than I am now. His face pale in the dirt, eyes wide, as if he could still see me. That night I couldn't sleep. Nor the next, nor the next. Every shadow seemed to hide him. In the dark, in my dreams, he was always there. And I was always afraid."
The word hung heavy in the air.
"I was afraid of what I had done. Afraid he would follow me, no matter where I went. Afraid the face would never leave me." Arthur's hand tightened on his knee. "Your father saw it first. He knew. He had felt it too, the weight of taking a life. He came to me in my chambers. I tried to be strong, to say I was fine. But I broke. I wept before him. And I told him, 'I don't want to be afraid anymore. Everyone keeps saying I'm brave. How can I be brave when I am so afraid?'"
Bran's heart was hammering. He thought of his father, Lord Eddard Stark, quiet and stern, yet gentle too, when he took Bran on his knee or smoothed Arya's hair. And he remembered his father's words, words he had spoken not long ago, words he would never forget.
"That's the only time a man can be brave," he whispered. "Father said that," Bran added quickly.
Arthur looked at him and smiled, as though the words pleased him. "Aye. You know it too, then. I'm still afraid of many things, Bran. I'm afraid of winter, of war, of plague. And of one thing even worse."
Bran wondered what could be more terrible than winter or war. His voice came small. "What's even worse than those?"
Arthur's grin was sudden. "Women."
Bran burst out laughing, bright and loud. His belly hurt with it, but he couldn't stop. Arthur always knew how to make folk laugh. Even Father sometimes, when no one looked.
When Bran's laughter ebbed, Arthur's voice grew soft again. "It's no shame to be afraid, Bran. You only have to face your fears and master them. Then you can be anything you dream of."
Bran felt more determined now and said, "Aye, I will. I will be the best of knights."
Arthur's smile was proud, the same look Robb wore when Bran struck true with a practice sword. "I'm sure you will. And now I have a favor to ask of you."
Bran blinked, startled. Arthur never asked him for anything. He sat straighter. "What do you want me to do?" he asked eagerly.
"Befriend Prince Joffrey."
Bran's mouth fell open. "Joffrey? But I don't like him."
"I know." Arthur's tone was gentle but firm. "Still, he is to be your king, and your brother by marriage. If you wish to be a Kingsguard, you must be well-liked by the king."
Bran scowled. "Do I have to? I wish he weren't the prince."
Arthur laughed, easy and rich. "Many wish the same. But aye, you must. It isn't so hard. Praise him, mock the ones he dislikes, and soon you'll be his truest friend. Tommen will be easier, for he has a good heart. But Joffrey must be won, Bran. There is too much enmity between him and Robb already. We can't have more. So, can I count on you?"
Bran heaved a great sigh. "All right," he said glumly. "I'll try."
Arthur's hand ruffled his hair. "I'm proud of you, Bran. Truly. You're a good boy. Now let's be gone, before your mother—"
"BRANDON STARK!"
The voice came sharp as a whip from below. Bran flinched.
Lady Catelyn stood in the yard, skirts snapping in the wind, eyes hard as iron. At her feet, the direwolf pup waited, his golden eyes fixed on Bran. The wolfling had found him, as it always did.
Arthur glanced at Bran and grinned. "Too late!"
Bran didn't feel like laughing. He swallowed hard as his mother's voice rang out again. "How many times must I tell you? No climbing!"
He turned to ask Arthur what to do, but the words froze in his throat. The roof was empty. Arthur was gone, vanished like smoke on the wind. Bran smacked his forehead. Fool, he thought. It wasn't the first time. Arthur always slipped away, leaving Bran alone to face his mother's wrath. The direwolf pup gave a sharp bark, as if laughing too. Bran scowled at him, but his belly was twisting. He wished he, too, could vanish as easily.