In the yard below, Rickon ran with the wolves.

Bran watched from his window seat. Wherever the boy went, Grey Wind was there first, lopingahead to cut him off, until Rickon saw him, screamed in delight, and went pelting off in anotherdirection. Shaggydog ran at his heels, spinning and snapping if the other wolves came too close. Hisfur had darkened until he was all black, and his eyes were green fire. Bran’s Summer came last. Hewas silver and smoke, with eyes of yellow gold that saw all there was to see. Smaller than Grey Wind,and more wary. Bran thought he was the smartest of the litter. He could hear his brother’s breathlesslaughter as Rickon dashed across the hard-packed earth on little baby legs.

His eyes stung. He wanted to be down there, laughing and running. Angry at the thought, Branknuckled away the tears before they could fall. His eighth name day had come and gone. He wasalmost a man grown now, too old to cry.

“It was just a lie,” he said bitterly, remembering the crow from his dream. “I can’t fly. I can’t evenrun.”

“Crows are all liars,” Old Nan agreed, from the chair where she sat doing her needlework. “Iknow a story about a crow.”

“I don’t want any more stories,” Bran snapped, his voice petulant. He had liked Old Nan and herstories once. Before. But it was different now. They left her with him all day now, to watch over himand clean him and keep him from being lonely, but she just made it worse. “I hate your stupidstories.”

The old woman smiled at him toothlessly. “My stories? No, my little lord, not mine. The storiesare, before me and after me, before you too.”

She was a very ugly old woman, Bran thought spitefully; shrunken and wrinkled, almost blind, tooweak to climb stairs, with only a few wisps of white hair left to cover a mottled pink scalp. No onereally knew how old she was, but his father said she’d been called Old Nan even when he was a boy.

She was the oldest person in Winterfell for certain, maybe the oldest person in the Seven Kingdoms.

Nan had come to the castle as a wet nurse for a Brandon Stark whose mother had died birthing him.

He had been an older brother of Lord Rickard, Bran’s grandfather, or perhaps a younger brother, or abrother to Lord Rickard’s father. Sometimes Old Nan told it one way and sometimes another. In allthe stories the little boy died at three of a summer chill, but Old Nan stayed on at Winterfell with herown children. She had lost both her sons to the war when King Robert won the throne, and hergrandson was killed on the walls of Pyke during Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion. Her daughters had longago married and moved away and died. All that was left of her own blood was Hodor, thesimpleminded giant who worked in the stables, but Old Nan just lived on and on, doing herneedlework and telling her stories.

“I don’t care whose stories they are,” Bran told her, “I hate them.” He didn’t want stories and hedidn’t want Old Nan. He wanted his mother and father. He wanted to go running with Summer lopingbeside him. He wanted to climb the broken tower and feed corn to the crows. He wanted to ride hispony again with his brothers. He wanted it to be the way it had been before.

“I know a story about a boy who hated stories,” Old Nan said with her stupid little smile, herneedles moving all the while, click click click, until Bran was ready to scream at her.

It would never be the way it had been, he knew. The crow had tricked him into flying, but when hewoke up he was broken and the world was changed. They had all left him, his father and his motherand his sisters and even his bastard brother Jon. His father had promised he would ride a real horse toKing’s Landing, but they’d gone without him. Maester Luwin had sent a bird after Lord Eddard witha message, and another to Mother and a third to Jon on the Wall, but there had been no answers.

“Ofttimes the birds are lost, child,” the maester had told him. “There’s many a mile and many ahawk between here and King’s Landing, the message may not have reached them.” Yet to Bran it feltas if they had all died while he had slept … or perhaps Bran had died, and they had forgotten him.

Jory and Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole had gone too, and Hullen and Harwin and Fat Tom and aquarter of the guard.

rand his sisters and even his bastard brother Jon. His father had promised he would ride a real horse toKing’s Landing, but they’d gone without him. Maester Luwin had sent a bird after Lord Eddard witha message, and another to Mother and a third to Jon on the Wall, but there had been no answers.

“Ofttimes the birds are lost, child,” the maester had told him. “There’s many a mile and many ahawk between here and King’s Landing, the message may not have reached them.” Yet to Bran it feltas if they had all died while he had slept … or perhaps Bran had died, and they had forgotten him.

Jory and Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole had gone too, and Hullen and Harwin and Fat Tom and aquarter of the guard.

Only Robb and baby Rickon were still here, and Robb was changed. He was Robb the Lord now, ortrying to be. He wore a real sword and never smiled. His days were spent drilling the guard andpracticing his swordplay, making the yard ring with the sound of steel as Bran watched forlornly fromhis window. At night he closeted himself with Maester Luwin, talking or going over account books.

Sometimes he would ride out with Hallis Mollen and be gone for days at a time, visiting distantholdfasts. Whenever he was away more than a day, Rickon would cry and ask Bran if Robb was evercoming back. Even when he was home at Winterfell, Robb the Lord seemed to have more time forHallis Mollen and Theon Greyjoy than he ever did for his brothers.

“I could tell you the story about Brandon the Builder,” Old Nan said. “That was always yourfavorite.”

Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some saidthe Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandonshad liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she hadnursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killedby the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, thatall the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head.

“That’s not my favorite,” he said. “My favorites were the scary ones.” He heard some sort ofcommotion outside and turned back to the window. Rickon was running across the yard toward thegatehouse, the wolves following him, but the tower faced the wrong way for Bran to see what washappening. He smashed a fist on his thigh in frustration and felt nothing.

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Old Nan said quietly, “what do you know of fear? Fear is for thewinter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out ofthe north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little childrenare born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the whitewalkers move through the woods.”

“You mean the Others,” Bran said querulously.

“The Others,” Old Nan agreed. “Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was coldand hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, andkings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smotheredtheir children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Hervoice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, “So,child. This is the sort of story you like?”

“Well,” Bran said reluctantly, “yes, only …”

Old Nan nodded. “In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,” she said as her needles wentclick click click. “They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun,and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms,felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. Allthe swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pityin them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh ofhuman children.”

Her voice had dropped very low, almost to a whisper, and Bran found himself leaning forward tolisten.

“Now these were the days before the Andals came, and long before the women fled across thenarrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne, and the hundred kingdoms of those times were thekingdoms of the First Men, who had taken these lands from the children of the forest. Yet here andthere in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, andthe faces in the trees kept watch. So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined toseek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of menhad lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. Foryears he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities.

One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard theblade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silenton his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—”

ryears he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities.

One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard theblade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silenton his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—”

The door opened with a bang, and Bran’s heart leapt up into his mouth in sudden fear, but it wasonly Maester Luwin, with Hodor looming in the stairway behind him. “Hodor!” the stableboyannounced, as was his custom, smiling hugely at them all.

Maester Luwin was not smiling. “We have visitors,” he announced, “and your presence is required,Bran.”

“I’m listening to a story now,” Bran complained.

“Stories wait, my little lord, and when you come back to them, why, there they are,” Old Nansaid. “Visitors are not so patient, and ofttimes they bring stories of their own.”

“Who is it?” Bran asked Maester Luwin.

“Tyrion Lannister, and some men of the Night’s Watch, with word from your brother Jon. Robb ismeeting with them now. Hodor, will you help Bran down to the hall?”

“Hodor!” Hodor agreed happily. He ducked to get his great shaggy head under the door. Hodorwas nearly seven feet tall. It was hard to believe that he was the same blood as Old Nan. Branwondered if he would shrivel up as small as his great-grandmother when he was old. It did not seemlikely, even if Hodor lived to be a thousand.

Hodor lifted Bran as easy as if he were a bale of hay, and cradled him against his massive chest. Healways smelled faintly of horses, but it was not a bad smell. His arms were thick with muscle andmatted with brown hair. “Hodor,” he said again. Theon Greyjoy had once commented that Hodor didnot know much, but no one could doubt that he knew his name. Old Nan had cackled like a hen whenBran told her that, and confessed that Hodor’s real name was Walder. No one knew where “Hodor”

had come from, she said, but when he started saying it, they started calling him by it. It was the onlyword he had.

They left Old Nan in the tower room with her needles and her memories. Hodor hummed tunelesslyas he carried Bran down the steps and through the gallery, with Maester Luwin following behind,hurrying to keep up with the stableboy’s long strides.

Robb was seated in Father’s high seat, wearing ringmail and boiled leather and the stern face ofRobb the Lord. Theon Greyjoy and Hallis Mollen stood behind him. A dozen guardsmen lined thegrey stone walls beneath tall narrow windows. In the center of the room the dwarf stood with hisservants, and four strangers in the black of the Night’s Watch. Bran could sense the anger in the hallthe moment that Hodor carried him through the doors.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch is welcome here at Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay,”

Robb was saying with the voice of Robb the Lord. His sword was across his knees, the steel bare forall the world to see. Even Bran knew what it meant to greet a guest with an unsheathed sword.

“Any man of the Night’s Watch,” the dwarf repeated, “but not me, do I take your meaning, boy?”

Robb stood and pointed at the little man with his sword. “I am the lord here while my mother andfather are away, Lannister. I am not your boy.”

“If you are a lord, you might learn a lord’s courtesy,” the little man replied, ignoring the swordpoint in his face. “Your bastard brother has all your father’s graces, it would seem.”

“Jon,” Bran gasped out from Hodor’s arms.

The dwarf turned to look at him. “So it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it. You Starksare hard to kill.”

“You Lannisters had best remember that,” Robb said, lowering his sword. “Hodor, bring mybrother here............