Bran shouted excitedly, his thin arms raised as though he had already taken flight.
"Eddard, I won!"
A brilliant smile — rare since his fall — lit up his face. His eyes, once dulled by grief, now shone with childlike wonder. The joy in his voice filled the chamber like sunlight spilling through shutters after a long night.
The reason for his excitement was not hard to guess. Bran had dreamed again. In the world of dreams, he had followed the familiar Three-Eyed Raven, soaring across skies that no horse or man could reach. He had glided over forests, rivers, and snow-laden peaks, his crippled body forgotten, replaced with wings strong enough to carry him wherever he wished.
In those dreams he was whole, unshackled, free.
Today, he lingered in that freedom. The air in his chamber smelled faintly of the pinewood smoke that rose from Winterfell's hearths, and yet Bran's senses were still filled with the crisp chill of mountain air, the endless blue horizon, the sharp tang of wind rushing past his face. For a boy bound to wheels and walls, such dreams were more precious than gold.
Rickon, smaller and wilder, clapped his hands in delight at his brother's words. His mop of tangled hair bounced as he laughed. "Bran flew again! He flew!" He darted to Summer, scratching behind the direwolf's ears. The great beast gave a soft, rumbling growl of contentment, its golden eyes fixed protectively on Bran.
Eddard Stark, seated by the window with a half-read parchment in hand, raised his gaze to his son. A faint curve softened the hard line of his mouth. To see Bran smile again was a blessing he had prayed for since the boy's fall. "Then you have done well," Ned said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of both fatherly pride and unspoken sorrow.
Bran's joy dimmed only slightly. He had come to understand, in the way children grasp truths they cannot change, that his dreams were not miracles of the waking world. Yet he clung to them, for they gave him something precious: hope.
The morning passed in gentle peace. From the yard below came the sound of clashing steel, Ser Rodrik drilling squires with wooden swords. Servants hurried across the stone paths, their arms laden with baskets of apples and sheaves of barley brought in from the harvest. The air was sharp with the first bite of autumn, and in the godswood, the red leaves of the heart tree rustled like whispered prayers.
For a while, Winterfell felt safe — a fortress of stone and hearth against the gathering storms beyond its walls.
But peace, like dreams, is fragile.
A raven came at midday. Its black wings carried tidings from beyond the Neck, tidings that would darken the halls of Winterfell like a sudden eclipse.
The bird was restless when Maester Luwin unfastened the small scroll bound to its leg. Its caws echoed through the rookery like an ill omen. Luwin's eyes, sharp despite age, flicked over the wax seal, then to the words penned in haste. His hand trembled as he broke the seal and read.
By the time he descended into the great hall, his face was grave.
Eddard looked up from his seat at the high table. Catelyn, beside him, noted the maester's pallor and felt her heart twist. Around them, the children chattered, unaware. The direwolves stirred restlessly, as though they too sensed a shadow creeping in.
"Maester?" Ned's voice was low, steady, but wary.
"My lord," Luwin said, bowing, "a raven has come from the south. It bears ill tidings."
The hall grew still. Even the crackling of the fire in the hearth seemed to fade.
Luwin's voice was heavy as he continued. "News from Harrenhal. Lord Whent is dead."
A silence fell so thick it pressed upon the heart. Harrenhal — the great and cursed castle of the Riverlands, a place of tourneys and whispers — now bereft of its lord.
Eddard's brow furrowed, the weight of consequence already turning in his mind. "Dead? How?"
"Poison, it is said," Luwin replied. "Though tongues wag with uncertainty. Some claim a fever, others a hand unseen. The truth may be tangled."
Catelyn's breath caught softly. She had known the Whents in her girlhood; their banners, black bat on yellow, had flown beside her father's often enough. "This will leave Harrenhal vulnerable," she murmured. "And the Riverlands less steady."
Ned's eyes darkened. A lord's death was never simple. In the game of thrones, it was a spark to kindling. "And what of his heirs?"
"Rumor tells that his daughter, Lady Shella, remains," Luwin answered. "But Harrenhal's loyalty may sway. Already there is talk of suitors and claimants circling like vultures."
The direwolves stirred again, as if uneasy with the turn of fate.
Bran, still at the table, looked between the grave faces of his parents, confusion plain on his own. To a boy, the death of a distant lord was a far-off thing, yet the tension in the hall pressed on him until the joy of his dream felt like a fading ember.
Rickon, less restrained, tugged at Robb's sleeve. "Why's everyone so quiet? Who's Lord Whent?"
Robb hushed him gently, his own jaw set in thought. He was near a man grown now, and in his eyes flickered the dawning understanding that every lord's death shifted the balance of power.
Before more could be said, another voice rose — soft, hesitant.
It belonged to Daisy, a servant girl with dark hair braided simply. She had been sweeping near the wall, her eyes wide as she listened. She stepped forward, clutching her broom like a shield. "My lord… my lady… forgive me, but… I know of Harrenhal. I was born in its shadow."
The hall turned to her. Ned gave a curt nod, granting her leave to speak.
Daisy swallowed, her voice trembling at first, then steadier as memory guided her. "They say Harrenhal is cursed, my lord. That every house which holds it comes to ruin. My mother told me stories — of the great castle with towers like spears, built by King Harren himself. He thought stone would keep him safe from dragons, but Aegon burned it all the same. The walls still bear the scars, blackened and melted as if the fire never cooled."
Her eyes lowered. "And every lord since has met some misfortune. The Whents were kind once, but their strength has withered. My uncle said the castle eats men's souls, that no line prospers there for long."
A hush followed her words. The servants crossed themselves; even the children shifted uneasily. The old tales had power still, especially when misfortune proved them true.
Catelyn touched Ned's arm. "If the Riverlands falter…"
"I know." His voice was steel. He looked to Maester Luwin. "Send word to Riverrun. My wife's kin must be warned, and we must learn who now sits at Harrenhal."
Luwin bowed. "At once, my lord."
The meeting dispersed slowly, each person carrying a piece of the shadow with them. The hall, once warm with harvest scents, now felt colder, as though the very stones of Winterfell braced for storms to come.
Bran sat quietly, his thoughts drifting back to the dream of flight. For a moment he had been free, the world spread wide beneath him. But dreams could not shield him from the weight of men's deaths and the shifting of thrones.
He lowered his gaze, stroking Summer's fur, and whispered to himself, almost a vow: One day, I will fly again. And when I do, no curse, no shadow, will chain me.
Outside, the wind rose, carrying with it the first dry leaves of autumn.
And in Winterfell, the Starks waited, unaware of just how heavy the next ravens' wings would be.
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