Winterfell was unusually restless that night. The wolf packs of the North howled beneath the cold moonlight, their mournful cries echoing across the stone walls. Even those used to the harshness of the North could not find sleep. Since Bran's fall, his direwolf had refused to leave his side, pacing below his window and howling with a grief that mirrored the sorrow of his family.
By morning, the castle was quiet but tense, a heaviness lingering in every corridor and chamber. Tyrion Lannister emerged from the Winterfell library, his eyes bloodshot from a night spent poring over old texts and scrolls. He had barely noticed the passing hours. On his way to the main hall, he paused only briefly to administer a sharp, well-aimed slap to Joffrey's cheek—a necessary reprimand for the boy's impudence. The Hound's growl of warning did not faze him. Tyrion continued on, stepping into the guest quarters where the breakfast table sat cold and lifeless, much like the mood of the entire castle.
In the dining hall, Jaime and Cersei Lannister, along with the royal children, were already seated. Whispers and low murmurs filled the room, a subdued soundtrack to the morning's gloom. Tyrion approached without waiting for greeting or acknowledgment. "Robert isn't awake yet?" he asked, sitting at the head of the table.
Cersei's gaze, ever sharp and calculating, settled on him. Her disdain, a familiar inheritance since his birth, was unmistakable. "The King did not sleep," she replied, her voice laced with condescension. "He remained with Lord Eddard all night. His heart nearly shattered with grief." Everyone knew of Robert's deep and longstanding friendship with Eddard Stark, a bond that often transcended the petty squabbles of politics.
Jaime, lounging with his usual careless charm, gave a lazy smile. "Our Robert has a big heart," he said. Tyrion acknowledged the words with a nod, recognizing his brother's carefree nature and choosing not to argue. Jaime had always shown Tyrion a rare measure of respect and affection, a silver lining in the long, painful years of his childhood. For that alone, Tyrion refused to dispute his brother's casual optimism.
Yet, beneath the surface, his mind was occupied with more pressing concerns. Bran's condition weighed heavily on him. Should Joffrey be formally engaged to a Stark girl, the alliance would require careful observation and delicate diplomacy. Tyrion knew Cersei, however, and her natural arrogance and pride made her unlikely to show any feigned concern for House Stark.
An attendant stepped forward, bringing food to the table. Tyrion's mind wandered for a moment, formulating his order. "I'll have bread, two of these small fish, a good black beer, and a few slices of bacon, extra crispy," he commanded. While Tywin Lannister would never grant him indulgences beyond propriety, the power and wealth of House Lannister ensured that Tyrion lacked nothing in either coin or sustenance, keeping him far from the role of a mere court jester.
Tyrion's eyes scanned the hall. Jaime and Cersei sat before him, dressed in deep green garments that mirrored the color of their eyes. Their golden hair, carefully curled and adorned with jewelry, reflected light as if they were carved from the same mold. Even the younger Prince Tommen, plump and innocent, watched Tyrion with curious eyes. "Uncle, how is Bran now?" he asked timidly.
Tyrion took a moment, tearing a piece of bread as he replied. "When I passed by the sickroom last night, Bran's condition had not improved, but it had not worsened either. Maester Luwin says there is still hope."
"I hope Bran doesn't die," Tommen whispered, his voice carrying a tender sincerity absent in his elder brother Joffrey.
Jaime, ever curious, added, "The name Bran does not seem particularly lucky. Eddard had a brother who was later killed by the Targaryens. This child Bran is named in his memory."
Tyrion chuckled softly. "Perhaps the name is not so unlucky after all," he said, offering the children a small smile. Cersei's gaze narrowed, suspicion flickering across her face. "What do you mean by that?" she asked sharply.
"Nothing of consequence," Tyrion replied smoothly, his eyes flicking to Tommen. "I merely meant to congratulate the boy on having a chance to see his friend recover. The old maester is hopeful."
The children's smiles, though fleeting, offered Tyrion a rare moment of warmth. Yet his attention never strayed far from the unspoken tension between Jaime and Cersei. A dwarf must learn to read people as carefully as he reads the words of a book, and Tyrion had become skilled at discerning fleeting emotions hidden beneath masks of decorum.
"The old gods of the North are cruel indeed," Cersei said softly, her eyes cast downward. "To let a child linger in such pain… it is a vicious fate."
In Bran's chamber, Catelyn Stark's vigilance had not wavered. She remained by his bedside almost constantly, only stepping aside when a meal or medicine was brought to her. Her auburn hair, once thick and lustrous, was now matted, evidence of nights spent awake and days spent in worry. The vibrant red-haired beauty who had once captivated the Seven Kingdoms now appeared aged beyond her years.
Catelyn carefully fed Bran a mixture of honey, boiled water, and medicinal herbs. She refused to leave him even for a brief moment. Eddard and King Robert stood at her side, their hearts heavy with sorrow. Bran, emaciated and skeletal, lay with his legs curled beneath him, the blankets failing to offer warmth against the chill of the Northern wind. His eyes were closed, his usual spark extinguished, leaving hollow darkness where his gaze once shone.
The King's concern surfaced again. "His injuries… are they as grave as they appear?" he asked Maester Luwin. The old man's face was etched with pain, his years of service making such moments all the more unbearable. "Bran has a good chance of survival, Your Grace," Luwin replied cautiously. "But he may never walk again. Nor will he ever have children. The memory of the fall may leave him without recollection of these events, yet his body will carry the scars for life."
"The Seven Gods…" Robert muttered, torn between outrage and helplessness. Could mercy truly exist if a child were left to live in such suffering? Catelyn whispered prayers to the Seven, begging for his survival, though her strength waned with every passing hour.
At that moment, Jon Snow entered, knocking lightly before ascending the long staircase. He counted each step as if the rhythm could steady his nerves. His presence was tentative, knowing Catelyn would not welcome him, yet he could not resist the urge to see his brother. "May I come in?" he asked softly.
"Come, child," Eddard said, motioning him forward.
The King regarded Jon closely. "He truly is your son, Ned. A perfect likeness," he remarked, surprised at the resemblance. Catelyn's expression remained hard, a silent barrier she could not yet lower.
Jon's eyes filled with tears as he approached Bran. "Forgive me for coming so late. I was afraid… I am so afraid. Please, Bran, do not leave us. Robb, I… we are waiting for you to wake."
Outside, the direwolf howled once more, echoing Jon's sorrow and the unrelenting pain of Winterfell. Bran remained nameless in the eyes of the wolf, yet the connection between them was unmistakable.
King Robert turned to Eddard. "Will this boy come South with us?" he asked, concern in his voice.
"That remains uncertain," Eddard replied. "The Wall or the South… we will decide soon." Bran's condition complicated plans, and Catelyn's disapproval of Jon's journey South made the decision even more difficult.
The King's voice grew impatient. "Do not send him to the Wall. It is too cold, too harsh for a child. He should be with family. King's Landing has plenty of beds, plenty of warmth. Take him with you."
Eddard bowed his head, the weight of command pressing heavily upon him. He had never wished to leave Winterfell, and now, with Bran crippled and vulnerable, the thought of abandoning his home filled him with sorrow. "We shall discuss it later, Your Grace," he replied. His mind wandered, preoccupied with the journey South, the safety of his children, and the fragile life of his youngest son.
Robert's roar echoed through the hall, a reminder of both his authority and his concern. "We cannot linger here longer, Ned. Winter is coming, threats loom, and I must be ready."
Eddard nodded solemnly. The wolf pack thrived outside, the lone wolf would fall—yet he could not leave Winterfell without a heavy heart. Taking Sansa and Arya with him, he prepared to depart, each step toward the South a painful farewell to the life he had built, and the son he might never fully protect.
The North mourned quietly. The wolves howled into the dawn, and Winterfell seemed to breathe in the sorrow of its people. In the quiet moments, as Bran lay in fragile slumber, the echoes of grief and hope intertwined—threads of life and death, courage and despair, stitched together in the tapestry of the North.
Tyrion, watching from the hall, felt the weight of the house and its struggles. A dwarf, he knew, could see much that others missed: the subtle glances, the unspoken promises, the silent grief. Winterfell's story was far from over, yet for now, he could only watch, wait, and prepare for the journey that awaited them all.
Winter was coming. The wolf pack thrived. And soon, every heart would be tested.
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