"Bran?!"
The head of House Stark, ever accompanied by the icy winds of the plains, usually wore a stern, unchanging expression. Yet now, he was visibly moved. There was a tremor in his voice that even he did not notice, as though he feared the howling wind and snow outside had deceived his ears.
Lady Catelyn understood her husband. Eddard only ever removed his armor in front of his family.
Buried against his broad chest, she gently nodded, telling him that he had heard correctly.
"Bran—" Eddard's Adam's apple bobbed. His hoarse voice allowed a sliver of the heaviness and grief buried deep in his heart to escape.
Arya beside them suddenly leaped up. The Little Wolf Girl's eyes shone like a campfire on a frigid night. "Oh, Bran! Father, Mother, my brother!"
Lord Eddard revealed the long-lost smile of an old father. He reached out with one large, rough hand and drew his little daughter, who had bounced in front of him, into his embrace. He held the two people he loved most within the crook of his arm, sharing this moment of joy with them.
He and Catelyn had both believed that they had lost forever that little wolf cub who loved climbing up and down the towers of Winterfell, whose eyes had always glittered with curiosity—
He knew it. Like him, Catelyn had driven the grief of losing a child into her heart like an icicle. They forced themselves to remain calm during the day, and only dared let it gnaw at their hearts in the dead of night, when no one was around.
Yes, his wife was the lady of Winterfell. Though Bran was the child she loved most, she could only—
Cry soundlessly in her dreams.
Black wings brought black news. Ever since the black