𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕹𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖍 𝕭𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗

𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓

𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍

Winterfell.
The days had got colder, but Bran Stark didn't mind. He was a son of winter, after all, and ice and snow were not things northmen tended to be scared of, but rather every-day acquaintances they soon learnt to know well.

Of their new hosts, however, it couldn't be said the same thing: they came from the Neck, a moderately windy and humid region of Westeros – not a cold one. The Vale of Arryn, the Stormlands and the Iron Islands were all three much colder than the Neck.

The two wards (or Walder one and Walder two, as Bran had secretly started to call them) were the worst of the party – which was now only composed by three, as the knight they had been accompanied by had already left to return to the Twins, deciding to stay at Winterfell for a few days only before departing: they could never be seen not complaining, whether for the snow, the food, the castle, the animals...

Those were what irritated them most, Bran would've easily bet on that, if only bets were a thing he would be allowed to spend his time doing. According to the two Freys, all the animals at Winterfell were too wild and could not be used, ridden or even petted.

Bran suspected that the root problem behind all these complaints was not the nature of the animals, – which, as far as he could see, was nothing but what you would expect from them – but two specific animals: his and Rickon's direwolves.

For a reason Bran still hadn't fully grasped, the wards were simply terrified by them – which to him, made absolutely no sense: they had come to Winterfell as his Lady Mother's protectors, so it was not like they could be mistreated. And both he and his little brother had been well warned about that, because they could not risk to have a Frey rebellion be born against that.

Rickon might've liked it well, Bran suspected, but he was a little boy whose only wish was to prove himself strong: he could see it from the way he acted around the two guests, and from how he instructed Shaggydog, his own black and fierce direwolf.

His own direwolf (Summer), on the other hand, he tried to keep calm and look unfearable: it didn't always work, obviously, for he was a wolf and had wolf-like instincts, but Bran could tame Summer much better than Rickon could Shaggydog – and much of it was because the younger didn't really care to try and do it, he suspected.

When they were not busy moaning, or taking their daily swords lesson with Rickon under the control Winterfell's Maester-At-Arms and Castellan, Ser Rodrick, the one thing that seemed to entertain them like no other was talk about their family succession.

Again, Bran didn't know what was the reason, because it was clear that none of them would age to be the next Lord Walder Frey: the man had too many sons already, and they were not even apart of that family branch – they were nephews. The best they could aim for was a designation to knights (which however seemed just as unlikely, judging from the way Rickon described their lessons).

The only party member left, in contrast, was much less intrusive and, had she not been such an important guest there at Winterfell, Bran would've had a hard time remembering Lady Elise was there.

The girl had learnt very quickly how life was organized there, and so well she blended in with all the other people in a way that made her almost hard to find.

She'd chosen a quiet room on one of the many central turrets, definitely one of the humblest ones among those they had prepared for her: Maester Luwin had even insisted that the Grand Chamber be cleaned, but he had then revealed Bran that it was only a gesture of welcoming.