It seemed as though he had been falling for
years. Fly, a voice whispered in the darkness, but Bran did not know
how to fly, so all he could do was fall.
Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was
hard and brittle, dressed him in Bran’s clothes, and flung
him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. “But I
never fall,” he said, falling.
The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out
through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he could feel
how fast he was falling, and he knew what was waiting for him down
there. Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up
in the instant before he hit the ground, he knew. You always woke
up in the instant before you hit the ground. And if you don’t? the voice asked.
The ground was closer now, still far far away, a thousand miles
away, but closer than it had been. It was cold here in the
darkness. There was no sun, no stars, only the ground below coming
up to smash him, and the grey mists, and the whispering voice. He
wanted to cry. Not cry. Fly.
“I can’t fly,” Bran said. “I
can’t, I can’t . . . ” How do you know? Have you ever tried?
The voice was high and thin. Bran looked around to see where it
was coming from. A crow was spiraling down with him, just out of
reach, following him as he fell. “Help me,” he
said. I’m trying, the crow replied. Say, got any corn?
Bran reached into his pocket as the darkness spun dizzily around
him. When he pulled his hand out, golden kernels slid from between
his fingers into the air. They fell with him.
The crow landed on his hand and began to eat.
“Are you really a crow?” Bran asked. Are you really falling? the crow asked back.
“It’s just a dream,” Bran said. Is it? asked the crow.
“I’ll wake up when I hit the ground,” Bran
told the bird. You’ll die when you hit the ground, the crow said. It went
back to eating corn.
Bran looked down. He could see mountains now, their peaks white
with snow, and the silver thread of rivers in dark woods. He closed
his eyes and began to cry. That won’t do any good, the crow said. I told you, the
answer is flying, not crying. How hard can it be? I’m doing
it. The crow took to the air and flapped around Bran’s
hand.
“You have wings,” Bran pointed out. Maybe you do too.
Bran felt along his shoulders, groping for feathers. There are different kinds of wings, the crow said.
Bran was staring at his arms, his legs. He was so skinny, just
skin stretched taut over bones. Had he always been so thin? He
tried to remember. A face swam up at him out of the grey mist,
shining with light, golden. “The things I do for love,”
it said.
Bran screamed.
The crow took to the air, cawing. Not that, it shrieked at him.
Forget that, you do not need it now, put it aside, put it away. It
landed on Bran’s shoulder, and pecked at him, and the shining
golden face was gone.
Bran was falling faster than ever. The grey mists howled around
him as he plunged toward the earth below. “What are you doing
to me?” he asked the crow, tearful. Teaching you how to fly.
“I can’t fly!” You’re flying tight now.
“I’m falling!” Every flight begins with a fall, the crow said. Look down.
“I’m afraid . . . ” LOOK DOWN!
Bran looked down, and felt his insides turn to water. The ground
was rushing up at him now. The whole world was spread out below
him, a tapestry of white and brown and green. He could see
everything so clearly that for a moment he forgot to be afraid. He
could see the whole realm, and everyone in it.
He saw Winterfell as the eagles see it, the tall towers looking
squat and stubby from above, the castle walls just lines in the
dirt. He saw Maester Luwin on his balcony, studying the sky through
a polished bronze tube and frowning as he made notes in a book. He
saw his brother Robb, taller and stronger than he remembered him,
practicing swordplay in the yard with real steel in his hand. He
saw Hodor, the simple giant from the stables, carrying an anvil to
Mikken’s forge, hefting it onto his shoulder as easily as
another man might heft a bale of hay. At the heart of the godswood,
the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black
pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind. When it felt Bran
watching, it lifted its eyes from the still waters and stared back
at him knowingly.
He looked east, and saw a galley racing across the waters of the
Bite. He saw his mother sitting alone in a cabin, looking at a
bloodstained knife on a table in front of her, as the rowers pulled
at their oars and Ser Rodrik leaned across a rail, shaking and
heaving. A storm was gathering ahead of them, a vast dark roaring
lashed by lightning, but somehow they could not see it.
He looked south, and saw the great blue-green rush of the
Trident. He saw his father pleading with the king, his face etched
with grief. He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he
saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her
heart. There were shadows all around them. One shadow was dark as
ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like
the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in
armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was
nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood.
He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the
Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak
under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai
by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise.
Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue
crystal, and his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed,
his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of all warmth fled
from him. And he looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked
in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of
ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and
north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of
the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the
heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his
tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now
you know why you must live.
“Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling,
falling. Because winter is coming.
Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked
back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible
knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but
snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white
spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like
spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon
their points. He was desperately afraid.
“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?” he
heard his own voice saying, small and far away.
And his father’s voice replied to him. “That is the
only time a man can be brave.” Now, Bran, the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die.
Death reached for him, screaming.
Bran spread his arms and flew.
Wings unseen drank the wind and filled and pulled him upward.
The terrible needles of ice receded below him. The sky opened up
above. Bran soared. It was better than climbing. It was better than
anything. The world grew small beneath him.
“I’m flying!” he cried out in delight. I’ve noticed, said the three-eyed crow. It took to the
air, flapping its wings in his face, slowing him, blinding him. He
faltered in the air as its pinions beat against his cheeks. Its
beak stabbed at him fiercely, and Bran felt a sudden blinding pain
in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he shrieked.
The crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of
fear, and the grey mists shuddered and swirled around him and
ripped away like a veil, and he saw that the crow was really a
woman, a serving woman with long black hair, and he knew her from
somewhere, from Winterfell, yes, that was it, he remembered her
now, and then he realized that he was in Winterfell, in a bed high
in some chilly tower room, and the black-haired woman dropped a
basin of water to shatter on the floor and ran down the steps,
shouting, “He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s
awake.”
Bran touched his forehead, between his eyes. The place where the
crow had pecked him was still burning, but there was nothing there,
no blood, no wound. He felt weak and dizzy. He tried to get out of
bed, but nothing happened.
And then there was movement beside the bed, and something landed
lightly on his legs. He felt nothing. A pair of yellow eyes looked
into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was
cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded
him like a hot bath. His pup, Bran realized . . . or was it? He was
so big now. He reached out to pet him, his hand trembling like a
leaf.
When his brother Robb burst into the room, breathless from his
dash up the tower steps, the direwolf was licking Bran’s
face. Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he
said.
It seemed as though he had been falling for
years. Fly, a voice whispered in the darkness, but Bran did not know
how to fly, so all he could do was fall.
Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was
hard and brittle, dressed him in Bran’s clothes, and flung
him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. “But I
never fall,” he said, falling.
The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out
through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he could feel
how fast he was falling, and he knew what was waiting for him down
there. Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up
in the instant before he hit the ground, he knew. You always woke
up in the instant before you hit the ground. And if you don’t? the voice asked.
The ground was closer now, still far far away, a thousand miles
away, but closer than it had been. It was cold here in the
darkness. There was no sun, no stars, only the ground below coming
up to smash him, and the grey mists, and the whispering voice. He
wanted to cry. Not cry. Fly.
“I can’t fly,” Bran said. “I
can’t, I can’t . . . ” How do you know? Have you ever tried?
The voice was high and thin. Bran looked around to see where it
was coming from. A crow was spiraling down with him, just out of
reach, following him as he fell. “Help me,” he
said. I’m trying, the crow replied. Say, got any corn?
Bran reached into his pocket as the darkness spun dizzily around
him. When he pulled his hand out, golden kernels slid from between
his fingers into the air. They fell with him.
The crow landed on his hand and began to eat.
“Are you really a crow?” Bran asked. Are you really falling? the crow asked back.
“It’s just a dream,” Bran said. Is it? asked the crow.
“I’ll wake up when I hit the ground,” Bran
told the bird. You’ll die when you hit the ground, the crow said. It went
back to eating corn.
Bran looked down. He could see mountains now, their peaks white
with snow, and the silver thread of rivers in dark woods. He closed
his eyes and began to cry. That won’t do any good, the crow said. I told you, the
answer is flying, not crying. How hard can it be? I’m doing
it. The crow took to the air and flapped around Bran’s
hand.
“You have wings,” Bran pointed out. Maybe you do too.
Bran felt along his shoulders, groping for feathers. There are different kinds of wings, the crow said.
Bran was staring at his arms, his legs. He was so skinny, just
skin stretched taut over bones. Had he always been so thin? He
tried to remember. A face swam up at him out of the grey mist,
shining with light, golden. “The things I do for love,”
it said.
Bran screamed.
The crow took to the air, cawing. Not that, it shrieked at him.
Forget that, you do not need it now, put it aside, put it away. It
landed on Bran’s shoulder, and pecked at him, and the shining
golden face was gone.
Bran was falling faster than ever. The grey mists howled around
him as he plunged toward the earth below. “What are you doing
to me?” he asked the crow, tearful. Teaching you how to fly.
“I can’t fly!” You’re flying tight now.
“I’m falling!” Every flight begins with a fall, the crow said. Look down.
“I’m afraid . . . ” LOOK DOWN!
Bran looked down, and felt his insides turn to water. The ground
was rushing up at him now. The whole world was spread out below
him, a tapestry of white and brown and green. He could see
everything so clearly that for a moment he forgot to be afraid. He
could see the whole realm, and everyone in it.
He saw Winterfell as the eagles see it, the tall towers looking
squat and stubby from above, the castle walls just lines in the
dirt. He saw Maester Luwin on his balcony, studying the sky through
a polished bronze tube and frowning as he made notes in a book. He
saw his brother Robb, taller and stronger than he remembered him,
practicing swordplay in the yard with real steel in his hand. He
saw Hodor, the simple giant from the stables, carrying an anvil to
Mikken’s forge, hefting it onto his shoulder as easily as
another man might heft a bale of hay. At the heart of the godswood,
the great white weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black
pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind. When it felt Bran
watching, it lifted its eyes from the still waters and stared back
at him knowingly.
He looked east, and saw a galley racing across the waters of the
Bite. He saw his mother sitting alone in a cabin, looking at a
bloodstained knife on a table in front of her, as the rowers pulled
at their oars and Ser Rodrik leaned across a rail, shaking and
heaving. A storm was gathering ahead of them, a vast dark roaring
lashed by lightning, but somehow they could not see it.
He looked south, and saw the great blue-green rush of the
Trident. He saw his father pleading with the king, his face etched
with grief. He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he
saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her
heart. There were shadows all around them. One shadow was dark as
ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like
the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in
armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was
nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood.
He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the
Free Cities and the green Dothraki sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak
under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai
by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise.
Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue
crystal, and his bastard brother Jon sleeping alone in a cold bed,
his skin growing pale and hard as the memory of all warmth fled
from him. And he looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked
in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of
ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and
north and north he looked, to the curtain of light at the end of
the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the
heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his
tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now
you know why you must live.
“Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling,
falling. Because winter is coming.
Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked
back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible
knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but
snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white
spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like
spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon
their points. He was desperately afraid.
“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?” he
heard his own voice saying, small and far away.
And his father’s voice replied to him. “That is the
only time a man can be brave.” Now, Bran, the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die.
Death reached for him, screaming.
Bran spread his arms and flew.
Wings unseen drank the wind and filled and pulled him upward.
The terrible needles of ice receded below him. The sky opened up
above. Bran soared. It was better than climbing. It was better than
anything. The world grew small beneath him.
“I’m flying!” he cried out in delight. I’ve noticed, said the three-eyed crow. It took to the
air, flapping its wings in his face, slowing him, blinding him. He
faltered in the air as its pinions beat against his cheeks. Its
beak stabbed at him fiercely, and Bran felt a sudden blinding pain
in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he shrieked.
The crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of
fear, and the grey mists shuddered and swirled around him and
ripped away like a veil, and he saw that the crow was really a
woman, a serving woman with long black hair, and he knew her from
somewhere, from Winterfell, yes, that was it, he remembered her
now, and then he realized that he was in Winterfell, in a bed high
in some chilly tower room, and the black-haired woman dropped a
basin of water to shatter on the floor and ran down the steps,
shouting, “He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s
awake.”
Bran touched his forehead, between his eyes. The place where the
crow had pecked him was still burning, but there was nothing there,
no blood, no wound. He felt weak and dizzy. He tried to get out of
bed, but nothing happened.
And then there was movement beside the bed, and something landed
lightly on his legs. He felt nothing. A pair of yellow eyes looked
into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was
cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded
him like a hot bath. His pup, Bran realized . . . or was it? He was
so big now. He reached out to pet him, his hand trembling like a
leaf.
When his brother Robb burst into the room, breathless from his
dash up the tower steps, the direwolf was licking Bran’s
face. Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he
said.