Bran

           Intheyardbelow,Rickonranwiththewolves.

           Branwatchedfromhiswindowseat.Wherevertheboywent,GreyWindwastherefirst,lopingaheadtocuthimoff,untilRickonsawhim,screamedindelight,andwentpeltingoffinanotherdirection.Shaggydogranathisheels,spinningandsnappingiftheotherwolvescametooclose.Hisfurhaddarkeneduntilhewasallblack,andhiseyesweregreenfire.Bran’sSummercamelast.Hewassilverandsmoke,witheyesofyellowgoldthatsawalltherewastosee.SmallerthanGreyWind,andmorewary.Branthoughthewasthesmartestofthelitter.Hecouldhearhisbrother’sbreathlesslaughterasRickondashedacrossthehard-packedearthonlittlebabylegs.

           Hiseyesstung.Hewantedtobedownthere,laughingandrunning.Angryatthethought,Branknuckledawaythetearsbeforetheycouldfall.Hiseighthnamedayhadcomeandgone.Hewasalmostamangrownnow,toooldtocry.

           "Itwasjustalie,"hesaidbitterly,rememberingthecrowfromhisdream."Ican’tfly.Ican’tevenrun."

           "Crowsareallliars,"OldNanagreed,fromthechairwhereshesatdoingherneedlework."Iknowastoryaboutacrow."

           "Idon’twantanymorestories,"Bransnapped,hisvoicepetulant.HehadlikedOldNanandherstoriesonce.Before.Butitwasdifferentnow.Theyleftherwithhimalldaynow,towatchoverhimandcleanhimandkeephimfrombeinglonely,butshejustmadeitworse."Ihateyourstupidstories."

           Theoldwomansmiledathimtoothlessly."Mystories?No,mylittlelord,notmine.