Bran

           Theoldestweremengrown,seventeenandeighteenyearsfromthedayoftheirnaming.Onewaspasttwenty.Mostwereyounger,sixteenorless.

           BranwatchedthemfromthebalconyofMaesterLuwin’sturret,listeningtothemgruntandstrainandcurseastheyswungtheirstavesandwoodenswords.Theyardwasalivetotheclackofwoodonwood,punctuatedalltoooftenbythwacksandyowlsofpainwhenablowstruckleatherorflesh.SerRodrikstrodeamongtheboys,facereddeningbeneathhiswhitewhiskers,mutteringatthemoneandall.Branhadneverseentheoldknightlooksofierce."No,"hekeptsaying."No.No.No."

           "Theydon’tfightverywell,"Bransaiddubiously.HescratchedSummeridlybehindtheearsasthedirewolftoreatahaunchofmeat.Bonescrunchedbetweenhisteeth.

           "Foracertainty,"MaesterLuwinagreedwithadeepsigh.ThemaesterwaspeeringthroughhisbigMyrishlenstube,measuringshadowsandnotingthepositionofthecometthathunglowinthemorningsky."Yetgiventime...SerRodrikhasthetruthofit,weneedmentowalkthewalls.YourlordfathertookthecreamofhisguardtoKing’sLanding,andyourbrothertooktherest,alongwithallthelikelyladsforleaguesaround.Manywillnotcomebacktous,andwemustneedsfindthementotaketheirplaces."

           Branstaredresentfullyatthesweatingboysbelow."IfIstillhadmylegs,Icouldbeatthemall."Herememberedthelasttimehe’dheldaswordinhishand,whenthekinghadcometoWinterfell.

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