Interlude 5 — A Boy in the City of Kings
POV: Bran
The Red Keep was nothing like Winterfell.
It had no godswood to speak of, just a pale garden fenced with lemon trees and silken benches, its dirt too dry for moss, its air thick with perfume instead of pine. There was nowhere to climb, sadly. And yet, Bran could not stop staring at it all: the towers that glinted like swords under the morning sun, the painted walls, the tiled floors that mirrored candlelight like pools of glass. Even the guards looked different here, polished and proud in golden cloaks, like the heroes from Old Nan's stories.
Bran was not afraid. He felt taller somehow, walking these endless hallways in his new clothes, the direwolf of House Stark stitched proudly on his chest. His boots squeaked softly as he followed Ser Barristan Selmy down the eastern corridor, heading toward the practice yard where the squires trained with wooden swords. He liked the way the old knight walked, straight-backed and steady, with a calmness that made everyone else seem like they were rushing.
I'm to carry his helm today, Bran thought, fingers curling around the leather straps of the bag slung over his shoulder. And see to his horse before the tilts begin. And polish his sword. A squire's duties.
It made him proud. More proud than anything had ever made him feel before.
He imagined donning armor of his own one day, steel gleaming in the sun, a white cloak flapping behind him. Not a knight of the Kingsguard, maybe, but a knight like Ser Duncan the Tall! Who protected the weak and made even kings remember their vows. Or even better, Ser Barristan, who had once faced Maelys the Monstrous and lived to tell of it.
"You're a quiet one," Barristan had said a few days past, when Bran had followed him silently to the stables. "That's no failing. Listen twice before speaking once, that's a knight's wisdom."
Bran had nodded so fiercely his ears had gone red.
That night, he'd told his father what Ser Barristan had said.
Father had smiled, a sad sort of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "A knight's wisdom, perhaps. But don't forget this, Bran, being a knight means keeping your word when it's hard. It means knowing when not to draw your sword. And when to do so."
Bran hadn't understood that part, not really. But he'd nodded anyway and repeated it to himself now like a riddle.
He walked past a gallery of stained glass, where colored light painted his face with reds and blues. He saw his reflection in the polished stone of a pillar, short and thin, with windblown brown hair and a tunic just a little too big. "But I'm growing," he reminded himself. "I'll be tall like Robb soon. I'll win tourneys. I'll ride in the lists. I'll be strong enough to protect them all."
Them all.
He thought of Arya's scowl, the way she had argued with Septa Mordane again that morning. Of little Rickon, still in Winterfell. Of Sansa, who laughed too much at Prince Joffrey's jokes. And of Father, so tired lately, weighed down by the crown's demands and the king's endless hunts.
And Jon.
Bran missed Jon the most. He wished his brother could see him now, polishing Ser Barristan's greaves till they shone like ice, or holding the man's sword steady while he tested the balance. "You'd be proud of me," he whispered once while working the whetstone. "I'll make you proud."
Jon would know what the dreams of Summer running in the riverlands with his sisters meant.
The bell in the Tower of the Hand rang softly, far above. It echoed through the Keep like a distant voice.
Bran turned toward the practice yard. The sun was climbing. It would be a busy day. Knights from every corner of the realm had come to honor Lord Stark's appointment, and the lists would be crowded. There'd be banners and cheers and silver armor glinting like fire. He would watch from the shade of the pavilion, fetch water, help with saddles, lances and shields.
He would serve.
Because he was a squire of Ser Barristan the Bold. Because he was a Stark of Winterfell.
Because one day, he would be a knight.
And King's Landing, for all its heat and strangeness, still seemed like a place where dreams might live.
They walked the garden paths behind the Tower of the Hand, where sunlight pooled through the high, arched windows and scattered golden coins across the flagstones. The scent of lemon trees hung thick in the air, and a breeze from the bay teased Arya's hair into wild tangles she didn't bother to smooth down.
"Hold your elbows in," Arya said, hopping from stone to stone. "Like this." She struck a pose, one foot forward, arms raised like a dancer's. "Syrio says footwork is everything. It's not just about swinging a sword. Anyone can swing a sword. A water dancer moves like a shadow." She spun on one foot, nearly colliding with a column.
Bran laughed. "You're going to fall on your face."
"Better to fall than to stand still like a tree," Arya said, puffing out her chest. "That's what Syrio says too."
Sansa rolled her eyes and sipped from her little cup of lemonwater. "It's unseemly for a lady to wave her arms about like a madwoman."
Arya stuck out her tongue. "I'm not a lady."
Bran snorted. "We noticed."
They laughed together, loud and free, the sound echoing off the pale stone around them. For a moment, they weren't in the capital. They were just children again, just a brother and two sisters with the warmth of the sun on their backs and nothing in the world to fear.
"Anyway," Sansa said primly, brushing a fleck of lint from her sleeve, "Prince Joffrey says Syrio Forel was just a mummer's man. He's never even fought in a real war."
Arya's eyes narrowed. "Joffrey can eat sand."
Sansa gasped. "You shouldn't say things like that! He's going to be king one day."
Bran stayed quiet. He remembered the way Joffrey's had lied, how he'd joked about putting a direwolf head on a pike that day "just to see the northern boy cry again." He didn't like Joffrey. But Sansa looked so happy when she talked about him, her face bright, her voice dreamy. Bran didn't want to ruin that.
"He was very gallant when he helped Lady Royce down from her horse," Sansa went on. "And he's got a new doublet with the Lannister lion all embroidered in gold thread. Septa Mordane says he looks like a true prince of the realm."
"He looks like a yellow-haired weasel," Arya muttered.
"I heard that."
Bran grinned and turned his attention to the tower above them. The windows were full of color today, catching the midday sun. He could hear music drifting faintly down from the upper halls, flutes and fiddles, the tune bright and quick. Somewhere, lords and ladies were feasting or practicing for the tourney. Banners flapped from every rooftop: lions, flowers, stags. And wolves. There was even one banner showing a flaming heart that he didn't recognize, but it looked fierce and beautiful all the same.
"The city's different," Bran said aloud, half to himself. "Louder. Busier."
"It's the tourney," Sansa said. "They say there'll be a thousand knights. Maybe more. Even the Dornish are sending a party, and the Tyrells are arriving soon. Father says it'll be the grandest tourney in twenty years."
"I want to see the tilts," Arya said. "And the melee."
Bran nodded. "I want to see Ser Barristan ride."
Sansa gave a polite smile. "He's very old."
"He's the best knight in the realm," Arya snapped.
"He is," Bran agreed, firmly. "Even the Kingsguard says so."
Sansa didn't argue after that. She only sipped her lemonwater and looked off toward the tower, as if imagining Prince Joffrey winning the champion's wreath and offering it to her.
Bran kicked at a pebble and watched it skip across the stones. The moment felt golden somehow, like the hour just before sunset in the godswood. The heat hadn't yet turned heavy, the clouds hadn't yet rolled in. They were here. They were safe. And for a few heartbeats, it felt like nothing could change that.
He looked at Arya, barefoot and grinning, and Sansa, composed and dreaming, and loved them both with a sudden fierceness that made his throat tighten. They were so different. But they were his sisters.
And the City of Kings, for all its strangeness, still seemed to hold room for all of them.
If only he had seen father's face on the other side of the yard when Arya called Joffrey yellow-haired.
Bran heard them arguing before he entered the solar. Arya's voice, sharp and breathless, carried through the thick door. Sansa's was quieter, but sharper in its own way, like the edge of a well-honed knife.
The air inside the room was heavy. Golden light seeped through the tall window, painting everything in cold silver. Father stood there, back straight, hands clasped behind him, the cloak of House Stark hanging heavy from his shoulders like a shadow that would not lift.
Bran could feel it, the weight in the air, like the hush before snow fell.
"You are leaving the city soon," Father said.
Bran blinked.
Just like that.
No warning. No talk of preparations. No reason.
Arya gasped, stepping forward, still clutching her practice sword. Her cheeks were red, probably from running. "But I've only just started again with Syrio! He says I'm quicker than half the boys he trained in Braavos!"
"I don't want to leave," Sansa said, voice almost trembling. "I'm betrothed to the prince. We can't just leave—can we?"
Bran's heart beat faster. "But I have a squire's place. Ser Barristan said I could help him with the tilts. I've been practicing every day."
Father turned then. His face was calm, but not cold. Bran could tell the difference now. There was something old behind his eyes.
"Enough," Father said.
The word stopped everything. Even Arya didn't move.
He looked at each of them in turn. "I did not say you leave today. But if the time comes, you must be ready. If I say pack, you pack. If I say ride, you ride. No questions. No hesitation."
Bran's throat tightened. He could hear Arya fidgeting beside him, her fingers tapping against the wooden grip of her sword. She wanted to fight it. She always did.
Sansa folded her hands, lips trembling just slightly. "But… what about the prince? About me?"
Father's expression didn't change, but something in him flickered, like a candle guttering in wind. "I don't know," he said softly. "I wish I did."
Bran felt something sharp twist in his chest. He hadn't heard Father speak like that since… the wolves.
"I've done everything I was supposed to," Bran said. "Every lesson. Every drill. I'm ready."
"I know," Father said, stepping close. His hand came down on Bran's shoulder. It was heavy and warm, but it didn't make the fear go away. "This isn't punishment. The world changes whether we're ready or not."
The words made sense, but didn't feel real.
Bran looked around the room. It had become theirs in small ways, Sansa's brush on the desk, Arya's boots in the corner, his own carved game pieces tucked near the fire. It wasn't home, but it was something.
And now it was being taken away.
Father turned toward the door, pulling on his gloves. "Tell Septa Mordane to help you gather your things. What you need. Only that."
Arya's voice was defiant again. "Can I bring my sword?"
"If it fits in your pack," Father said, without turning. "Bran go tell Ser Barristan your squireship with him is over, be respectful. I will send someone for you later in the day."
The door shut behind him, and the solar was silent.
Arya kicked the edge of a chair, but not hard. Sansa stood very still, lips thin and pale. No one said anything.
Bran sat for a long moment by the heart, staring at the crumbled remains of the fire. The air felt still now, as though Father's words had pressed all sound into silence. Even Arya was quiet, slumped beside the window, tapping her heel against the stone ledge. Sansa had left in a huff, her steps quick and careful, no doubt on her way to find Septa Mordane.
He shifted to rise, meaning to go back to his room, prepare with his talk with Ser Barristan, but stopped halfway to the door. Voices echoed faintly down the corridor outside. One sharp, oiled like a knife; the other calm and cold as winter snow.
He knew them both.
Father. And Littlefinger.
Bran crept closer, keeping to the wall where shadows gathered beneath the hanging tapestries. He'd learned, these past moons, how to move quieter than expected. The limp helped, in a way, people never thought to look for him lingering near corners or behind pillars.
"…more of them, Lord Stark," Baelish was saying, his voice almost pleasant. "Not just the one you saw. The Street of Steel has eyes and blood. The whore's daughter was not the only stone thrown from Robert's garden. If we have more then we have more evidence for the King."
A pause.
Bran heard Father's breath, heard it hitch slightly.
"How many?" Ned's voice was low and careful.
Baelish chuckled, soft and false. "Enough. I have names. Faces. One's apprenticed to an armorer in Copper Alley. Another runs messages between the forges. There's a girl, too, they say she has Robert's chin. These things... proliferate, when no one bothers to count."
Bran frowned. Bastards? Why would that matter?
But something in Father's voice made Bran's spine stiffen.
"Send me what you have. Quietly, I will look for them." Ned said.
Another chuckle. "Of course, my lord. Discretion is... well, let's say it's what I do best."
Bran heard the brush of cloaks, the scuff of boots turning toward the stairwell. He stayed still, heart thudding in his chest, until their steps faded and only the soft flutter of banners remained.
"Jory… be wary of the Gold Cloaks, I want eyes on them when we are in the city."
"Yes, my lord."
He stood for a long while, staring out the arrow-slit window at the towers of King's Landing. The city sprawled beyond, a beast made of stone and smoke and screaming voices. Somewhere down there were the Street of Steel and its smiths and its secrets. Somewhere down there were bastards with a king's blood, why was father looking for Roberts's bastards? What did he want to prove to the King?
And Father was gathering them.
Bran didn't understand all of it, not yet, but he understood enough to know that whatever had been quiet was now stirring. That fire was being kindled in places no one could see.
He turned back from the window, his cane tapping softly on the stone.
The air in the solar still smelled faintly of ash.
And far below, the city burned with its thousand small flames, waiting.
The streets of King's Landing bustled with life as Bran tried to keep pace beside Ser Barristan Selmy. His white cloak flowed behind him like a banner of snow, unspotted and regal, even as mud splashed at their boots. The morning was warm, the sky pale with haze, and the smell of baking bread and horses drifted through the alleys. Bran kept close, eyes wide, trying to take it all in.
They were heading down toward Cobbler's Square, where a famed armorer, a Tyroshi with green tattoos and hands like anvils, was completing Ser Barristan's tourney armor. Bran didn't know what to expect, but he was proud just to be asked along. Bran had to tell Ser Barristan he couldn't keep his squireship as he was leaving the capital, but a few more questions couldn't hurt.
"Ser?" Bran said after a stretch of silence. "Is it true you fought at the Trident?"
Ser Barristan didn't stop walking, but his head inclined slightly. "Aye. Though not as you might think. I fought for the prince. Not the king."
"Oh." Bran blinked. "But… you were close to Prince Rhaegar, weren't you?"
A pause. "He was a quiet man. Thoughtful. Learned. Too much so, perhaps, for the times he lived in."
They passed a fruit vendor shouting about fresh oranges from the Arbor. A child darted between their legs with a stolen apple. Ser Barristan didn't even flinch.
"I read about the tourney at Harrenhal," Bran pressed. "Was it true that Prince Rhaegar crowned Aunt Lyanna instead of Princess Elia?"
Ser Barristan stopped then, turning his pale blue gaze on Bran. "You ask many questions for a squire."
Bran flushed. "I'm sorry. I only meant—"
"No need to apologize. Curiosity is a knight's companion, if he keeps it honest." The old knight looked past Bran, toward the towers of the Red Keep in the distance. "I was there. At Harrenhal. The day Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark, a hush fell over the realm that has never lifted."
He said no more.
They reached the shop, and the armorer welcomed Ser Barristan with a deep bow and a gap-toothed grin. Bran watched as they inspected a gleaming new suit of plate: pale silver with chased patterns of white wings across the breastplate. Barristan ran a gloved hand along the curve of the vambrace.
"It is fine work," he said simply.
Bran let his eyes wander. On one wall, old blades and shattered helms hung like broken crowns. A knight's shield painted with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen leaned in the corner, cracked down the middle. He felt the weight of history in this place, thicker than dust.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, and the streets filled with noise.
As they stepped back into the daylight, Bran asked, "Did you fight in the War of the Ninepenny Kings too?"
"I was three and twenty," Barristan said. "They called me the Bold by then. Foolish, perhaps, but bold."
"And you killed Maelys the Monstrous?"
Barristan didn't look proud when he nodded. "A prince of House Blackfyre. Tall as two men, and crueler than ten. I killed him, yes. But that was the day I learned that even victory feels like grief, if the blood on your blade is thick enough."
Bran didn't know what to say to that.
They turned down Fishmonger's Way, where the city opened wide toward the harbor. Sailors called out from the docks, gulls wheeled in the sky, and the ships of a dozen lords flew their banners in the wind.
Barristan slowed, then knelt beside Bran. "Tell me what you see."
Bran blinked. "I see… boats?"
"More."
Bran looked again. "A lot of Tyrell green. Those are their ships, right? And some Royal sails. And… um… that's a Stark banner on the galley over there. That must be a Manderly trade vessel."
Barristan nodded. "Good. And the streets?"
"Busy. Mostly smallfolk. Some squires with lances, maybe practicing for the melee. That beggar's pretending to limp when the goldcloaks look, but he walks fine when they pass."
Barristan smiled. "A knight must know his blade, his shield, and the realm he serves. You may hold a sword for the king, but you walk among the people."
This was the moment, Bran had to tell him he was leaving, it had been hours, and he was still here…
Then the bells began to toll.
At first, it was a single chime, then another, faster, then five, ten, twenty. They rang from the Sept of Baelor, from the Great Bell Tower, from the river towers above the mud gate. Loud. Harsh. Frantic.
People stopped. Heads turned. A dog began to howl.
Bran's stomach clenched. "What's happening?"
Ser Barristan stood very still, his face drawn as tight as a pulled bowstring. The wind caught his cloak and tugged it forward like a shroud.
"They toll like that only for three things," he said. "A royal heir's birth. An invading army… or the death of a king."
Bran's mouth went dry. "Which is it?"
But Ser Barristan didn't answer. He was already moving, fast, pushing through the growing crowd, cloak streaming behind him.
And Bran ran to keep up, heart hammering in his chest, knowing, somehow, that the City of Kings was about to become something very different.
They were halfway up the Street of Steel when the whispers caught up to them.
"Did you hear? The king—"
"Poison, they say—"
"Robert Baratheon is dead—!"
A ripple ran through the street like wind over tall grass. The cheerful market songs faltered; horses stamped nervously. A man dropped a crate of oranges, and they rolled underfoot, squashed by the crowd beginning to stir. The clang of steel on steel could be heard in the distance.
Bran felt a chill rise in his chest, though the day was warm. "Ser Barristan?"
The old knight's face was grave. "Keep your eyes sharp, Bran."
They turned a corner near the fishmongers' stalls when Bran heard it: metal on metal. The shriek of steel. Then another sound, a scream.
Barristan halted, gaze cutting toward the slope of the Street of Steel, and Bran followed his eyes.
Through a parting in the press of smallfolk, Bran saw them, his father, Lord Eddard Stark, sword drawn and grim as winter, flanked by the men of his household. Jory Cassel. Fat Tom. Desmond. Their cloaks were grey and white, wolves embroidered over mail. A few of the city guard stood with him, Baelish men.
Opposite them stood knights in red: Lannister men, armor shining like coins, their leader armored head-to-heel and mounted atop a snarling destrier.
And in between… only silence. Tension drawn taut.
"Father," Bran breathed.
He moved to run. Barristan caught him with one arm.
"No," he said. "Not now."
"But—!"
Bran clenched his fists. He could see his father's mouth moving, no, commanding. He was trying to hold peace. To stop something from happening.
A Glod Cloak raised his hand, a short sword in it, and stabbed one of his father's men in the back.
The world exploded.
Steel rang out as the Lannister guards surged forward. One of Stark's men fell almost immediately, pulled from his horse by three blades. Jory shouted something and pushed Lord Eddard behind him, then was lost in the fray. The crowd screamed and scattered. A woman was trampled trying to flee. Chickens burst from a fallen cage, feathers flying like snow.
Bran's head whipped back. "We have to help them! We have to—!"
"Get down!" Barristan shoved him aside.
Three Lannister guards had spotted them. One pointed, and they came charging up the slope. "It's the boy, seize him!"
"Run, Bran," Barristan said.
But Bran couldn't move. Not with his father fighting, not with blood flying in the street.
"Give up the boy, Ser Barristan, on order of the Queen."
Barristan didn't answer for a moment. Then he unsheathed his sword.
Then Barristan was no longer the old knight of stories. He became something else entirely.
The first man came with a spear. Ser Barristan didn't dodge. He stepped inside the thrust and drove his sword through the man's chest. It burst from his back in a spray of red. He turned. Slashed. The second man fell with his throat opened like a second mouth.
The last man tried to flank him, raising a short sword.
"Behind you!" Bran shouted.
Barristan twisted just in time, his blade flashing. The man crumpled with a grunt.
Then Bran's ears caught it: a footstep, soft but too fast.
He turned, and saw a man.
Not a red knight, but a Gold Cloak, his armor dull and dented. He held a short sword and was creeping toward Ser Barristan's back, quiet as a cat.
Barristan didn't see him.
Bran didn't think. He didn't speak.
He just moved.
He took his sword, light northern steel gifted to him by Jon, and jumped on him.
He grabbed it with both hands and swung it up with a strangled cry.
It hit the man square in the temple. There was a sickening sound, and the man's eyes went wide. He staggered. Fell. Blood on his face.
Bran stood over him, chest heaving, fingers still clenched around the bloodied sword.
Ser Barristan turned sharply, sword raised, then saw the body. Saw Bran.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Panting, Barristan looked down at Bran. "Stay close to me."
But Bran was looking back, down the street.
He saw Desmond crushed beneath a warhorse's hooves. Fat Tom trying to shield Lord Stark. Jory cut a man down with a scream. His father, still standing, shouting, fending off three men at once, until a crossbow bolt struck his leg, and he stumbled.
"No—!" Bran surged forward.
Barristan grabbed him, arms like iron bands.
Bran watched, helplessly, as a gold cloak slammed his sword into his father's back, and another drove a blade beneath his ribs. His father collapsed to one knee. A third strike came, then Ned Stark fell, swallowed by the chaos, his grey cloak torn and darkening with blood.
No! No, no, no—
Bran screamed, the sound tearing from his throat like a wounded animal. He kicked at Barristan, clawing, desperate to reach him.
"Father!"
Barristan's face was pale with fury and grief. "Run, damn it!"
The knight seized Bran in both arms and threw them into motion. Down an alley, through a courtyard where an old woman screamed and slammed her shutters. Barristan moved like a man possessed, sword still bloody, white cloak trailing behind him like a streak of ash.
They darted through the baker's quarter and into a hidden postern gate half-choked with weeds. Bran sobbed in his arms, flailing against the knight who carried him.
"We have to go back! We have to—he's—!"
"He's gone," Barristan said, voice hoarse. "There's no going back now."
Bran felt like the world had tilted. His breath came in gasps. His chest felt too tight. Every time he blinked, he saw his father falling, again and again.
The knight did not stop, not even when Bran struck him with small fists. He carried him like a bundle of grief through shadows and broken stone, deeper into Kings Landing.
They hid in a stable for hours, hearing sounds of battle come from all over the city. Barristan's his white cloak missing. He wrapped Bran in a rough spun cloak and whispered quiet words to keep him still.
Bran shook. The sobs wouldn't stop. He curled in on himself, whispering, "No… no… no…" over and over again.
At last, when the bells had ceased and dusk painted the sky with ash and rose, Ser Barristan knelt beside him and took him somewhere else.
The trees passed in a blur of green and gold and dust.
Bran did not feel the horse beneath him anymore. He barely felt the hard leather of the saddle or the ache in his thighs. He held on because his body remembered how, because his hands were clenched too tight to open. He didn't think of loosening them. He didn't think of anything.
His eyes stung. His face was wet. He hadn't heard himself cry.
Somewhere behind them, the city still burned. In memory, in the glint of Lannister steel, in the high tolling of bells that would not stop, in the coppery smell of blood and dust. It had all blurred together. Screams. Smoke. The crunch of boot against bone. The sound of someone dying. He didn't know if it had been his father's voice.
The wind rushed past his ears now. It howled, empty and indifferent. The rhythm of hooves beat on, steady, relentless. It might've been his own heartbeat. He couldn't tell the difference.
He did not remember how they got out. He did not remember the streets they took, or if the gate was guarded, or how the guards were made to look away.
The blood was still on him. Sticky on his hands. A streak across his sleeve where the man had fallen. A warm spray on his cheek where—
He gagged, but nothing came. His stomach was empty. Or maybe it wasn't. He couldn't feel it.
The horse turned down a slope. The reins tugged gently, guiding him. He had not touched them. He was only along for the ride now. A bundle of limbs and pain and silence.
The world narrowed to motion and breath. Trees passed. Rocks. A bird called once in the distance. His head swayed with the rhythm of the ride. His mind floated just above his body, somewhere unreachable, watching from a height.
He was Bran Stark, second son of Eddard Stark, squire to Ser Barristan Selmy, who had once dreamed of knighthood, of silver spurs and white cloaks. That boy had stood beside his father just that morning, smiling, talking of swords. That boy had been looking forward to the tourney.
He was gone now.
Bran did not know when he began crying again. He only realized it when he tasted salt in his mouth, and when the tears froze to his cheeks in the wind.
They rode for hours. Day became dusk. The light turned gold, then bruised purple. Shadows lengthened. The horses snorted, their breaths heavy, flanks steaming in the cool.
At some point, Ser Barristan halted. Bran did not know where. Trees surrounded them, tall oaks, thick trunks, the air heavy with leaves and the scent of damp earth. He dismounted because the knight lifted him down. He stood because his legs remembered how.
There was no campfire that night. No comfort of warm stew or stories. They did not speak. Ser Barristan bound the horses to a low branch and vanished into the brush. When he returned, he tossed a blanket to the ground and handed Bran a skin of water.
Bran drank because his throat hurt. It tasted of leather and iron.
He sat beneath a tree, wrapping the blanket around him. His limbs were shaking now. A cold had settled in his chest, lodged like a shard of ice between his ribs. He stared into the darkness and saw his father falling, again and again, like a dream on a loop. The sword raised. The men shouting. His father's eyes, wide, surprised.
He'd screamed then. He remembered that.
He buried his face in his knees. The blanket did nothing. He felt naked beneath the sky. Ser Barristan held him.
The stars came out slowly. One by one.
No going back.
The words echoed inside him. He wasn't sure who had said them.
He shut his eyes. And saw the man again, the one who had come at Ser Barristan from behind. The sword. The gleam of it. The way Bran's hand had found his sword. The sound it had made when it went though the man.
His first kill.
He had not aimed. He had not thought. It had been instinct. Like Summer, lunging.
He didn't feel proud. He didn't feel anything. Just tired.
So very tired.
That night, Bran Stark did not sleep.
He was no longer a squire in King's Landing.
He was a boy on the run. A boy without a father. A boy who had looked into the heart of the realm and seen its rot.