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 wasfall.

Maester Luwin made a little boy of clay, baked him till he was hard and brittle, dressed him inBran’s clothes, and flung him off a roof. Bran remembered the way he shattered. “But I never fall,” hesaid, falling.

The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out through the grey mists that whirledaround him, but he could feel how fast he was falling, and he knew what was waiting for him downthere. Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up in the instant before he hit theground, 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. Itwas cold here in the darkness. There was no sun, no stars, only the ground below coming up to smashhim, 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 wasspiraling 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 threadof 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 itbe. 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 healways been so thin? He tried to remember. A face swam up at him out of the grey mist, shining withlight, 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 facewas gone.

put it aside, put it away. It landed on Bran’s shoulder, and pecked at him, and the shining golden facewas gone.

Bran was falling faster than ever. The grey mists howled around him as he plunged toward theearth below. “What are you doing to me?” he asked the crow, tearful.

Teaching you how to fly.

“I can’t fly!”

You’re flying right 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. Thewhole world was spread out below him, a tapestry of white and brown and green. He could seeeverything so clearly that for a moment he forgot to be afraid. He could see the whole realm, andeveryone in it.

He saw Winterfell as the eagles see it, the tall towers looking squat and stubby from above, thecastle walls just lines in the dirt. He saw Maester Luwin on his balcony, studying the sky through apolished bronze tube and frowning as he made notes in a book. He saw his brother Robb, taller andstronger than he remembered him, practicing swordplay in the yard with real steel in his hand. He sawHodor, the simple giant from the stables, carrying an anvil to Mikken’s forge, hefting it onto hisshoulder as easily as another man might heft a bale of hay. At the heart of the godswood, the greatwhite weirwood brooded over its reflection in the black pool, its leaves rustling in a chill wind. Whenit felt Bran watching, it lifted its eyes from the still waters ............