The Karstarks came in on a cold windy morning, bringing three hundred horsemen and near twothousand foot from their castle at Karhold. The steel points of their pikes winked in the pale sunlightas the column approached. A man went before them, pounding out a slow, deep-throated marchingrhythm on a drum that was bigger than he was, boom, boom, boom.

Bran watched them come from a guard turret atop the outer wall, peering through Maester Luwin’sbronze far-eye while perched on Hodor’s shoulders. Lord Rickard himself led them, his sons Harrionand Eddard and Torrhen riding beside him beneath night-black banners emblazoned with the whitesunburst of their House. Old Nan said they had Stark blood in them, going back hundreds of years,but they did not look like Starks to Bran. They were big men, and fierce, faces covered with thickbeards, hair worn loose past the shoulders. Their cloaks were made of skins, the pelts of bear and sealand wolf.

They were the last, he knew. The other lords were already here, with their hosts. Bran yearned toride out among them, to see the winter houses full to bursting, the jostling crowds in the marketsquare every morning, the streets rutted and torn by wheel and hoof. But Robb had forbidden him toleave the castle. “We have no men to spare to guard you,” his brother had explained.

“I’ll take Summer,” Bran argued.

“Don’t act the boy with me, Bran,” Robb said. “You know better than that. Only two days agoone of Lord Bolton’s men knifed one of Lord Cerwyn’s at the Smoking Log. Our lady mother wouldskin me for a pelt if I let you put yourself at risk.” He was using the voice of Robb the Lord when hesaid it; Bran knew that meant there was no appeal.

It was because of what had happened in the wolfswood, he knew. The memory still gave him baddreams. He had been as helpless as a baby, no more able to defend himself than Rickon would havebeen. Less, even … Rickon would have kicked them, at the least. It shamed him. He was only a fewyears younger than Robb; if his brother was almost a man grown, so was he. He should have beenable to protect himself.

A year ago, before, he would have visited the town even if it meant climbing over the walls byhimself. In those days he could run down stairs, get on and off his pony by himself, and wield awooden sword good enough to knock Prince Tommen in the dirt. Now he could only watch, peeringout through Maester Luwin’s lens tube. The maester had taught him all the banners: the mailed fist ofthe Glovers, silver on scarlet; Lady Mormont’s black bear; the hideous flayed man that went beforeRoose Bolton of the Dreadfort; a bull moose for the Hornwoods; a battle-axe for the Cerwyns; threesentinel trees for the Tallharts; and the fearsome sigil of House Umber, a roaring giant in shatteredchains.

And soon enough he learned the faces too, when the lords and their sons and knights retainer cameto Winterfell to feast. Even the Great Hall was not large enough to seat all of them at once, so Robbhosted each of the principal bannermen in turn. Bran was always given the place of honor at hisbrother’s right hand. Some of the lords bannermen gave him queer hard stares as he sat there, as ifthey wondered by what right a green boy should be placed above them, and him a cripple too.

“How many is it now?” Bran asked Maester Luwin as Lord Karstark and his sons rode throughthe gates in the outer wall.

“Twelve thousand men, or near enough as makes no matter.”

“How many knights?”

“Few enough,” the maester said with a touch of impatience. “To be a knight, you must stand yourvigil in a sept, and be anointed with the seven oils to consecrate your vows. In the north, only a few ofthe great houses worship the Seven. The rest honor the old gods, and name no knights … but thoselords and their sons and sworn swords are no less fierce or loyal or honorable. A man’s worth is notmarked by a ser before his name. As I have told you a hundred times before.”

“Still,” said Bran, “how many knights?”

Maester Luwin sighed. “Three hundred, perhaps four … among three thousand armored lances whoare not knights.”

“Lord Karstark is the last,” Bran said thoughtfully. “Robb will feast him tonight.”

“No doubt he will.”

“How long before … before they go?”

“He must march soon, or not at all,” Maester Luwin said. “The winter town is full to bursting, andthis army of his will eat the countryside clean if it camps here much longer. Others are waiting to joinhim all along the kingsroad, barrow knights and crannogmen and the Lords Manderly and Flint. Thefighting has begun in the riverlands, and your brother has many leagues to go.”

“I know.” Bran felt as miserable as he sounded. He handed the bronze tube back to the maester,and noticed how thin Luwin’s hair had grown on top. He could see the pink of scalp showing through.

It felt queer to look down on him this way, when he’d spent his whole life looking up at him, butwhen you sat on Hodor’s back you looked down on everyone. “I don’t want to watch anymore.

Hodor, take me back to the keep.”

“Hodor,” said Hodor.

Maester Luwin tucked the tube up his sleeve. “Bran, your lord brother will not have time to see younow. He must greet Lord Karstark and his sons and make them welcome.”

“I won’t trouble Robb. I want to visit the godswood.” He put his hand on Hodor’s shoulder.

“Hodor.”

A series of chisel-cut handholds made a ladder in the granite of the tower’s inner wall. Hodorhummed tunelessly as he went down hand under hand, Bran bouncing against his back in the wickerseat that Maester Luwin had fashioned for him. Luwin had gotten the idea from the baskets thewomen used to carry firewood on their backs; after that it had been a simple matter of cutting legholesand attaching some new straps to spread Bran’s weight more evenly. It was not as good as ridingDancer, but there were places Dancer could not go, and this did not shame Bran the way it did whenHodor carried him in his arms like a baby. Hodor seemed to like it too, though with Hodor it was hardto tell. The only tricky part was doors. Sometimes Hodor forgot that he had Bran on his back, and thatcould be painful when he went through a door.

For near a fortnight there had been so many comings and goings that Robb ordered bothportcullises kept up and the drawbridge down between them, even in the dead of night. A longcolumn of armored lancers was crossing the moat between the walls when Bran emerged from thetower; Karstark men, following their lords into the castle. They wore black iron halfhelms and blackwoolen cloaks patterned with the white sunburst. Hodor trotted along beside them, smiling to himself,his boots thudding against the wood of the drawbridge. The riders gave them queer looks as they wentby, and once Bran heard someone guffaw. He refused to let it trouble him. “Men will look at you,”

Maester Luwin had warned him the first time they had strapped the wicker basket around Hodor’schest. “They will look, and they will talk, and some will mock you.” Let them mock, Bran thought. Noone mocked him in his bedchamber, but he would not live his life in bed.

As they passed beneath the gatehouse portcullis, Bran put two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

Summer came loping across the yard. Suddenly the Karstark lancers were fighting for control, as theirhorses rolled their eyes and whickered in dismay. One stallion reared, screaming, his rider cursing andhanging on desperately. The scent of the direwolves sent horses into a frenzy of fear if they were notaccustomed to it, but they’d quiet soon enough once Summer was gone. “The godswood,” Branreminded Hodor.

Even Winterfell itself was crowded. The yard rang to the sound of sword and axe, the rumble ofwagons, and the barking of dogs. The armory doors were open, and Bran glimpsed Mikken at hisforge, his hammer ringing as sweat dripped off his bare chest. Bran had never seen as many strangersin all his years, not even when King Robert had come to visit Father.

He tried not to flinch as Hodor ducked through a low door. They walked down a long dim hallway,Summer padding easily beside them. The wolf glanced up from time to time, eyes smoldering likeliquid gold. Bran would have liked to touch him, but he was riding too high for his hand to reach.

The godswood was an island of peace in the sea of chaos that Winterfell had become. Hodor madehis way through the dense stands of oak and ironwood and sentinels, to the still pool beside the hearttree. He stopped under the gnarled limbs of the weirwood, humming. Bran reached up over his headand pulled himself out of his seat, drawing the dead weight of his legs up through the holes in thewicker basket. He hung for a moment, dangling, the dark red leaves brushing against his face, untilHodor lifted him and lowered him to the smooth stone beside the water. “I want to be by myself for awhile,” he said. “You go soak. Go to the pools.”

“Hodor.” Hodor stomped through the trees and vanished. Across the godswood, beneath thewindows of the Guest House, an underground hot spring fed three small ponds. Steam rose from thewater day and night, and the wall that loomed above was thick with moss. Hodor hated cold water,and would fight like a treed wildcat when threatened with soap, but he would happily immersehimself in the hottest pool and sit for hours, giving a loud burp to echo the spring whenever a bubblerose from the murky green depths to break upon the surface.

Summer lapped at the water and settled down at Bran’s side. He rubbed the wolf under the jaw, andfor a moment boy and beast both felt at peace. Bran had always liked the godswood, even before, butof late he found himself drawn to it more and more. Even the heart tree no longer scared him the wayit used to. The deep red eyes carved into the pale trunk still watched him, yet somehow he tookcomfort from that now. The gods were looking over him, he told himself; the old gods, gods of theStarks and the First Men and the children of the forest, his father’s gods. He felt safe in their sight,and the deep silence of the trees helped him think. Bran had been thinking a lot since his fall;thinking, and dreaming, and talking with the gods.

“Please make it so Robb won’t go away,” he prayed softly. He moved his hand through the coldwater, sending ripples across the pool. “Please make him stay. Or if he has to go, bring him homesafe, with Mother and Father and the girls. And make it … make it so Rickon understands.”

His baby brother had been wild as a winter storm since he learned Robb was riding off to war,weeping and angry by turns. He’d refused to eat, cried and screamed for most of a night, evenpunched Old Nan when she tried to sing him to sleep, and the next day he’d vanished. Robb had sethalf the castle searching for him, and when at last they’d found him down in the crypts, Rickon hadslashed at them with a rusted iron sword he’d snatched from a dead king’s hand, and Shaggydog hadcome slavering out of the darkness like a green-eyed demon. The wolf was near as wild as Rickon;he’d bitten Gage on the arm and torn a chunk of flesh from Mikken’s thigh. It had taken Robb himselfand Grey Wind to bring him to bay. Farlen had the black wolf chained up in the kennels now, andRickon cried all the more for being without him.

Maester Luwin counseled Robb to remain at Winterfell, and Bran pleaded with him too, for hisown sake as much as Rickon’s, but his brother only shook his head stubbornly and said, “I don’t wantto go. I have to.”

It was only half a lie. Someone had to go, to hold the Neck and help the Tullys against theLannisters, Bran could understand that, but it did not have to be Robb. His brother might have giventhe command to Hal Mollen or Theon Greyjoy, or to one of his lords bannermen. Maester Luwinurged him to do just that, but Robb would not hear of it. “My lord father would never have sent menoff to die while he huddled like a craven behind the walls of Winterfell,” he said, all Robb the Lord.

Robb seemed half a stranger to Bran now, transformed, a lord in truth, though he had not yet seenhis sixteenth name day. Even their father’s bannermen seemed to sense it. Many tried to test him,each in his own way. Roose Bolton and Robett Glover both demanded the honor of battle command,the first brusquely, the second with a smile and a jest. Stout, grey-haired Maege Mormont, dressed inmail like a man, told Robb bluntly that he was young enough to be her grandson, and had no businessgiving her commands … but as it happened, she had a granddaughter she would be willing to havehim marry. Soft-spoken Lord Cerwyn had actually brought his daughter with him, a plump, homelymaid of thirty years who sat at her father’s left hand and never lifted her eyes from her plate. JovialLord Hornwood had no daughters, but he did bring gifts, a horse one day, a haunch of venison thenext, a silver-chased hunting horn the day after, and he asked nothing in return … nothing but acertain holdfast taken from his grandfather, and hunting rights north of a certain ridge, and leave todam the White Knife, if it please the lord.

Robb answered each of them with cool courtesy, much as Father might have, and somehow he bentthem to his will.

And when Lord Umber, who was called the Greatjon by his men and stood as tall as Hodor andtwice as wide, threatened to take his forces home if he was placed behind the Hornwoods or theCerwyns in the order of march, Robb told him he was welcome to do so. “And when we are donewith the Lannisters,” he promised, scratching Grey Wind behind the ear, “we will march back north,root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker.” Cursing, the Greatjon flung a flagon ofale into the fire and bellowed that Robb was so green he must piss grass. When Hallis Mollen movedto restrain him, he knocked him to the floor, kicked over a table, and unsheathed the biggest, ugliestgreatsword that Bran had ever seen. All along the benches, his sons and brothers and sworn swordsleapt to their feet, grabbing for their steel.

Yet Robb only said a quiet word, and in a snarl and the blink of an eye Lord Umber was on hisback, his sword spinning on the floor three feet away and his hand dripping blood where Grey Windhad bitten off two fingers. “My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steel against your liegelord,” Robb said, “but doubtless you only meant to cut my meat.” Bran’s bowels went to water as theGreatjon struggled to rise, sucking at the red stumps of fingers … but then, astonishingly, the hugeman laughed. “Your meat,” he roared, “is bloody tough.”

And somehow after that the Greatjon became Robb’s right hand, his staunchest champion, loudlytelling all and sundry that the boy lord was a Stark after all, and they’d damn well better bend theirknees if they didn’t fancy having them chewed off.

Yet that very night, his brother came to Bran’s bedchamber pale and shaken, after the fires hadburned low in the Great Hall. “I thought he was going to kill me,” Robb confessed. “Did you see theway he threw down Hal, like he was no bigger than Rickon? Gods, I was so scared. And theGreatjon’s not the worst of them, only the loudest. Lord Roose never says a word, he only looks atme, and all I can think of is that room they have in the Dreadfort, where the Boltons hang the skins oftheir enemies.”

“That’s just one of Old Nan’s stories,” Bran said. A note of doubt crept into h............