The End of Summer
Chapter 38
The End of Summer
It had been a dismal few weeks for Catelyn. She had tried on several occasions to talk with Bran, but her son was having none of it. Any time she got close to breaking through the wall of ice he had built around them, Bran would find some excuse to leave her, claiming always to have lessons or castle duties to attend to. Whatever the reason, he was always too busy for his mother these days. She knew that Old Nan had tried to speak on her behalf to the boy, but he had sent her away as soon as she had brought Lady Catelyn’s name up.
She had grown so frustrated sometimes that she truly thought she might have escaped into the night and gone on her own to the Eyrie to speak with Lysa more on the topic of the Lannisters and the danger they posed. Before making that dangerous journey though, she thought to try and contact her sister once more for further explanation.
All she got was a brief note through raven that Maester Luwin delivered to her in her chambers.
She read it and found it scrawled with their same secret language that her first message had been written with.
Beware the imp.
It was all that was written on the matter and had given Catelyn nothing but more questions, though she had a decent guess who Lysa meant. The imp could only have meant Tyrion Lannister, Lord Tywin’s misshapen dwarf son and often known to many as the imp.
So then… had he been responsible for Jon Arryn’s death?
He must have been, Catelyn surmised. She couldn’t have imagined a reason Lysa would warn her against him unless he was directly involved in some way.
She sat by the window of her tower and listened to Rickon playing his game, same as always while she clutched to the piece of paper in her hand, reading the three words over and over again, hoping more explanation would somehow spring out of the words for her, but it never happened. Catelyn began to realize that there was nothing for her here in Winterfell right now, and the temptation to go to Lysa grew by the day.
Then she saw the gates open. Inside came a trio of men, two guards and a finely dressed dwarf.
The imp himself.
She watched, heart in her throat as they were admitted inside without issue, not even realizing the danger they had let through their doors. Their mounts were taken by the stable hands, and Ser Rodrick led him into the Great Hall where Bran would receive him. In spite of her son being angry with her, she was still unwilling to let danger befall him and leaving him to the threat of that dwarf now felt so dearly foolish.
Bran had been having a rather difficult time lately. Between the castle maintenance, his lessons, and sneaking in a good climb every now and then, he was starting to feel stretched thin, like there wasn’t enough hours in the day for him to do everything he wanted. The engagements and the constituents that came to the castle for wisdom and justice all needed their lord to settle any matters too difficult to settle on their own, and there were many. There might not have been many people in the North but with it being the largest of all the seven kingdoms, there was still plenty he needed to handle personally. Theon helped where he could, but even he was beginning to feel the pressure of these matters, and he wasn’t even the castle lord. Some days, Bran wanted to call for his mother to take some of the burden off of him, but then he would see the puzzle box and be reminded all over of what she had done, and he would shove the idea away.
To top it off, Bran’s frustration was mounting with said puzzle box, and he was starting to hate that Harry had given him this silly thing rather than just a simple toy like what he had given Rickon. He wanted to know what it was inside already.
At least the restless nights had finally come to a stop.
A few nights he had dreamed of a black bird relentlessly pursuing him in his dreams. Its strange foreboding caw had shrieked at him with a wickedness that stalked him like a monster. No matter how hard he tried to flee from it, the raven was there, cawing and darting towards him. Just as it had been close to catching him though, something bright and flashing came charging from the opposite direction, catching the bird in canine jaws and silencing it once and for all. Bran woke up before he'd been able to see what it was, and he didn't dream about it again until several nights later.
He found himself in the same wood. Gazing at a dead bird at his feet with three open cavities in its skull where eyes may have been. It was a hideous creature, and yet Bran felt something shift in the world at the sight of it. Just then, a glow attracted him, and he looked up to see something standing against the tree line. He thought at first that it was white with an eye of blue, an eye of green, and an eye of silver in the center of her head. But then her color warmed, and she was a glowing golden-red like a bright fire with a flock of butterflies of all colors fluttering about the air like cinders as she stepped up to him. He watched it, eyes wide as a butterfly broke from the flock and landed in a tuff of his hair. A voice had then come from the fox, female, musical, and echoing, one that spoke the Old Tongue. He only knew a few phrases of that language, but even he understood the two words she uttered.
“Ìev mēthrìl.”
Live well.
Bran opened his eyes and the fox was gone and she did not come back in the nights that followed. Though he was glad for it, part of him was sad, too. The sight of the fox had been quite a comfort, like he had been unburdened somehow. But soon he was back to the usual busy days and all thoughts of the creature were put to the side.
Days after, the return of Lord Tyrion quickly preoccupied him. The dwarf was admitted sometime before noon that day and had come to ask for lodging for the short time before he made his way back to the capitol. Bran was glad to welcome him and his two men, not minding one bit that they were Lannisters and he ought to be treating them with more contempt. But it was peacetime, and he doubted the dwarf came here with ill-intent.
They faced each other in the Great Hall, Bran from his seat at the head table, and Tyrion from where he stood in the middle of the floor, the same spot every other constituent stood to be evaluated. Bran faced him with a little more enthusiasm than he did with the others, though.
“How was your trip to the Wall?” The little lord asked the other little lord.
“Very informative,” the dwarf responded, pleasantly, though it was obvious the trip had left him quite exhausted. Noble courtesy had him speaking politely, just the same. “You should one day see it for yourself, Lord Stark.”
“And piss of the edge,” Theon added with mirth to Bran’s side.
“Manners, my lord,” Luwin scolded. But all three young lords were smiling in spite of that.
Bran went on, ignoring both Theon and Luwin’s comments. “I will endeavor to plan a trip, though it might be some time before that happens. I hear the journey was rough.”
“Cold, snow, and wind mostly," Tyrion listed. "Though no danger other than that, thank the gods.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, but still a long journey, no doubt. If you and your men would care to rest, baths will be drawn and food brought up to your rooms.”
There was visual relief that rippled all through the trio, and servants were called to escort them to guest quarters. Tyrion thanked their hosts, and they vowed to meet again for supper.
Later that evening, they met again in the Great Hall as Bran was eager to hear about news from the north as well as how his brother Jon had managed to settle in with the Night’s Watch.
“Castle Black is largely in disrepair and needs more skilled men to man it better,” Lord Tyrion said, while biting into some succulent smoked beef. “This is a matter for the realm as a whole and I’ll see to it that my sister and King Robert are both informed of this.”
“Is there anything I can do in the meantime?” Bran asked, though he honestly didn’t want to take on another responsibility.
“You have your own kingdom to manage. Leave this to me.”
“I appreciate that, Lord Tyrion. As the protectors of the realm, the Knight’s Watch belongs to all Seven Kingdoms.”
“Indeed. Speaking of which, your brother has settled in nicely.”
“He has?”
“Yes. Even made some friends before I left. I think he will do well in the Watch.”
“That’s a relief,” Bran said, and he really meant it. It had been one of the things he had worried about.
"On a more positive note, have you received much word from the capitol?"
"I have," Bran confirmed with enthusiasm. "Have you heard about the hippogriff, too?"
"Yes. Castle Black received a message of its discovery in the Riverlands. The small folk have taken it as a sign of King Robert's legitimacy. Your Lorathi ward, Potter, is training it himself."
"So I've heard. I hope Robb returns from the Citadel soon. I'm supposed to go to King's Landing myself once he does."
"I hope for his quick and safe journey then," Tyrion told the boy. "I decided to hasten my own return so that I may view the creature for myself. I only intend to impose on your household for two more days and then I'll be off."
Bran was a little sad to hear of that. "Are you certain you must leave so soon, Lord Tyrion? We're organizing a hunt at the end of the week. Perhaps you'd like to join us?"
"I thank you for the invitation, but I have been long enough away from the capitol, and in all honesty, I'm not that useful at hunting."
"I guess you could say you come up a little short?" Theon sniggered with some of the other men. Bran's head snapped towards Greyjoy, ready to tell him off for that rude comment. Yet Tyrion only rolled his eyes, evidence that he had heard jokes like that so often, they no longer offended him.
"Such astounding wit," he mocked. "Clearly the cleverest of all the Ironborn I've ever met, especially when you compare the actions of your father. Though, if I had a copper star for every time I heard a joke like that, I'd be the richest Lannister who ever lived."
Theon's mouth hardened into a thin line as many more people laughed at the dwarf's ruthless retort. Bran sensed the impending conflict and hastened to reestablish the peace.
"That's quite enough of that from the both of you. I'll not see our guests needlessly insulted, Theon. Nor will I tolerate them from you while you are in my hall, Lord Tyrion."
"Apologies, Lord Stark," Tyrion conceded. "I'll do better to contain myself."
"As will I," Theon agreed, if only reluctantly.
They went back to the meal and continued with more conversations, until Tyrion addressed an issue that Bran did not want to discuss.
"Where is Lady Catelyn, Lord Bran? I can't help but notice her absence."
Bran's entire body stiffened at the mention of his mother. "She takes her meals in her rooms with Rickon, these days."
It was all the boy would say about their feud so Tyrion decided not to press further on the matter. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope whatever afflicts her will soon be over."
"I never said she was afflicted by anything," Bran stated in a chill tone.
The lord must have felt the coldness to the statement. It was no secret that Lady Catelyn had behaved poorly when she heard that Robb had gotten away with Hermione, and Tyrion must have known that. It was such an embarrassment that Bran cringed at the thought that other castle lords were privy to Winterfell's drama. Just the same, he tried to push it to the side.
They continued the meal while trying to work through the tension that Tyrion's question had created to a somewhat successful attempt.
"Are you sure you wouldn't mind staying for the hunt Lord Tyrion? Being rather small myself, I'll hardly be of any help either," Bran pointed out. "Perhaps your manservants would be enthusiastic about some sport at least?"
Tyrion looked to be debating it, before at last he gave in. "I suppose we can postpone our journey for a few more days. Hopefully the hippogriff won't be going anywhere."
A light snow was falling the day of the hunt. Bran could feel the flakes on his face melting as they touched his skin like the gentlest of rains. He sat straight atop his horse, watching as the iron portcullis was winched upward. Try as he might to keep calm, his heart was fluttering in his chest. After weeks of work, the day of the hunt had finally come.
Hodor, a large slow-witted stable hand whose name was actually Walder, waited at the gate, his gaze pleasant while he waved the precession goodbye. Bran returned it with a smile.
"Keep the stables warm for us," Bran told him.
"Yes," the man said, nodding his big head heavily. He had a tendency to only speak in one-worded answers, sometimes punctuating them with his favorite word. "Hodor." Bran still didn't know where he had gotten the word, but others said that when his father was a lad, Hodor had had a bad fit that had left him bedridden for weeks before he woke up one day and was only able to speak one or two short words at a time.
"Are you ready?" Ser Rodrick asked at his side.
Bran nodded and ordered the procession forward, urging his new horse onward. He touched her neck lightly and the small chestnut filly started forward. She had been a gift from his father before he had left, and Bran had named her Dancer. She was two years old, and Joseth said she was smarter than any horse had a right to be. The thought made the boy smile with pride and soon they passed beneath the gatehouse, over the drawbridge, and through the outer walls. Summer and Shaggydog came loping beside them, sniffing at the wind and bounding around, happy to be free of the castle walls. Close behind came Theon on his black charger with Tyrion riding beside on his own red mare. Accompanying Bran to his right was Ser Rodrick on a grey stallion.
They were accompanied by four guardsmen in mailed shirts and coifs, and Joseth, a stick-thin stableman whom Bran had named master of horse while Hullen was away. There were also Tyrion's manservants, Yoseph and Leonis who each intended to down a buck for themselves, just as Theon had promised as he slung his bow and arrows over his shoulder. The young men intended to make it a contest, to see who could take down the biggest game among the three of them.
Beyond the castle lay the market square, its wooden stall deserted now. They rode on the muddy streets of the village, past rows of small, neat houses of log and undressed stone. Less than one in five were occupied, thin tendrils of woodsmoke curling up from their chimneys. The rest would fill up one by one as it grew colder. When the snow fell and the ice winds howled down out of the north, Old Nan said farmers left their frozen fields and distant holdfasts, loaded up their wagons, and then the winter town came alive. Bran had never seen it happen, but Maester Luwin had promised the day was looming closer. The end of the long summer was nearing more and more. Winter was coming.
There were mixed reactions toward their passing company. A few of the villagers eyed the direwolves anxiously as the riders went past, and one man dropped the wood he was carrying as he shrank away in fear, but most of the townfolk had grown used to the sight. What they hadn't grown used to, were the three gold and crimson Lannisters that accompanied their young lord, and many eyed the visitors with suspicion and distaste. Just the same, they bent the knee when they saw the boy and his entourage, to which Bran greeted each with the lordliest nods he could manage.
Two serving wenches stood beneath the sign of the Smoking Log, the local alehouse. When Theon Greyjoy called out to them, the younger girlturned red and covered her face. Theon spurred his mount to move up beside Bran and Ser Rodrick. "Sweet Kyra," he said with a laugh. "She squirms like a weasel in bed, but say a word to her on the street, and she blushes pink as a maid. Did i ever tell you about the night that she and Bessa--,"
"Mind your language, Greyjoy," Ser Rodrick warned with a glance at Bran. "Lord Stark is still a boy."
Bran looked away and pretended not to have heard, but he could feel Greyjoy's eyes on him. No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand. Though it seemed like his smiles were less shrewed these days. Not since Bran had entrusted him with a select number of responsibilities around Winterfell to ease some of the boy's workload. If he wasn't going to rely on his mother, he needed to find someone else to lean on, at least a little bit to keep from growing mad with stress. And the ward had proven to be responsible enough for the tasks Maester Luwin had suggested he take charge of. Admittedly, Bran hadn't always liked Theon, but he had grown used to him over these past weeks, especially with the departure of the other older boys and girls. Truth was, it was incredibly lonely now that his brothers and sisters had gone off on their own adventures, so Bran had felt a deep need to see someone fill the position of role model for him somehow. He missed them and had once even admitted the fact to Theon himself. The youth had responded that he too was feeling their absence and agreed to missing their friends just as sincerely.
The shared revelation had established a bit of a bond between them. One that Bran felt grateful for in that moment, but Theon still had a tendency to be so... Theon sometimes.
Ser Rodrick's firm tone had the young man sighing in surrender. "Fine. Care to race then?" The older boy suggested. Bran hadn't been allowed time to agree before the Greyjoy launched his horse into a gallop. "Feel free to try catching up, Little Lords."
Bran and Tyrion were both taken aback but a quick exchange of expressions had them pursuing the pirate.
Bran's cloak billowed out, rippling in the wind, and the snow seemed to rush at his face. Theon was well ahead, glancing back over his shoulder from time to time to make sure the boy and the imp were following. Bran snapped the reins again. Smooth as silk, Dancer slid into a gallop. The distance closed and they managed to reach the teenage youth. They raced further and soon two miles had been put between them and the village. At last, the three lords slowed to a stop. The wolves had followed them, the two brothers chasing each other swiftly alongside Bran. Their human escorts were left to catch up to them all.
"Blast! Have pity on me, Greyjoy," Lord Tyrion proclaimed, struggling to keep his mare steady. "I have already admitted I am not as skilled in a saddle as you two."
"You've had time a plenty to grow accustomed to it," Theon countered. "What was the point of traveling so far if you weren't going to advance your experience?"
"I have experience abounds. All the experience in the world cannot make up for the glaring fact that my legs are short."
"Legs have nothing to do with riding unless it's the horse's legs you're referring to."
"Must you two really squabble?" Bran said, finally irritated with the two of them. "I've half a mind to separate you both if you keep acting like children. And that's coming from the actual child!"
The two young men glared at each other but conceded to their host, just the same. The rest of their party soon caught up to them and with that they organized into groups to sweep the woods and begin the day of hunting at last. Game was caught and cleaned there in the forest. Ser Rodrick felled two pheasants, the Lannister manservants came across a fat bear together, and Theon ran down an elk. Even the wolves had their own success in killing a pair of mated geese. As Yoseph and Leonis debated with Theon over the winners of their contest, Bran and Tyrion watched on, neither feeling that eager to hunt themselves but content enough to watch the larger men who did so.
They sat together on a log, taking turns with throwing a stick so Bran's wolf could chase it back and forth eagerly while Rickon's black wolf tore into one of the geese that they had killed together. There had been some fuss from Rickon earlier that day. Bran had come to bid him goodbye and ask if Shaggy Dog would like to join Summer on the hunt, and Rickon had been distraught for some reason.
"Summer is dying," the little boy had tried to explain. For a moment Bran thought he meant his wolf Summer, but the pup was bounding around as happy and energetic as usual, perhaps even more because he knew they were going out of the castle walls. The little tot had merely repeated his declaration. "Summer is dying." And it was then that Bran understood that he meant the warm season was at last coming to a close.
"We don't say summer is dying, Rickon," Bran told his little brother. "We say, Winter is coming."
But the little boy just affirmed, "Summer is dying."
Bran had sighed after that, realizing there'd be no point in trying to argue with the little boy. Shaggy Dog followed them after that, and Rickon did not speak more against it.
The memory had Bran pulling forward the puzzle box to twist and pull at the knobs and buttons absently. Perhaps if he wasn't thinking about it, he would stumble upon the combination by accident.
"Summer will soon be over," Tyrion announced, taking the stick from the wolf who was also named Summer. "Have you ever seen a winter, Lord Bran?"
"I was born at the beginning of this summer. So no, I have never known winter."
"Winters in the Westerlands are a lot like the summers here. Chilly with some snow," he told the boy. "Seeing the Wall was the first time I've ever experienced that kind of bone-chilling cold. Perhaps you would care to make a trip to Casterly Rock when the cold really comes. It would do you good to see some of the world, too, as your siblings have done so themselves."
"I would very much like that, Lord Tyrion. But as the eldest Stark boy in Winterfell, my duty is to the North, until Robb or my father returns."
"Of course. I meant after the fact."
Bran nodded. "We'll see."
Then a scout came in from the woods and reported seeing fresh moose tracks due east from their camp. Theon and the Lannister servants all became interested in the news, deciding that whoever managed to down the beast would have won their contest. Summer had also picked up the scent and spun in an excited circle, eager for a chase like that. Bran gave him a signal, issuing his permission to the wolf to follow the men.
"Go, then," Bran urged. "I'd like a moment to myself anyway."
He climbed onto Dancer and turned him around to go the opposite way.
"You should stay near the camp, Bran. Where your men are in range," Tyrion advised.
"I won't go far," he promised. "I just want a moment alone."
The dwarf accepted it with a final warning to be careful and the lad urged his horse to trot along.
It was a good day overall and the forest was serene with its typical sounds of birds and animals going about their own business. Bran urged his horse forward, taking in the peace.
It was nice under the trees and Dancer kept to a walk while Bran held the reins lightly and looked all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but he had been so long confined to Winterfell that he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He stopped at the edge of the rapid-moving river, glancing at the swirling water with morbid fascination. If he fell into those waters he'd be carried far, far away before he even had the chance to struggle against the current. Continuing on his way, he caught a glimpse of black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak and paused to study the silvery web of an empress spider as she wove it in the branches of a tall sycamore.
He stopped his horse then and dismounted, tying her reins to a branch as he surveyed the tree it belonged to. Removing his cloak, he draped it over Dancer's saddle to keep it out of his way. Then he studied the height of the tree, reached for the first branch and hoisted himself up. The sensation of climbing took hold of him and soon he was moving as nimbly as a squirrel. Up and up he went, muscles straining pleasantly and heart racing with excitement as the breeze ruffled his auburn hair. At last, he reached the top branch and felt a blast of sunlight caress his cheeks just as it broke through the clouds. He stayed there a moment, drinking in the day and feeling a sense of hope fill him as he looked out across the land he was meant to care for. In every direction he looked he saw nothing but North. He stayed there for a long time but when he finally had his fill of it, he slowly began to lower himself down the tree.
He jumped from the last branch and hit the ground with a light thump.
Dancer was still where he left her, so he redonned his cloak and pulled himself back onto her saddle.
When he heard the rustle of leaves, Bran used the reins to make Dancer turn, expecting to see his friends, but the ragged men who stepped out onto the bank were strangers. Then there was suddenly a woman right beside him, though she scarcely looked like one with her tangled hair and her wild eyes. Her hand pressed against Dancer's jaw as she surveyed Bran with a smile.
“All alone in the deep dark woods, little lad?”
One look at them, and Bran knew they were neither foresters nor farmers. He was suddenly conscious of how richly he was dressed. His surcoat was new, dark grey wool with silver buttons, and the heavy direwolf pin, gifted from Hermione, fastened his fur-trimmed cloak at the shoulders. His boots and gloves were lined with fur as well.
“I-I’m not alone,” Bran stammered, willing himself to be brave. He did not like the way the strangers were looking at him. He counted four, but when he turned his head, he saw two others behind him. “My friends are with me, and my guard will be here shortly.”
Suddenly a man with crooked teeth was there, sneering dangerously. “I don’t see them anywhere. You got all them hidden under your cloak?”
“That’s a pretty pin,” the woman crooned, and Bran’s hand instinctively snapped to the broach. Robb had written to him some days ago, emphasizing the importance of wearing it and that it was indeed lucky. He hadn’t elaborated more than that, but Bran had resolved to always keep it near just the same. The woman smiled at the sight of it. “Is it silver, little lord?”
“No,” he answered shakily. “Just iron.”
“We’ll have the pin, just the same," the biggest of them demanded. "And the horse. Now off and be quick about it.”
Bran’s grip over the reins tightened and he suddenly remembered some words of wisdom from Ser Rodrick. It is better to be frightening than frightened. At the time, he hadn’t known what the old knight meant by that, but just suddenly he realized what he was trying to tell Bran.
“You’ll get nothing from me, you wildling brute. I’m Brandon Stark of Winterfell, my men are not far, and if you don’t leave me be, I’ll have you all killed!”
This only had the opposite effect over them. “The boy’s a Stark, true enough. Only a Stark would be fool enough to threaten when smarter men would beg.”
The man's clothes were filthy, fallen almost to pieces, patched here with brown and there with blue and there with a dark green, and faded everywhere to grey, but once that cloak might have been black. A grey stubbly man wore black rags, too, he saw with a sudden start. Suddenly Bran remembered the oathbreaker his father had beheaded, the day they had found the wolf pups; that man wore black as well. A deserter from the Night’s Watch. No man was more dangerous, he remembered his father saying. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile or cruel.
As if to prove those words, the other came forward to sneer through crooked, rotting teeth. "Cut his little cock off and stuff it in his mouth," he suggested to the woman. "That'll shut him up."
“This boy is Benjen Stark’s blood,” the woman proclaimed, eyes shining with excitement. “Think of what Mance Rayder will give us if we bring him back alive as a hostage.”
The other man only sneered. “You think the White Walkers care about hostages? I'm headed to Dorn, as far south as south goes!”
He grabbed Bran then and attempted to drag him off. Bran struggled, hitting him with his fist and resisting with all his might.
"You leave the boy be!" They all turned by the voice and spotted both Tyrion and Theon on their horses, facing the group angrily. Theon had his bow notched with an arrow and had it pointed to the man in the black rags. Tyrion had no weapon, but he spoke fiercely just the same.
"The friends and guard," the woman said, taking in the sight of the two and how differently their garb was compared to Bran's. Tyrion with his red and gold tunic and cloak and Theon with his grey-green jerkin with the sigil of his house embellished on the front and an iron pin to match it attached to his collar. "Don't look like regular Starks to me," she noted.
"Leave the lad alone or you'll be fighting lions and krakens along with those wolves you feud with, too."
"You mean to fight us, dwarf?"
"Don't make us laugh," the big man said. "You're two against six. Or perhaps one and a half against six, more like."
Some of them laughed.
"Off your horses and throw down the bow and any other weapons you carry. We'll thank you kindly for the mount and the steel, and you and your friends can be on your way."
Bran whistled. They heard the fain sound of soft feet on wet leaves. The undergrowth parted, low-hanging branches giving up their accumulation of snow, and Summer and Shaggy Dog emerged from the green. Summer sniffed the air and growled.
"Wolves," gasped the woman.
"Direwolves," Bran corrected. Still half-grown, they were as large as any wolf he had ever seen, but the differences were easy to spot, if one knew what to look for. Maester Luwin and Farlen the kennel master had taught him. A direwolf had a bigger head and longer legs in proportion to its body, and its snout and jaw were markedly leaner and more pronounced. There was something gaunt and terrible about them as they stood there amid the gently falling snow. Fresh blood spotted Shaggy Dog's muzzle.
"Dogs," the Night's Watch deserter spat contemptuously. "Yet I'm told there's nothing like a wolfskin cloak to warm a man by night." He made a sharp gesture. "Take them."
Theon let loose an arrow and it struck one of them in the throat. Another wildling flung a double-bladed axe at him before he could notch another, though. The man's aim was very good. Theon had to jerk away in time before it embedded into his chest. He evaded death, yet the move had him losing his balance on his mount and he ended up falling clumsily. His head struck a fallen tree trunk, and he suddenly went very still. Then the wolves lunged at the same time, each biting a different limb on the wildling closest to them. He roared in anguish and then there were other sounds that came behind them.
Three of the Stark guard appeared from out of the bush followed swiftly with both of Tyrion's servants. Bran felt his heart soaring with relief at the sight of them, but then an arrow came whizzing by his ear and struck one of his men in the shoulder, toppling him from his horse. Shocked, Bran turned to see that one of the wildlings had taken up Theon's bow and arrows and was launching them at the soldiers.
Someone grabbed the back of his cloak and dragged Bran off his horse just then. He felt himself falling into the arms of the leader as a knife pressed into his skin. Something struck the big man from behind though and his grip over Bran instantly slackened. Bran found himself on his hands and knees while the sounds of men yelling, wolves growling, and the clash of steel filled the air. His eyes darted here and there to find a battle surrounding him. He tried to get shakily to his feet to aid where he could, but he felt stunned and confused about where he'd best be of help. Then someone pulled him up and he saw the wildling woman, the remained Night's Watch deserter, and a large imposing man flanking them.
"Take him!" The woman hissed.
Then from out of the bushes came a black streak that collided with the Night's Watch deserter. Shaggy Dog, clamped over his arm, forcing the man in a direction away from Bran. There was relentless struggling between the two of them. His companions hesitated with their weapons in their arms, trying to find an opening to spear the wolf off of him. Their touseling moved the pair towards the edge of an incline over the river and the man must have figured he'd be rid of the wolf if he could manage to get him over the edge. Shaggy Dog was shoved hard away from him, but his jaws remained firm, forcing the man to lose his balance too and tumbled into the churning waters with the black wolf. His jaws only released him when the water sloshed over their heads and the current dragged them both far away.
"Shaggy!" Bran cried, watching the wolf until he had vanished from sight. A different growl pierced all the other sounds and Bran was suddenly flung away from the woman.
He watched Summer lunge, maw wide to rip the wildling to shreds, but at the same time, the woman lifted her spear. The tip plunged into the wolf’s open jaws and broke through the back of his scalp, spewing brains and blood out the other end.
Bran's heart stopped dead at the sight of it.
The wolf twitched at the end of the spear, and after a long moment the woman found the strength to push him away.
It took so long for the reality to sink in for Bran, but when it did, a high roar of outrage erupted from his chest and echoed through the trees. He hoped the rest of his men would hear it and come to kill these wildlings. He would make them pay for this!
Then something struck him hard on the back of his head and a blast of dark pain rippled through his mind, throwing him to the ground and into complete darkness.