Tears filled Bran’s eyes. When a man was hurt you took him to the maester, but what could you do when your maester was hurt? “We’ll need to make a litter to carry him,” said Osha. “No use,” said Luwin. “I’m dying, woman.” “You can’t,” said Rickon angrily. “No you can’t.” Beside him, Shaggydog bared his teeth and growled. The maester smiled. “Hush now, child, I’m much older than you. I can... die as I please.” “Hodor, down,” said Bran. Hodor went to his knees beside the maester. “Listen,” Luwin said to Osha, “the princes... Robb’s heirs. Not... not together... do you hear?” The wildling woman leaned on her spear. “Aye. Safer apart. But where to take them? I’d thought, might be these Cerwyns...” Maester Luwin shook his head, though it was plain to see what the effort cost him. “Cerwyn boy’s dead. Ser Rodrik, Leobald Tallhart, Lady Hornwood... all slain. Deepwood fallen, Moat Cailin, soon Torrhen’s Square. Ironmen on the Stony Shore. And east, the Bastard of Bolton.” “Then where?” asked Osha. “White Harbor... the Umbers... I do not know... war everywhere... each man against his neighbor, and winter coming... such folly, such black mad folly...” Maester Luwin reached up and grasped Bran’s forearm, his fingers closing with a desperate strength. “You must be strong now. Strong.” “I will be,” Bran said, though it was hard. Ser Rodrik killed and Maester Luwin, everyone, everyone... “Good,” the maester said. “A good boy. Your... your father’s son, Bran. Now go.” Osha gazed up at the weirwood, at the red face carved in the pale trunk. “And leave you for the gods?” “I beg...” The maester swallowed a... a drink of water, and... another boon. If you would...” “Aye.” She turned to Meera. “Take the boys.” Jojen and Meera led Rickon out between them. Hodor followed. Low branches whipped at Bran’s face as they pushed between the trees, and the leaves brushed away his tears.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell’s chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.