权力的游戏·1、布兰
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冬临城（Winterfell）
天已经破晓，晨色清新，阴凉中挟着点寒意，预示着夏天即将结束。他们黎明时出发，去看一个人被斩首。队伍总共二十人，布兰骑马置身其中，既兴奋又紧张。他这还是第一回岁数够大，可以跟着父亲大人和几个哥哥，去见证国王的律法审判。这是入夏第九年，布兰时年七岁。
那人已被押至山丘上方一座小城堡外面。据罗博揣测，这是个誓死追随境外之王曼斯▪雷德的野人。想到这点，布兰不由起了一阵鸡皮疙瘩。他记得老奶妈给他们讲述过的那些炉前故事。她说野人生性残暴，贩卖奴隶，杀人性命，偷盗行窃，无一不做。他们与巨人族、食尸鬼为伍，一到夜深人静之时，便出来盗走童女，用擦亮的兽角杯饮血止渴。他们的女人则在“长夜”里与异鬼杂交，繁殖出可怕的半人兽。
国王的律法审判
然而，这个手脚被紧紧绑在城堡外墙上、听候律法发落的人，却是个骨瘦如柴的老人。他比罗博略高，两只耳朵和一根手指，由于冻伤而被切除；全身漆黑打扮，一如守夜人兄弟的装束，只是，他的毛皮衣裤又破又烂，且满是油垢。
人和马的鼻息，在清冷的晨气中交织在一起，蒸腾飘散。布兰的父亲示意砍断绑绳，将那人从墙上放下来，拖到众人面前。罗博和乔恩高踞马上，一言不发。布兰骑着他的小马，夹在两人之间，竭力装出他已经不止七岁，而且对这一切早已司空见惯的样子。一阵微风从城堡大门中穿过。头顶上，冬临城史塔克家族的旗帜不停摆动。旗帜上，画有一头在雪原上飞奔的灰色冰原狼。
他父亲骑在马上，表情严肃，风吹动着他那棕色的长发；精心修饰的胡子掺杂着银丝，使他看起来比三十五岁应有的样子要老。这天，他的灰色眼睛里透着威严，完全不像那个入夜后端坐在炉火前，柔声讲述群雄时代及丛林之子故事的那个男人。布兰心想，他已经摘下身为人父的面孔，换上冬临城主史塔克的面具了。
清晨的寒气袭人，布兰只听到有人问话，有人回答，事后却想不太起来他们究竟说了些什么。最后，在他父亲大人的一声令下，两名守卫将那个衣衫褴褛的人架到广场中央的铁木桩前，把他的头摁倒在坚硬的黑木头上。艾达德▪史塔克大人从马上下来，他的养子席恩▪葛雷乔伊将他的剑递上前来。宝剑“寒冰”，剑身有成年人的手掌宽，直竖起来，甚至罗博还高；剑刃呈烟黑色，由下过咒语的瓦雷利亚钢冶炼而成。瓦雷利亚钢刃素来无以伦比的锐利。
他父亲摘下手套，递给乔里▪卡索——史塔克家的守卫队队长。他双手执剑，念道：“以巴拉席昂家族的罗伯特，安达尔人、洛伊拿人和先民的国王，七国统治者暨护国公之名，我，史塔克家族的艾达德，冬临城执政官兼北境守护，正式宣判你的死刑。”说完，那把巨剑高举过顶。
布兰同父异母的哥哥乔恩▪雪诺靠过来，“勒紧你的小马，”他小声说道，“别看其他地方，不然爸爸会发现的。”
别看其他地方……
布兰便收紧缰绳，紧盯着父亲和那个死囚。
父亲一挥巨剑，干脆利落地砍下那人的脑袋。鲜血喷涌而出，飞溅到雪地上，殷红一片，像夏日的红酒一般。一匹马前蹄高高跃起，它的主人勒紧缰绳，才将它稳在原地。布兰没法将视线从鲜血中移开。树桩下沿的积雪贪婪地吸吮着鲜血，他眼看着白雪越染越红。
砍掉的头颅从很粗的一条树根上弹起，随后在地上滚动，一直滚到葛雷乔伊脚边。席恩是个清瘦的小伙子，十九岁年纪，黑皮肤，对任何事情都饶有趣味。他笑了，对着人头飞起一脚，将它踢开。
“蠢驴。”乔恩低声骂道，只是声音很低，葛雷乔伊没有听见。他把一只手搭在布兰肩上。布兰望着他这个异母哥哥。“做得很好。”乔恩表情严肃地对他说道。乔恩十四岁，可说是律法审判的资深见证人。
回冬临城的漫长归途中，虽说冷风已经停止，太阳也升得更高了，但天气却似乎更加寒冷。布兰和哥哥们骑着马，远远地走到大队前方，他的小马驹要很努力才能跟上哥哥们的马步。
“这个逃兵死得倒挺英勇，”罗博说道。他肩膀宽厚，块头很大，而且一天比一天强壮。他和母亲一样，有着白皙的皮肤，红褐色的头发，还有一双奔流河塔利家族的蓝眼睛。“不得不承认，他倒不乏勇气。”
“你错了，”乔恩▪雪诺平静地说，“那不是勇气。这个人是带着恐惧死的，史塔克，你从他的眼神就可以看出来。”乔恩的灰色眼睛如此深邃，看上去几乎呈黑色。不过，很少有什么东西可以逃过他这双眼睛。他和罗博同一年纪，但两人之间并不相像。乔恩身材修长，皮肤黝黑；罗博却浑身肌肉，长得白白净净。乔恩举止优雅、反应灵敏，他的异母兄长为人粗犷、身手敏捷。
罗博不以为然。“让异鬼把他的眼睛挖去吧，”他诅咒道。“不管怎样，他死得够干脆。比比谁先到那座桥怎么样？”
“好！”乔恩说着，一夹马肚子，策马前奔。罗博咒骂着追了上去。两人沿着那条小路疾驰。罗博大笑大叫；乔恩却一声不响，专心赛马。他们飞马践踏之处，无不溅起阵阵雪花。
布兰没敢想追上去，他的小马驹没那能耐。目睹了那个穿着破烂的人临死前的眼神后，此时，他正琢磨着这眼色中的意味。不久，罗博的笑声变得越来越小，最后听不见了，森林里又静了下来。
布兰想得这样入神，丝毫没有听到后面那些剩余的队伍已慢慢跟上，直到他父亲赶上来，与他并马而行。“没事吧，布兰？”父亲问他，语气中满是关切。
“爸，我没事。”布兰说着，抬头看着父亲。他父亲裹在一堆毛皮和皮革里，稳坐于高大的战马之上，宛如巨人一般俯视着他。
“罗博说那个人死得很英勇，但乔恩说那个人死的时候内心很恐惧。”
“那你怎么看呢？”他父亲问道。
布兰想了一下，问道：“一个人在恐惧的时候，还能够保持英勇吗？”
“人唯有在恐惧的时候，才能变得英勇无畏。”他父亲告诉他。“你知道我为什么要杀他吗？”
布兰回答：“他是野人啊，野人总是抢走女人，把她们卖给异鬼。”
他的父亲大人笑了。“老奶妈又跟你讲那些故事了。其实，那个人是个背信弃义的人，是守夜军团的逃兵。没有人比这种人更危险了。这些逃兵知道，他们一旦被抓住，肯定性命难保，所以，只要能够活命，再卑鄙无耻的勾当，他们也干得出来。不过，你没有听明白我的意思，我问的不是那个人为什么掉脑袋，而是为什么我必须亲自动手。”
布兰不知道该怎么回答。“罗伯特国王才有刽子手......”他说，语气不甚肯定。
“是的，他有刽子手代他行刑，”他父亲承认。“而且，在他之前的塔盖瑞恩瑞恩那些国王也是。不过，我们谨守更古老的传统。我们史塔克家族人体内，还流淌着先民的血脉。我们相信，宣判死刑者应当亲自执行。如果你就要取走一个人的性命，你有这个责任直视他的眼睛，聆听他临死前的遗言。假如你不忍心这么做，说明那个人或许罪不当死。
“布兰，有朝一日，你会成为罗博的封臣，为你哥哥和你的国王，掌管属于你自己的一方要塞，到时宣判的任务会落在你头上。要是那天真的来临，你不得以此为乐，不准昧着良心杀人。一个统治者如果躲在幕后，让刽子手代劳，他不久就会忘记死亡意味着什么。”
正在这时，乔恩再次出现，就在前面的山坡上。他挥了挥手，冲着他们大声喊道：“爸，布兰，快来看罗博找到了什么。“随后他又跑开了。
乔里骑马赶到跟前。“出什么事了吗，大人？”
“这还用问吗，”父亲大人道：“来吧，让我们看看，我这两个儿子这次又整出什么把戏。”说着一催坐骑，马便小跑起来。乔里、布兰和其他人相继跟了上去。
他们在桥北的河岸边找到了罗博，乔恩还骑着马，站在他旁边。晚夏的积雪在这岁序更迭之际异常深厚。罗博站在膝盖深的白雪之中，兜帽掀到后面，阳光洒在他红褐色的头发上。他臂弯里揽着个什么东西，正和乔恩兴奋地低声交谈。
崎岖的河岸为大雪淹没，骑手们小心地探寻着可以站稳的立足点，一步又一步，在漂浮物当中穿行。乔里▪卡索和席恩▪葛雷乔伊率先来到两个大男孩身边。葛雷乔伊走过去的时候，一直在和乔里闹着玩，笑声不断。布兰只听得他倒抽了一口气。“天哪！”他惊叫了一声，伸手便去摸剑，同时竭力稳住胯下的坐骑。
乔里已经抽出他的佩剑，喊道：“罗博，从那东西身边走开！”这时，他胯下的坐骑突然扬了扬前蹄。
罗博咧嘴一笑，从怀里那团东西上抬起脸来。“她伤不了你，”他说，“她已经死了，乔里。”
此时此刻，布兰被好奇心弄得是火烧火燎的。他本想用马刺催他的小马跑快一点，但是他父亲让他们在桥边下马，徒步靠过去。布兰跳下马背，撒腿就跑。
乔里和席恩▪葛雷乔伊这时候，也已经悉数从马背上下来了。“七层地狱啊，这是什么鬼东西？”葛雷乔伊问道。
“是一条狼。”罗博这样告诉他。
“怕是一只巨兽吧，”葛雷乔伊说，“瞧它那体型。”
布兰的心在胸腔里砰砰直跳。他一把推开齐到腰部的漂浮物，来到哥哥身边。
眼睛上蛆虫蠕动
一只黑魆魆的庞然大物瘫倒在地，半边尸体已然埋在血污的雪地里。暗灰色的粗毛皮上冰雪凝结，淡淡的腐臭气息，像妇人的香水一样周身缭绕。布兰一眼便看见它空洞的眼睛上蛆虫蠕动，大嘴巴里满是发黄的獠牙。不过，让他看得喘不过气来的，却是此物庞大的体型。它比他的小马驹还大，身躯两倍于他父亲狗舍里最大的猎犬。
“这不是巨兽，”乔恩平静地说，“这是冰原狼，它们生来就比其他犬类要大。”
席恩▪ 葛雷乔伊说道：“这冰墙以南已经有两百年没人看见过冰原狼了。”
“我现在就看到了一只。”乔恩回应说。
布兰把视线从那头怪物身上挪开，这才注意到罗博抱在怀里的那团东西。他欢快地叫了一声，接着便凑上前去。那只冰原狼崽毛色灰黑，团成一个小球，眼睛尚未睁开。它躺在罗博轻软的臂弯里，只顾没头没脑地往他胸膛上蹭，在他的皮革护甲上寻找奶头，虚弱地发出一声哀伤的呜鸣。布兰犹豫不决地伸出手来。“没事，”罗博对他说道，“它可以摸。”
布兰飞快地摸了一下小狼，动作很是紧张。“给你。这只是你的。”听到乔恩的交换，他转过身去。“总共有五只小狼呢。”他的异母哥哥把第二只小狼崽放进他怀里。布兰就在雪地里坐了下来，他抱起那只小狼崽，直往脸上送。幼狼的毛发贴在脸上，轻柔而又温暖。
给你，这只是你的
“消失这么多年的冰原狼，重又出现在这片土地上，”骑兵统领胡仑低声说道，“我可不怎么喜欢。”
“这是个预兆。”乔里说。
父亲皱起眉头。“乔里，不过是死了一头动物而已。”他说道。话是这么说，他看起来却颇感困惑。他绕着冰原狼的尸体来回走动，积雪在他的靴子底下喳喳作响。“有谁看出她是被什么杀死的吗？”
“她咽喉部位有东西。”罗博告诉他，并为能在父亲还没问他之前找到答案而洋洋得意。“在那儿，就在下颚的正下方。”
他父亲跪下来，用手在那动物的脑袋下面摸索。他猛地一拉，扯出那东西，并举起来给大伙儿看。那是一支断裂的鹿角末端，岔角轰然折断，血迹斑斑。
人群中突然一阵静默。大家不安地看着那鹿角，没人敢开口。连布兰都可以察觉出他们的忧虑，虽然他并不明白所为何事。
他父亲将那鹿角随手扔到一边，在雪地上擦干净双手。“没想到她竟然还能撑到下完崽才死，”他的声音打破了这集体缄默的魔咒。
“也许她没等到生崽就死了，”乔里道，“我听过不少传闻.....也许那些小狼崽出来的时候，这只母狼就已经死了。”
“从死亡中诞生，”另一个什么人插嘴道，“更是晦气。”
“怕什么，”胡仑道，“很快它们都会死掉。”
布兰沮丧地在心里叫了一声。
“尽早了结了更好，”席恩·葛雷乔伊表示赞同。他抽出佩剑。“把那野兽拿过来，布兰。”
那小东西在布兰怀里挣扎扭动，好像听懂了似的。“不！”布兰猛地大叫一声。“这是我的。”
把你的剑收起来，葛雷乔伊
“把你的剑收起来，葛雷乔伊，”罗博道。那一刻，他的声音就像是他们的父亲在下命令，就像是他日后会成为的领主那样。“我们要留下这些小狼崽。”
“你不能那么做，小伙子，”胡伦的儿子哈文说道。
“我们是可怜它们才杀它们，”胡伦道。
布兰望向父亲，期望得到援助，但他只看到父亲皱起了眉头，一副愁眉不展的表情。“儿子，胡伦说得对。尽早了断，总比让它们在严寒中忍饥挨饿好。”
“不！”他觉得泪水就在眼眶子里打转。他别开脸，不愿当着父亲的面流泪。
罗博据理力争。“罗德里克爵士家那条红色的母狗上礼拜又生崽了，”他说道。“那一小窝狗崽，只活下来两条。她有足够的奶水喂这些小狼崽。”
“它们要是去吃奶，那母狗非把它们活活撕碎不可。”
“史塔克大人，”乔恩叫道。他如此正式地这样称呼他的父亲，听来让人奇怪。布兰看着他，绝望中燃起一丝渺茫的希望。“小狼有五只，”他告诉父亲。“三只雄的，三只雌的。”
“那又怎样呢，乔恩？”
“您有五个嫡出的孩子，”乔恩道。“三个儿子，两个女儿。冰原狼是您家族的标志，大人，您的孩子注定拥有这些小狼。”
布兰看到父亲的脸色一变，看到其他人互相交换眼色。那一刻，他全身心地爱着乔恩。虽然只有七岁，布兰却明白他这个哥哥方才所言意味着什么。他把自己排除在外，才让这个数字符合实际。他把那些女孩，甚至把瑞肯这个婴孩也计算在内，唯独没算上他这个叫雪诺的私生子——在北部，人们把雪诺这个姓，冠之于那些不幸生来就没有没有父亲的人。
他们的父亲也明白这点。“你不想要只自己的狼崽吗，乔恩？”他柔声问道。
“冰原狼是史塔克家的标旗饰物，”乔恩指出。“父亲，我不是史塔克。”
他们的父亲如有所思地看着乔恩。罗博急忙打破这片岑寂。“我会亲手给小狼喂奶，”他做出担保。“我会用温牛奶润湿毛巾，让它吮吸。”
“我也是！”布兰同声相应。
这位领主拿眼睛盯着他的儿子们，再三权衡。“说得倒轻巧，做起来就难喽。我不会让你们拿这些小狼去占用仆人的时间。如果要留下这些小狼，你们就得自己亲自养。听懂了没有？”
布兰急煎煎地点点头。小狼崽在他怀里扭来扭去，用温热的舌头舔他的脸。
“它们还得加以训练，”他们的父亲道。“你们必须亲自训练这些小狼。我向你们保证，驯兽长和这些怪物不会扯上任何关系。如果你们疏于看管，或者使它们变得凶残，或者把他们训练得不三不四，那就让诸神帮助你吧。这些可不是讨好卖乖的狗，只要踹它一脚就会乖乖溜走。一头冰原狼要咬下一个人的手臂，就像狗咬死老鼠那么容易。你们确定要这种动物吗？”
“是的，父亲。”布兰道。
“是。”罗博表示同意。
“就算你们做出一起努力，这些狼崽兴许还是会死掉。”
“它们不会死的，”罗博说道，“我们不会让它们死掉。”
“那就留下它们吧。乔里，德斯蒙特，带上其他的狼崽。我们该回冬临了。”
直到他们跃上马背，走在回家的路上时，布兰方才允许自己品尝胜利的蜜果。此刻，他的小狼蜷缩在他的皮护甲里面，温暖着贴着他，平安无事地走在漫长的归家之路上。布兰正琢磨着给它取个什么名字。
走到桥中央，乔恩突然勒住了坐骑。
“这么回事，乔恩？”他们的父亲问道。
“你们没有听到？”
布兰只听到林海中沙沙的风声，走在铁木板桥上的马蹄得得，还有他那饥肠辘辘的小狼在呜呜咽咽；可是乔恩却在倾听着别样的声响。
“在那儿。”乔恩说着便掉转马头，飞驰过桥。他们看着他在冰原狼倒毙的雪地上下马，看着他屈膝在地。一会儿功夫，他骑着马跑回这边，满脸笑容。
“一定是从那堆狼崽中爬开的，”乔恩道。
“也许是被排挤开的，”他们的父亲说道，同时盯着第六只小狼崽看。其他小狼崽都是灰色，它的毛色却是白色。那一双红眼睛，鲜红得就像今早上那个被处决的穿破烂衣服的人的血。布兰纳闷，其他小狼都还闭着眼睛，唯独这只小狼眼睛已经睁开。
“一只白化狼，”席恩·葛雷乔伊歪着嘴角打趣道。“这只狼崽甚至比其他那些死得更快。”
乔恩·雪诺回了他父亲的养子一个长长的冷眼。“我不这样认为，葛雷乔伊，”他说，“这只狼崽是属于我的。”
那一双红眼睛，红得就像今晨斩首的死囚的血
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1．BRAN
The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. This was the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king’s justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran’s life.
The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. It made Bran’s skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.
But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king’s justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night’s Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.
The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he’d seen all this before. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.
Bran’s father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes this day, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He had taken off Father’s face, Bran thought, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell.
There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square. They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. “Ice,” that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller even than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.
His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” He lifted the greatsword high above his head.
Bran’s bastard brother Jon Snow moved closer. “Keep the pony well in hand,” he whispered. “And don’t look away. Father will know if you do.”
Bran kept his pony well in hand, and did not look away.
His father took off the man’s head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as surnmerwine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting. Bran could not take his eyes off the blood. The snows around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched.
The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy’s feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen who found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.
“Ass,” Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear. He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother. “You did well,” Jon told him solemnly. Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice.
It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with his brothers, well ahead of the main party, his pony struggling hard to keep up with their horses.
“The deserter died bravely,” Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother’s coloring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. “He had courage, at the least.”
“No,” Jon Snow said quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast.
Robb was not impressed. “The Others take his eyes,” he swore. “He died well. Race you to the bridge?”
“Done,” Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.
Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged man’s eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the sound of Robb’s laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.
So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the party until his father moved up to ride beside him. “Are you well, Bran?” he asked, not unkindly.
“Yes, Father,” Bran told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse, his lord father loomed over him like a giant. “Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.”
“What do you think?” his father asked.
Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”
“That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him. “Do you understand why I did it?”
“He was a wildling,” Bran said. “They carry off women and sell them to the Others.”
His lord father smiled. “Old Nan has been telling you stories again. In truth, the man was an oathbreaker, a deserter from the Night’s Watch. No man is more dangerous. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile. But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.”
Bran had no answer for that. “King Robert has a headsman,” he said, uncertainly.
“He does,” his father admitted. “As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
“One day, Bran, you will be Robb’s bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”
That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. “Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found!” Then he was gone again.
Jory rode up beside them. “Trouble, my lord?”
“Beyond a doubt,” his lord father said. “Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now.” He sent his horse into a trot. Jory and Bran and the rest came after.
They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.
The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him. “Gods!” he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.
Jory’s sword was already out. “Robb, get away from it!” he called as his horse reared under him.
Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms. “She can’t hurt you,” he said. “She’s dead, Jory.”
Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He would have spurred the pony faster, but his father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran.
By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. “What in the seven hells is it?” Greyjoy was saying.
“A wolf,” Robb told him.
“A freak,” Greyjoy said. “Look at the size of it.”
Bran’s heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers’ side.
Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman’s perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father’s kennel.
“It’s no freak,” Jon said calmly. “That’s a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind.”
Theon Greyjoy said, “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.”
“I see one now,” Jon replied.
Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb’s arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb’s chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. “Go on,” Robb told him. “You can touch him.”
Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, “Here you go.” His half brother put a second pup into his arms. “There are five of them.” Bran sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. Its fur was soft and warm against his cheek.
“Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years,” muttered Hullen, the master of horse. “I like it not.”
“It is a sign,” Jory said.
Father frowned. “This is only a dead animal, Jory,” he said. Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body. “Do we know what killed her?”
“There’s something in the throat,” Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. “There, just under the jaw.”
His father knelt and groped under the beast’s head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.
A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak. Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand.
His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. “I’m surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” he said. His voice broke the spell.
“Maybe she didn’t,” Jory said. “I’ve heard tales . . . maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”
“Born with the dead,” another man put in. “Worse luck.”
“No matter,” said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”
Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay.
“The sooner the better,” Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword. “Give the beast here, Bran.”
The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood. “No!” Bran cried out fiercely. “It’s mine.”
“Put away your sword, Greyjoy,” Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be. “We will keep these pups.”
“You cannot do that, boy,” said Harwin, who was Hullen’s son.
“It be a mercy to kill them,” Hullen said.
Bran looked to his lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. “Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.”
“No!” He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his father.
Robb resisted stubbornly. “Ser Rodrik’s red bitch whelped again last week,” he said. “It was a small litter, only two live pups. She’ll have milk enough.”
“She’ll rip them apart when they try to nurse.”
“Lord Stark,” Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. “There are five pups,” he told Father. “Three male, two female.”
“What of it, Jon?”
“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”
Bran saw his father’s face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.
Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly.
“The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”
Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully. Robb rushed into the silence he left. “I will nurse him myself, Father,” he promised. “I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that.”
“Me too!” Bran echoed.
The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?”
Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.
“You must train them as well,” their father said. “You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”
“Yes, Father,” Bran said.
“Yes,” Robb agreed.
“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”
“They won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t let them die.”
“Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It’s time we were back to Winterfell.”
It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him.
Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.
“What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked.
“Can’t you hear it?”
Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.
“There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.
“He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said.
“Or been driven away,” their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.
“An albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”
Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me.”
