He knelt, jammed the torch into the ground beside him. The soil was loose, sandy. Jon pulled it out by the fistful. There were no stones, no roots. Whatever was here had been put here recently. Two feet down, his fingers touched cloth. He had been expecting a corpse, fearing a corpse, but this was something else. He pushed against the fabric and felt small, hard shapes beneath, unyielding. There was no smell, no sign of graveworms. Ghost backed off and sat on his haunches, watching.

Jon brushed the loose soil away to reveal a rounded bundle perhaps two feet across. He jammed his fingers down around the edges and worked it loose. When he pulled it free, whatever was inside shifted and clinked. Treasure, he thought, but the shapes were wrong to be coins, and the sound was wrong for metal.

A length of frayed rope bound the bundle together. Jon unsheathed his dagger and cut it, groped for the edges of the cloth, and pulled. The bundle turned, and its contents spilled out onto the ground, glittering dark and bright. He saw a dozen knives, leaf-shaped spearheads, numerous arrowheads. Jon picked up a dagger blade, featherlight and shiny black, hiltless. Torchlight ran along its edge, a thin orange line that spoke of razor sharpness. Dragonglass. What the maesters call obsidian. Had Ghost uncovered some ancient cache of the children of the forest, buried here for thousands of years? The Fist of the First Men was an old place, only . . .

Beneath the dragonglass was an old warhorn, made from an auroch's horn and banded in bronze. Jon shook the dirt from inside it, and a stream of arrowheads fell out. He let them fall, and pulled up a corner of the cloth the weapons had been wrapped in, rubbing it between his fingers. Good wool, thick, a double weave, damp but not rotted. It could not have been long in the ground. And it was dark. He seized a handful and pulled it close to the torch. Not dark. Black.

Even before Jon stood and shook it out, he knew what he had: the black cloak of a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch.

Chapter Thirty Five

Bran

Alebelly found him in the forge, working the bellows for Mikken. Maester wants you in the turret, mlord prince. Theres been a bird from the king.

From Robb? Excited, Bran did not wait for Hodor, but let Alebelly carry him up the steps. He was a big man, though not so big as Hodor and nowhere near as strong. By the time they reached the maesters turret he was red-faced and puffing. Rickon was there before them, and both Walder Freys as well.

Maester Luwin sent Alebelly away and closed his door. My lords,  he said gravely, we have had a message from His Grace, with both good news and ill. He has won a great victory in the west, shattering a Lannister army at a place named Oxcross, and has taken several castles as well. He writes us from Ashemark, formerly the stronghold of House Marbrand.

Rickon tugged at the maesters robe. Is Robb coming home?

Not just yet, I fear. There are battles yet to fight.

Was it Lord Tywin he defeated? asked Bran.

No,  said the maester. Ser Stafford Lannister commanded the enemy host. He was slain in the battle.

Bran had never even heard of Ser Stafford Lannister. He found himself agreeing with Big Walder when he said, Lord Tywin is the only one who matters.

Tell Robb I want him to come home,  said Rickon. He can bring his wolf home too, and Mother and Father.  Though he knew Lord Eddard was dead, sometimes Rickon forgot . . . Willfully, Bran suspected. His little brother was stubborn as only a boy of four can be.

Bran was glad for Robbs victory, but disquieted as well. He remembered what Osha had said the day that his brother had led his army out Of Winterfell. Hes marching the wrong way, the wildling woman had insisted.

Sadly, no victory is without cost.  Maester Luwin turned to the Walders. My lords, your uncle Ser Stevron Frey was among those who lost their lives at Oxcross. He took a wound in the battle, Robb writes. It was not thought to be serious, but three days later he died in his tent, asleep.

Big Walder shrugged. He was very old. Five-and-sixty, I think. Too old for battles. He was always saying he was tired.

Little Walder hooted. Tired of waiting for our grandfather to die, you mean. Does this mean Ser Emmons the heir now?

Dont be stupid,  his cousin said. The sons of the first son come before the second son. Ser Ryman is next in line, and then Edwyn and Black Walder and Petyr Pimple. And then Aegon and all his sons.

Ryman is old too,  said Little Walder. Past forty, I bet. And he has a bad belly. Do you think hell be lord?

Ill be lord. I dont care if he is.

Maester Luwin cut in sharply. You ought to be ashamed of such talk, my lords. Where is your grief? Your uncle is dead.

Yes,  said Little Walder. Were very sad.

They werent, though. Bran got a sick feeling in his belly. They like the taste of this dish better than I do. He asked Maester Luwin to be excused.

Very well.  The maester rang for help. Hodor must have been busy in the stables. It was Osha who came. She was stronger than Alebelly, though, and had no trouble lifting Bran in her arms and carrying him down the steps.

Osha,  Bran asked as they crossed the yard. Do you know the way north? To the Wall and . . . And even past?

The ways easy. Look for the Ice Dragon, and chase the blue star in the riders eye.  She backed through a door and started up the winding steps.

And there are still giants there, and . . . The rest . . . The Others, and the children of the forest too?

The giants Ive seen, the children Ive heard tell of, and the white walkers . . . Why do you want to know?

Did you ever see a three-eyed crow?

No.  She laughed. And I cant say Id want to.  Osha kicked open the door to his bedchamber and set him in his window seat, where he could watch the yard below.

It seemed only a few heartbeats after she took her leave that the door opened again, and Jojen Reed entered unbidden, with his sister Meera behind him. You heard about the bird? Bran asked. The other boy nodded. It wasnt a supper like you said. It was a letter from Robb, and we didnt eat it, but

The green dreams take strange shapes sometimes,  Jojen admitted. The truth of them is not always easy to understand.

Tell me the bad thing you dreamed,  Bran said. The bad thing that is coming to Winterfell.

Does my lord prince believe me now? Will he trust my words, no matter how queer they sound in his ears?

Bran nodded.

It is the sea that comes.

The sea?

I dreamed that the sea was lapping all around Winterfell. I saw black waves crashing against the gates and towers, and then the salt water came flowing over the walls and filled the castle. Drowned men were floating in the yard. When I first dreamed the dream, back at Greywater, I didnt know their faces, but now I do. That Alebelly is one, the guard who called our names at the feast. Your septons another. Your smith as well.

Mikken? Bran was as confused as he was dismayed. But the sea is hundreds and hundreds of leagues away, and Winterfells walls are so high the water couldnt get in even if it did come.

In the dark of night the salt sea will flow over these walls,  said Jojen. I saw the dead, bloated and drowned.

We have to tell them,  Bran said. Alebelly and Mikken, and Septon Chayle. Tell them not to drown.

It will not save them,  replied the boy in green.

Meera came to the window seat and put a hand on his shoulder. They will not believe, Bran. No more than you did.

Jojen sat on Brans bed. Tell me what you dream.

He was scared, even then, but he had sworn to trust them, and a Stark of Winterfell keeps his sworn word. Theres different kinds,  he said slowly. Theres the wolf dreams, those arent so bad as the others. I run and hunt and kill squirrels. And theres dreams where the crow comes and tells me to fly. Sometimes the tree is in those dreams too, calling my name. That frightens me. But the worst dreams are when I fall.  He looked down into the yard, feeling miserable. I never used to fall before. When I climbed. I went everyplace, up on the roofs and along the walls, I used to feed the crows in the Burned Tower. Mother was afraid that I would fall but I knew I never would. Only I did, and now when I sleep I fall all the time.

Meera gave his shoulder a squeeze. Is that all?

I guess.

Warg,  said Jojen Reed.

Bran looked at him, his eyes wide. What?

Warg. Shapechanger. Beastling. That is what they will call you, if they should ever hear of your wolf dreams.

The names made him afraid again. Who will call me?

Your own folk. In fear. Some will hate you if they know what you are. Some will even try to kill you.

Old Nan told scary stories of beastlings and shapechangers sometimes. In the stories they were always evil. Im not like that,  Bran said. Im not. Its only dreams.

The wolf dreams are no true dreams. You have your eye closed tight whenever youre awake, but as you drift off it flutters open and your soul seeks out its other half. The power is strong in you.

I dont want it. I want to be a knight.

A knight is what you want. A warg is what you are. You cant change that, Bran, you cant deny it or push it away. You are the winged wolf, but you will never fly.  Jojen got up and walked to the window. Unless you open your eye.  He put two fingers together and poked Bran in the forehead, hard.

When he raised his hand to the spot, Bran felt only the smooth unbroken skin. There was no eye, not even a closed one. How can I open it if its not there?

You will never find the eye with your fingers, Bran. You must search with your heart.  Jojen studied Brans face with those strange green eyes. Or are you afraid?

Maester Luwin says theres nothing in dreams that a man need fear.

There is,  said Jojen.

What?

The past. The future. The truth.

They left him more muddled than ever. When he was alone, Bran tried to open his third eye, but he didnt know how. No matter how he wrinkled his forehead and poked at it, he couldnt see any different than hed done before. In the days that followed, he tried to warn others about what Jojen had seen, but it didnt go as he wanted. Mikken thought it was funny. The sea, is it? Happens I always wanted to see the sea. Never got where I could go to it, though. So now its coming to me, is it? The gods are good, to take such trouble for a poor smith.

The gods will take me when they see fit,  Septon Chayle said quietly, though I scarcely think it likely that Ill drown, Bran. I grew up on the banks of the White Knife, you know. Im quite the strong swimmer.

Alebelly was the only one who paid the warning any heed. He went to talk to Jojen himself, and afterward stopped bathing and refused to go near the well. Finally he stank so bad that six of the other guards threw him into a tub of scalding water and scrubbed him raw while he screamed that they were going to drown him like the frogboy had said. Thereafter he scowled whenever he saw Bran or Jojen about the castle, and muttered under his breath.

It was a few days after Alebellys bath that Ser Rodrik returned to Winterfell with his prisoner, a fleshy young man with fat moist lips and long hair who smelled like a privy, even worse than Alebelly had. Reek, hes called,  Hayhead said when Bran asked who it was. I never heard his true name. He served the Bastard of Bolton and helped him murder Lady Hornwood, they say.

The Bastard himself was dead, Bran learned that evening over supper. Ser Rodriks men had caught him on Hornwood land doing something horrible (Bran wasnt quite sure what, but it seemed to be something you did without your clothes) and shot him down with arrows as he tried to ride away. They came too late for poor Lady Hornwood, though. After their wedding, the Bastard had locked her in a tower and neglected to feed her. Bran had heard men saying that when Ser Rodrik had smashed down the door he found her with her mouth all bloody and her fingers chewed off.