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to cover a mottled pink scalp。 No one really knew how old she was； but his father said she'd been called Old Nan even when he was a boy。 She was the oldest person in Winterfell for certain； maybe the oldest person in the Seven Kingdoms。 Nan had e to the castle as a wet nurse for a Brandon Stark whose mother had died birthing him。 He had been an older brother of Lord Rickard； Bran's grandfather； or perhaps a younger brother； or a brother to Lord Rickard's father。 Sometimes Old Nan told it one way and sometimes another。 In all the stories the little boy died at three of a summer chill； but Old Nan stayed on at Winterfell with her own children。 She had lost both her sons to the war when King Robert won the throne； and her grandson was killed on the walls of Pyke during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion。 Her daughters had long ago married and moved away and died。 All that was left of her own blood was Hodor； the simpleminded giant who worked in the stables； but Old Nan just lived on and on； doing her needlework and telling her stories。
〃I don't care whose stories they are；〃 Bran told her； 〃I hate them。〃 He didn't want stories and he didn't want Old Nan。 He wanted his mother and father。 He wanted to go running with Summer loping beside him。 He wanted to climb the broken tower and feed corn to the crows。 He wanted to ride his pony again with his brothers。 He wanted it to be the way it had been before。
〃I know a story about a boy who hated stories；〃 Old Nan said with her stupid little smile； her needles moving all the while； click click click； until Bran was ready to scream at her。
It would never be the way it had been； he knew。 The crow had tricked him into flying； but when he woke up he was broken and the world was changed。 They had all left him； his father and his mother and his sisters and even his bastard brother Jon。 His father had promised he would ride a real horse to King's Landing； but they'd gone without him。 Maester Luwin had sent a bird after Lord Eddard with a message； and another to Mother and a third to Jon on the Wall； but there had been no answers。 〃Ofttimes the birds are lost； child；〃 the maester had told him。 〃There's many a mile and many a hawk between here and King's Landing； the message may not have reached them。〃 Yet to Bran it felt as if they had all died while he had slept 。。。 or perhaps Bran had died； and they had forgotten him。 Jory and Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole had gone too； and Hullen and Harwin and Fat Tom and a quarter of the guard。
Only Robb and baby Rickon were still here； and Robb was changed。 He was Robb the Lord now； or trying to be。 He wore a real sword and never smiled。 His days were spent drilling the guard and practicing his swordplay； making the yard ring with the sound of steel as Bran watched forlornly from his window。 At night he closeted himself with Maester Luwin； talking or going over account books。 Sometimes he would ride out with Hallis Mollen and be gone for days at a time； visiting distant holdfasts。 Whenever he was away more than a day； Rickon would cry and ask Bran if Robb was ever ing back。 Even when he was home at Winterfell； Robb the Lord seemed to have more time for Hallis Mollen and Theon Greyjoy than he ever did for his brothers。
〃I could tell you the story about Brandon the Builder；〃 Old Nan said。 〃That was always your favorite。〃
Thousands and thousands of years ago； Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell； and some said the Wall。 Bran knew the story； but it had never been his favorite。 Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story。 Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon； the baby she had nursed all those years ago； and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon； who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born。 She had lived so long； Mother had told him once； that all the Brandon Starks had bee one person in her head。
〃That's not my favorite；〃 he said。 〃My favorites were the scary ones。〃 He heard some sort of motion outside and turned back to the window。 Rickon was running across the yard toward the gatehouse； the wolves following him； but the tower faced the wrong way for Bran to see what was happening。 He smashed a fist on his thigh in frustration and felt nothing。
〃Oh； my sweet summer child；〃 Old Nan said quietly； 〃what do you know of fear？ Fear is for the winter； my little lord； when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind es howling out of the north。 Fear is for the long night； when the sun hides its face for years at a time； and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry； and the white walkers move through the woods。〃
〃You mean the Others；〃 Bran said querulously。
〃The Others；〃 Old Nan agreed。 〃Thousands and thousands of years ago； a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man。 There came a night that lasted a generation； and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels。 Women smothered their children rather than see them starve； and cried； and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks。〃 Her voice and her needles fell silent； and she glanced up at Bran with pale； filmy eyes and asked； 〃So； child。 This is the sort of story you like？〃
〃Well；〃 Bran said reluctantly； 〃yes； only 。 。 。
Old Nan nodded。 〃In that darkness； the Others came for the first time；〃 she said as her needles went click click click。 〃They were cold things； dead things； that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun； and every creature with hot blood in its veins。 They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms； felled heroes and armies by the score； riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain。 All the swords of men could not stay their advance； and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them。 They hunted the maids through frozen forests； and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children。〃
Her voice had dropped very low； almost to a whisper； and Bran found himself leaning forward to listen。
〃Now these were the days before the Andals came； and long before the women fled across the narrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne； and the hundred kingdoms of those times were the kingdoms of the First Men； who had taken these lands from the children of the forest。 Yet here and there in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills； and the faces in the trees kept watch。 So as cold and death filled the earth； the last hero determined to seek out the children； in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost。 He set out into the dead lands with a sword； a horse； a dog； and a dozen panions。 For years he searched； until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities。 One by one his friends died； and his horse； and finally even his dog； and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it。 And the Others smelled the hot blood in him； and came silent on his trail； stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds…〃
The door opened with a bang； and Bran's heart leapt up into his mouth in sudden fear； but it was only Maester Luwin； with Ho