As of today, Bran had grown adept at wielding his strange gift.
He could slip his skin and transform into a bird to soar high above the world, become a frog to leap among lily pads, or enter the sleek body of a trout to glide through cool river currents.
But his favorite vessel remained his direwolf.
Bran had wrestled long with what to call the beast. Fortunately, after confiding in the Crown Prince these past days, he had accepted Joffrey's suggestion—"Summer."
Summer.
True summer belonged to the South; unlike in Winterfell, where no matter the season, one must dress in thick layers that hindered movement—especially climbing.
The Prince had spoken true in this.
Thinking on it, Bran could not help but grumble about his sister's stinginess. That magical piece of steel allowed one to speak with the Prince and Jon at the Wall, yet Arya permitted him only the briefest moments with it, never enough to satisfy his curiosity. She remained unmoved even when he threatened to tell their lord father.
What a miserly little ghost.
Bran felt certain that were the object his, he would prove far more generous—anyone who wished to use it might do so.
Yet he harbored no true jealousy.
Arya had received her talking piece of steel. His sister Sansa treasured a crown of winter roses, as pristine as the day they were plucked, seemingly eternal in their beauty. And he had been saved by the Prince, granted the magical ability to enter the bodies of animals, and could witness a colorless world with his eyes shut.
By comparison, Bran found himself well content with his gift.
With these extraordinary "eyes," he had observed sights previously hidden from him during their journey south.
He had watched King Robert and his father drinking wine and tearing at hunks of meat together, hunting side by side, laughing and cursing with unbridled honesty. The two men shared a bond closer even than that between Bran and Robb.
He had glimpsed his sister Sansa and Jeyne Poole with their heads together, whispering secrets that made them both flush crimson.
He had seen Arya befriending folk throughout the royal procession and in villages along their route, exploring every inch of their surroundings, never returning to camp until the shadows grew long. Her willful nature remained unchanged.
Of late, Arya had developed an obsession with wooden swords, practicing daily by the riverside with a butcher's boy named Mycah. She persisted even when her arms bore purple bruises from their mock battles. Her stubborn temperament endured.
Once, Bran would have raced out to join such diversions.
But matters stood differently now.
Since acquiring his "eyes," he had come to relish observing the world from myriad perspectives. Besides, their journey offered few towers worthy of scaling.
The inn where they currently lodged proved no exception. Though it sprawled across a goodly plot and rose three full stories of white stone, its height failed to tempt him.
Summer offered far greater intrigue.
And so Bran reclined upon his bed and sent his consciousness spiraling into Summer's body.
The direwolf, who had been lying upon the floor beside the bed, rose promptly to all fours, blinked his intelligent eyes, and slipped through the half-open door.
Summer padded silently down the staircase, though his passage did not go unremarked.
Already the size of a full-grown wolf, the direwolf's presence rendered the inn's servants weak-kneed. They stood frozen in place, not daring to stir until the beast had passed, whereupon they scattered like leaves before a gale.
Bran had grown accustomed to such reactions.
The royal procession changed camp every day or two, denying folk the opportunity to grow familiar with the direwolves. Thus, each time he ventured forth as Summer, he caused a minor uproar.
His lord father had counseled him to keep Summer close, but Bran's resolve had lasted scarce a fortnight.
He could not resist the seductive call of the bond. Besides, Summer posed no true threat to men; the wolf hunted only wild game.
Bran, inhabiting Summer's form, traversed the inn's common room. Ser Barristan the Bold and the Kingslayer both lingered there, along with various Lannister retainers who had declined to join King Robert's hunt.
Bran had long since learned the King's habits.
Robert scarce allowed a day to pass without dragging Lord Eddard into the wilderness in pursuit of game. Of late, he had grown reluctant even to bring a proper guard, setting forth with only Ned Stark and a handful of companions.
In the King's own words: "When Ned and I join forces, we can smash even the bloody Targaryens to pieces! What need have we for guards?"
Even so, his father insisted on bringing a dozen soldiers each time they ventured forth.
Before padding through the door, Bran surveyed the inn through Summer's eyes. They would break camp on the morrow.
He observed soldiers laughing boisterously as they raised their cups in toast.
He watched several handmaidens bearing wine and victuals up the stairs, where Queen Cersei, Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, and his sister Sansa conversed in apparent harmony.
He glimpsed the plump innkeeper, Marsha Heddle, leaning over to fill Ser Jaime's cup, revealing a row of blood-red teeth.
Bran recalled how the woman had smiled and delivered sweet cakes to the children upon their arrival. While he had relished the treats, her crimson smile had set his heart racing with unease.
Now, through Summer's keen nose, he detected not the metallic tang of blood but the lingering aroma of sourleaf.
Fear dispelled, Bran urged Summer toward the forest.
Land, grass, and human figures blurred past as he ran. Fresh wind ruffled his silver fur, coursing over his smoky, yellow-gray eyes. This was his true self now.
Bran could detect the subtlest scents in the soil, could smell animals from leagues distant. Even simple roasted meat yielded a complex tapestry of aromas that made his mouth water with anticipation.
He could see clearly in darkness, not with his human "eyes," but through Summer's natural vision. The sensation proved wondrous. Though lacking vibrant hues, the gray world revealed shapes with startling clarity. At last, he understood how Summer perceived him.
His hearing, too, had sharpened beyond measure. When he lay quietly in some corner, folk paid the direwolf no mind, speaking freely of matters they would otherwise keep hidden.
Thus had Bran learned something of people's true hearts. They seemed to despise all things in the world, whether fair or foul, virtuous or base.
Are all grown men and women so bitter?
He plunged into the forest and ran wildly, abandoning thought, merely dodging the countless trees that rose before him—leaping, turning, sliding beneath low branches.
He forgot all earthly concerns, desiring only to run forever thus.
But even Summer grew weary eventually.
Bran felt hunger gnawing at his belly, far keener than any human appetite, as though he had fasted for half a year.
He raised Summer's massive head and scanned his surroundings, sampling the air. King Robert and his father hunted aurochs deeper in the forest; suitable prey for Summer had fled far from the royal party's commotion.
He loped toward the scent of water and eventually arrived at the confluence of the Green Fork and the Blue Fork. Surely fish might be found here.
Nearby, he spotted Arya and Mycah engaged in their mock battle.
He remembered then: this was the place Arya had spoken of, where she hoped to find rubies—the ford where King Robert had slain Prince Rhaegar.
He waded on all fours into the shallow stream.
The taste of trout hung tantalizing in the water. Summer's jaws parted in eager anticipation.
But suddenly he sprang back to the shore!
Bran peered upstream. A foul, bloody stench approached, and a large, elongated shadow lurked beneath the surface.
Summer bristled with fear and unease.
Bran recalled the Neck, which they had traversed on their southward journey. There, he had encountered a scent almost identical to that of this hidden creature.
Lizard-lions.
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