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Bran could barely glimpse the sky through the narrow windows of the castle. The day was cloaked in shadow, with the distant murmur of rain and the promise of storms yet to come. He could hear his brother coughing in the chamber behind him, weak cries punctuated by tears streaming down pale cheeks. Robin—a boy barely a year younger—was frail, smaller in every way. Bran had always been stronger, but there was little comfort in that now.
“Mother said I could go with her!” Robin’s voice cracked, his anger spilling over in a sharp burst. His wide eyes shimmered with fear, but Bran could think of no words to soothe him. It was their second day in the Eyrie after years spent in King’s Landing, where their father had served as Hand of the King. The memory of Lysa’s panicked words echoed in Bran’s mind:
We need to leave. Now.
They had been roused in the dead of night, rushed from the capital like fugitives.
Your father is dead. There is nothing for us here.
“We’re safe here, Robin,” Bran said, though he bit his lip as he spoke. “Mother only left us to handle something important. She’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Robin glared at him, unconvinced. “There are enemies somewhere. I heard them.”
Bran didn’t argue. The boy’s words were borne of panic, but in truth, Bran didn’t know if they were safe. King’s Landing had been full of whispers, but even here, in the lofty heights of the Eyrie, the weight of those secrets followed them.
People in the capital had always spoken kindly of Bran. A fine heir to the Vale, they said. A blessing to House Arryn, the rightful future Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East. But Bran suspected their compliments were hollow, offered only because he was the firstborn.
“Robin could be an heir, too,” he’d said once. The suggestion had been met with sidelong glances and murmured disdain.
“A sickly boy like him? The lad must lack sense,” they whispered behind the Arryns’ backs.
“Let’s explore the towers,” Bran suggested suddenly, hoping to distract his brother. There was something about heights that always called to him, though he could never say why. Robin’s face brightened, his large eyes glinting with childish wonder. Together, they climbed the endless spiral of stairs, hand in hand, their earlier loneliness momentarily forgotten.
When they reached the balcony of one of the seven towers, Bran stepped into the open air and let the wind whip through his hair. Below them stretched the vast expanse of the Vale, its peaks and valleys shrouded in mist. Above, the storm clouds churned, gray and unending.
“It’s beautiful,” Bran murmured, the words barely audible over the roar of the wind.
Robin watched him with fascination. “Brother can fly?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe. “Like the eagles? As high as honor?”
Bran hesitated. The wind had grown fiercer, carrying with it whispers that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere.
As high as honor.
“I… I can’t,” Bran said at last. But the whispers persisted.
You can. You are an Arryn. You are an eagle. A falcon.
Robin clapped his hands, laughing as Bran stepped closer to the edge. “Fly, brother! I want to see you!”
Bran’s feet moved without his permission, his body swaying as the void before him seemed to widen. He could feel the weightless pull of the open sky. One step more, and he could leave behind the fear, the grief, the whispers. Robin’s laughter filled his ears, and for a fleeting moment, Bran believed it.
I can fly.
A scream shattered the illusion. He gasped, his eyes snapping open to find himself in his bedchamber. The morning sun spilled through the windows, warm and golden. Lysa stood nearby, calm as ever, with Robin—her Sweetrobin—clinging to her skirts and nuzzling at her side.
“Good morning, darling,” Lysa said softly. Her voice carried none of the urgency that had haunted Bran’s dream.
Bran sat up, blinking in the light. How foolish he’d been. Birds could fly, but he was no eagle, no falcon.
He was just a boy.