BRAN Favored The difficult window stone sat in the comforts of his featherbed and covers.

Abed, the dividers pressed in on him, and the ceiling loomed over him; abed, the room was his cell, and Winterfell his prison. However, outside his window, the wide world still calls. He may not walk, nor climb, nor chase, nor battle with a wooden sword as he once had, but he might still see. He preferred to observe the windows start to glow all over Winterfell as candles and hearth fires were lit behind the diamond-shaped sheets of tower and lobby, and he adored tuning in to the direwolves sing to the stars. Of late, he regularly envisioned wolves. They are talking to me, brother to brother, he told himself when the direwolves cried. He might almost understand them. Not very, not genuinely, but almost... as if they were singing in a dialect he had once known but had forgotten about. The Walders might be frightened of them, but the Starks had wolf blood. Ancient Nan told him so. "Though it is more grounded in a few than in the others."