A Feast for Dragons

some monster, taking
them to the other monsters to be devoured?
    “The ranger saved Sam and the girl from the wights,” Bran
said, hesitantly, “and he’s taking me to the three-eyed crow.”
    “Why won’t this three-eyed crow come to us? Why couldn’t
he
meet us at the Wall? Crows have wings. My brother grows weaker every day. How
long can we go on?”
    Jojen coughed. “Until we get there.”
    They came upon the promised lake not long after, and turned
north as the ranger had bid them. That was the easy part.
    The water was frozen, and the snow had been falling for so
long that Bran had lost count of the days, turning the lake into a vast white
wilderness. Where the ice was flat and the ground was bumpy, the going was
easy, but where the wind had pushed the snow up into ridges, sometimes it was
hard to tell where the lake ended and the shore began. Even the trees were not
as infallible a guide as they might have hoped, for there were wooded islands
in the lake, and wide areas ashore where no trees grew.
    The elk went where he would, regardless of the wishes of
Meera and Jojen on his back. Mostly he stayed beneath the trees, but where the
shore curved away westward he would take the more direct path across the frozen
lake, shouldering through snowdrifts taller than Bran as the ice crackled
underneath his hooves. Out there the wind was stronger, a cold north wind that
howled across the lake, knifed through their layers of wool and leather, and
set them all to shivering. When it blew into their faces, it would drive the snow
into their eyes and leave them as good as blind.
    Hours passed in silence. Ahead, shadows began to steal
between the trees, the long fingers of the dusk. Dark came early this far
north. Bran had come to dread that. Each day seemed shorter than the last, and
where the days were cold, the nights were bitter cruel.
    Meera halted them again. “We should have come on the village
by now.” Her voice sounded hushed and strange.
    “Could we have passed it?” Bran asked.
    “I hope not. We need to find shelter before nightfall.”
    She was not wrong. Jojen’s lips were blue, Meera’s cheeks
dark red. Bran’s own face had gone numb. Hodor’s beard was solid ice. Snow
caked his legs almost to the knee, and Bran had felt him stagger more than
once. No one was as strong as Hodor, no one. If even his great strength was
failing …
    “Summer can find the village,” Bran said suddenly, his words
misting in the air. He did not wait to hear what Meera might say, but closed
his eyes and let himself flow from his broken body.
    As he slipped inside Summer’s skin, the dead woods came to
sudden life. Where before there had been silence, now he heard: wind in the
trees, Hodor’s breathing, the elk pawing at the ground in search of fodder.
Familiar scents filled his nostrils: wet leaves and dead grass, the rotted
carcass of a squirrel decaying in the brush, the sour stink of man-sweat, the
musky odor of the elk.
Food. Meat
. The elk sensed his interest.
He turned his head toward the direwolf, wary, and lowered his great antlers.
    He is not prey
, the boy whispered to the
beast who shared his skin.
Leave him. Run
.
    Summer ran. Across the lake he raced, his paws kicking up
sprays of snow behind him. The trees stood shoulder to shoulder, like men in a
battle line, all cloaked in white. Over roots and rocks the direwolf sped,
through a drift of old snow, the crust crackling beneath his weight. His paws
grew wet and cold. The next hill was covered with pines, and the sharp scent of
their needles filled the air. When he reached the top, he turned in a circle,
sniffing at the air, then raised his head and howled.
    The smells were there. Mansmells.
    Ashes
, Bran thought,
old and faint,
but ashes
. It was the smell of burnt wood, soot, and charcoal. A dead
fire.
    He shook the snow off his muzzle. The wind was gusting, so
the smells were hard to follow. The wolf turned this way and that, sniffing.
All around were heaps of snow and tall trees garbed in white. The wolf let his
tongue loll out between his teeth, tasting the frigid air, his breath misting
as snowflakes melted on his tongue. When he trotted toward the scent, Hodor
lumbered after him at once. The elk took longer to decide, so Bran returned
reluctantly to his own body and said, “That way. Follow Summer. I smelled it.”
    As the first sliver of a crescent moon came peeking through
the clouds, they finally stumbled into the village by the lake. They