Game of Thrones Iron Stark

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The wildlings dragged Bran north through the snow, leaving Winterfell's lands far behind. They reached the edge of the Wolfswood, the wheelchair dumped back under that big tree where it all started.

"Fuck, this snow's deep as hell—almost as bad as beyond the Wall!" one of them bitched.

They'd figured the North counted as south, but the cold hit like a knife. Nearly as bad as the lands past the Wall.

"We're not moving today. Sleeping right here. In the damn trees."

"Go hunt something. Rabbits if you can find 'em!" Tormund barked.

Two wildlings took off.

"Hand me the little bastard," Tormund told Osha.

"Can't I hold him? Saves your back," Osha said.

"No. I'm watching him myself." She passed Bran over, reluctant.

Tormund lashed Bran to his back with a rough sack, then scrambled up the big tree like it was nothing and parked him at the top.

"Move and you fall straight to the ground. Stay put, kid."

"Ygritte, keep an eye on them. I'm scouting for smoke or trackers." Tormund took two men and vanished. Seven or eight wildlings stayed behind, including the sharpshooter Ygritte.

Osha had no choice but to wait. She edged closer to Hodor.

Ygritte watched them both, sure they were plotting, but with Bran up there they weren't going anywhere.

She leaned against the trunk of Bran's tree, bow in hand.

"Kid up top—your giant-blooded servant. Why's he all fucked up like that?"

"I don't know. Hodor's been like this since my father was little," Bran called down.

"Looks like your Stark family beat the sense out of him. Blood like that, he'd have been a hell of a fighter if he had his wits."

Giant mixes were rare even beyond the Wall. Shame this one was broken. If he'd been right in the head, maybe the free folk could've turned him.

The snow-covered forest stretched quiet and strange under the heavy white blanket. Hills rounded out like sleeping giants. Trees wore thick coats of snow, branches bowing under the weight. A cold wind shook loose little avalanches that sounded loud in the silence. Streams had frozen into silver ribbons, still moving slow underneath the ice.

Animal tracks crossed the white—rabbit, fox, quick and light.

It was beautiful if you had time to look. The wildlings and Bran didn't.

The hunters came back with rabbits and a fat wild boar.

"Boar in this weather? Tough bastards," someone muttered.

"Fire's a bitch without flint," Ygritte said.

"Lost mine."

"Mine too—probably dropped it back in the woods near Winterfell."

"Doesn't matter. Raw meat's fine."

"But the kid can't eat raw. What if he starves before we deliver him?"

"You watch him. I'll find berries. There's got to be some left. Can't let the little wolf die on us." Ygritte took off.

Minutes later Bran started yelling.

"Ow—fuck! My stomach! I gotta shit! I gotta go bad!"

The wildlings below ignored him at first. Bran kept screaming.

"Hey, kid, shut the hell up or I'll bury you in snow and kick your ass like a ball!"

One wildling snarled up at him.

"But I need to shit! You want me doing it up here? That's disgusting even for you!"

The wildlings looked at each other. They were rough, but not animals.

"Fine. I'm coming up to get you down," one said, starting to climb.

Tormund stepped out of the trees and stopped him cold.

"What the fuck are you doing? Don't fall for his bullshit. This little Stark's clever as a fox."

Tormund looked up.

"What's your problem, kid?"

"I gotta take a shit!!"

Tormund threw his head back and laughed.

"Hahaha—shit in the tree then! Crows do it all the time. You Starks are wolves and crows both. Benjen and the rest of you black brothers—fucking birds on the Wall!"

The wildlings hated Starks for a reason. Every generation sent men to the Wall. Benjen had killed plenty of free folk.

They started tearing into the raw meat below. Osha and Hodor got chunks too.

Bran stared at the bloody meat and felt his stomach turn.

"Anything else? Berries? Please?"

"Hahaha—unless the gods feel sorry for you, bears ate every last one this season!" Tormund said.

Right then Ygritte came jogging back with a small pouch.

"Still a few left farther north there won't be any. Eat raw or starve—the choice is yours, Brandon Stark. Live or die?"

She tossed the bag up. Bran caught it.