Sacrifice Is a Beautiful Thing (Jojen Reed)

C H A P T E R 8

Mara POV

I watched worriedly as Bran mumbled and thrashed. He had been in Summer for three days now. We sat there hollowly waiting, waiting, waiting.

I shook him again, "Bran, Bran, please come back. Come back now, Bran."

He finally opened his eyes, and I let go of his shoulder. Meera sighed in relief, "Bran? What did you see?"

"Winterfell. It was all on fire. They killed everyone," Bran whispered slowly.

I silently handed him water.

Jojen said gravely, "Three days. We were afraid for you."

"I was with Summer," Bran shrugged.

I interjected, "Too long. Far too long. You'll starve yourself this way." I took a deep breath, trying to steady my shaky voice.

"I ate. We ran down an elk."

"The wolf ate," Jojen said. "Not you. Take care, Bran. Remember who you are."

A flash of pain crossed Bran's face. 

Remember who you are. I remember who I am all too well. Always the odd one out. The only Stark who did not receive a direwolf. The only Stark girl not blessed with beauty or charm like Sansa, or the gift of gab like Arya. All I had was myself, my brains and my brawns.

I closed my eyes tightly, feigning sleep.

***

We trudged wordlessly through the cavernous crypts, footsteps echoing in an ominous way.

We passed the stone faces of the old Kings in the North. Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. Edwyn the Spring King. Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. Brandon the Burner and Brandon the Shipwright. Jorah and Jonos, Brandon the Bad, Walton the Moon King, Edderion the Bridegroom, Eyron, Benjen the Sweet and Benjen the Bitter, King Edrick Snowbeard. Their faces were stern and strong, and some of them had done terrible things, but they were Starks every one, and I knew all their tales. 

I never feared the crypts; they were part of my home and who I am, and I have always known that one day I would lie here too, perhaps not as majestically as the kings, for I will never inherit the throne, but still as a noble Stark.

But now I'm not so certain. Once we go up, will I ever come back down? Where will I go when I die?

Meera groped her way up to the door, "Something is blocking the door. I can't move it."

Bran said confidently, "Hodor can move anything."

Hodor put both hands on the door, pushing and grunting. He slammed a gigantic fist, and it did not so much as budge. Hodor put his back to the wood and shoved, again, and again. The wood groaned and creaked. "Hodor!" The other foot came up a step, and Hodor spread his legs apart, braced, and straightened. His face turned red, and Bran could see cords in his neck bulging as he strained against the weight above him. "Hodor hodor hodor hodor hodor HODOR!" From above came a dull rumble. Then suddenly the door jerked upward and the thinnest shaft of daylight appeared.

We stood in the shadow of the First Keep, or what remained of it. The First Keep had not been used for many hundreds of years, but now it was more of a shell than ever. The floors had burned inside it, and all the beams. Where the wall had fallen away, we could see right into the rooms. Yet behind, the broken tower still stood, no more burned than before. Jojen coughed from the smoke. I covered my mouth with one hand, tears springing to my eyes. Hodor stomped in a circle. "Hodor," he whimpered in a small voice. We stood huddled together with ruin and death all around us, still trying to comprehend the enormity of the drastic change in circumstances in just three days.