Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7792216.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&_Related_Fandoms, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George
      R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Meera_Reed/Bran_Stark, Jojen_Reed_&_Bran_Stark, Jojen_Reed_&_Meera_Reed
  Character:
      Bran_Stark, Meera_Reed, Jojen_Reed, Theon_Greyjoy, Sansa_Stark, Robb
      Stark, Jon_Snow, Arya_Stark, Talisa_Maegyr, Gendry_Waters, Howland_Reed,
      Ned_Stark, Jyana_Reed, Catelyn_Tully_Stark, Rickon_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Slight_Age_Difference, no_underage
      sex_just_underage_shenanigans, Developing_Relationship, Secret
      Relationship, Safe_Sane_and_Consensual, Angst_and_Fluff_and_Smut, Happy
      Starks, Stark_Family_Fluff, a_happy_if_obnoxious_theon, On-Again/Off-
      Again_Relationship, Modern_Westeros, Recreational_Drug_Use, i_feel_silly
      just_writing_that_tag_but_of_course_jojen_smokes_weed, hes_a_GREENseer,
      background_Arya/Gendry_and_Robb/Talisa, really_bit_of_a_fix-it_for_robb/
      talisa_in_the_background_to_heal_my_soul, mix_of_books_and_show, Work_In
      Progress, a_horrible_painfully_drawn_out_progress
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-17 Updated: 2017-08-08 Chapters: 19/? Words: 111684
****** Comes and Goes ******
by pateofthecitadel
Summary
     Jojen's sister starts looking at Bran differently. He doesn't really
     know what to do with that.
***** The Grove by Long Lake *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 20. Theon – 19. Meera – 18. Sansa – 17. Arya – 16. Jojen,
     Bran – 15. Rickon – 11.
     Mood: Monica Heldal – Boy From The North; Carla Morrison – Todo Pasa
The_Grove
After much goodbye-ing, Eddard finally convinced Cat to let their son go. “He’s
fifteen, he’ll be fine. His brothers were his age when they first stayed away
on their own.”
“They had each other if I recall.”
“Yes, and Bran has Jojen. Probably better off for it. Come on now. Don’t want
to embarrass the boy.” Ned rubbed her arm as he guided her away, back to their
van, a hulking black SUV parked on the flat stretch of grass before the cabins.
The car was just large enough to cram all the kids into it: their five
children, Jon, and maybe even Theon if he was tagging along (to bring the dogs
meant a second car).
While the Stark household consisted of six kids total, Jon was the son of
Eddard’s sister, adopted into the family after his parents’ death. Jon hadn’t
even been talking yet and Sansa wouldn’t be born for another two years. Jon had
only ever known the Stark household as family, and in kind the kids only saw
Jon as their brother.
Bran tried to give his mother an encouraging smile as she looked back at him.
His mother had always had a hard time watching her kids slip away from her into
adulthood. And as that childhood accident of his loomed ever present in her
mind, it was always hardest with Bran.
Bran would only be staying a month at a summer camp. All of his older siblings
had already been, following in the tradition of their father and his siblings.
This was, however, the first time Catelyn had to drop off one of their kids
alone. Robb and Jon had gone together. And despite Sansa’s pleas to be excluded
from what she called a tradition consisting only of rashes, swamp water, and
blocked toilets, she and Arya had been sent together. Their youngest Rickon was
still two years shy of the required age, and Ned had thought it would do Bran
good to go before school started separating up his class and began university
prep. Eddard’s good friend Howland Reed had suggested letting Bran go with his
children which Ned had seized on as a compromise.
“He won’t be alone, Cat. He and Jojen have been playing together since they
were boys.”
 
Like the Starks, the Reeds were of the North. When Bran had still been just a
babe, the two families lived quite close to one another. But as Eddard’s work
traveled south to the capital, so did the family, and it was there in King’s
Landing the children grew up and enrolled in school. Not that the Starks would
ever not be Northern. Besides the house in the King’s Landing suburbs, the
Winterfell Manse remained them as their truer homestead. They’d return there on
holiday, and the two oldest Stark children never truly lost their Northern
accent.
Growing up, the Reed boy and girl would be dumped unceremoniously into the
sprawl of Starklings, perhaps once or twice a year whenever it was their
parents traveled south.
When first they met, Bran hadn’t known what to make of the Reed boy born a few
months ahead of him. Jojen had been born early. Too early. It was said that he
had barely pulled through. He was never a strong child like his sister. On the
other hand, the only life Bran had known was full of playing Nightswatch-and-
Wildings with his sister Arya, climbing up the thick trees that grew behind
their house, and getting snowballs thrown at him by his older brothers and
Theon. Whenever he brought Jojen along, the boy would usually wind up getting
hurt in one way or another.
One time Robb had nailed him with a snowball, forgetting that even young Rickon
was more robust than Jojen. Jojen didn’t begrudge them anything, but blood
began to bloom under his nose, quickly, spreading over the arm warmer Arya
pressed against his face to stem the flow. When Meera found them she had been
beside herself. She had nearly screamed at them, but even through his nosebleed
Jojen still managed to calm everyone down.
It was only a few years later Bran had truly grown to like spending time with
Jojen. One winter Bran had been climbing, annoyed he had to stay behind with
Rickon once again while his older siblings would visit their Uncle Benjen. He
had taken it upon himself to climb the taller trees at the back of the forest
to prove, either to himself or to everyone else, that he didn’t need to be
included to have a good time. He had never been up all of these older trees,
their branches were farther apart and they looked down on the rest of the
forest, higher even than the trees that shaded their large house. When he
reached the top of this particular one, he sat on the sturdiest branch he could
find at the top. Snow was lightly falling over the house, the tops of the trees
below, further out beyond the sloping hill. For a few seconds, he forgot all
about the noisy bickering in the Stark kitchen, Uncle Benjen, or his father
telling him that tantrums were only for silly boys.
Eventually Sansa had come looking for him. When she spotted him she marched
over, calling up to him to stop his sulking and come to dinner, and that he
could visit Uncle Benjen next time. “You won’t prove to anyone you’re old
enough to come by behaving like a baby,” she yelled up.
He didn’t feel like cooperating. “Fine, I won’t go then either!”
Even high as he was, he could hear her sigh from the tree’s base, cold and
impatient to get back inside. “Bran, our mother cooked you dinner. You want her
to throw away that hard work? Is that how you thank her for thinking of you and
making you dinner?”
Fine.
He swung down from his branch to the next one, and the next. Sansa watched him
with her hands on her hips, tutting. He had been almost halfway when his foot
landed on the next branch. In the tiny space between that moment and the next,
he realized this branch was not strong enough. But his weight had already
shifted. He tried to reverse but below his footing the branch already snapped
with a definite ‘crack.’ His foot fell through the open air underneath and he
went with it.
Later on, he’d dimly be able to recall he had heard Sansa scream.
When next Bran opened his eyes, he was in the hospital room. The one in which
he stayed for the following months.
By the time they allowed him to go home, the snows had long melted and soon
passed into a sweltering summer. They told him that in time he would walk again
but not for several more months. Bran sat on his bed in his corner of their
house, fanning himself with a paper fan, a stack of books laid beside him. His
legs stuck out in front of him, tied to the metal bars that kept them
straight. Distant splashes and happy screams traveled through the walls and
into his room from where outside his siblings threw water at each other to cool
off.
He hadn’t spoken much since returning home and had barely smiled. It was better
to stay there, alone, in his room. Whenever one of his brothers or sisters came
up to spend time with him, he felt vaguely like he was keeping them from
something more fun.
But before long the Reeds were back for the summer holidays. And Jojen didn’t
mind sitting with Bran.
They spent the remaining month of holiday there in his room, chatting the hours
away, playing and trading cards. It was since then Bran had always been happy
to see Jojen.
 
In the end Catelyn had consented to send Bran off on his own, given that he
would have his best friend with him, and if needs be the two of them could rely
on Jojen’s older sister who was also going. (Rickon had loudly protested once
he figured out that Catelyn’s new plan was now to send him to camp with their
cousin Robin.)
Bran could still see his mother’s face through the car window. He wish she
wouldn’t worry about him so much. He gave her another confident smile, waved
goodbye. Although her eyes still shined over-bright, as she fastened the
seatbelt across herself she did slowly return his smile and nod back at him.
When at last their van disappeared over the hill, Bran turned to survey the
cabins before him. One of them would be his temporary home for the next month,
where he and Jojen would be bunking. Boys Cabin #4.
The summer air was full of distant conversations throughout the camp. Girls
calling out to their friends, boys trying to find their cousins or their mates.
He tried to ignore the small pang in his chest, very much aware he was alone.
Once again, his older siblings had already moved on without him. But, like
before, Jojen was there. He stuck his head out of their cabin doorway. “Your
mum finally cut the umbilical cord, has she?”
 
It was only on their third day when Jojen told him that Meera knew of some
place nearby they were to sneak out to.
“Whereabouts?”
“I don’t know, she didn’t say. But she said we have to check it out.”
“I don’t think we’re really supposed to—”
“Come on. We’re going.”
With each passing year, Jojen had grown stronger. He had suffered 2 seizures as
a kid and was still at risk, but his doctors had given their partial go-ahead
for Jojen to participate in sports, at camp, at most physical activities within
reason. Not that Jojen particularly wanted to participate in sports. He didn’t
like them and, ever since his fall, Bran didn’t either. But, like all the
Reeds, Jojen did enjoy striking out into the wilderness far more than any
normal person should.
 
After lights-out that night, Bran trudged behind him, practicing in his head
what they could say if they were stopped by a counselor. Jojen didn’t seem the
least bit worried.
“What do you think will happen if they catch us skiving off?”
“They’llflay us,” Jojen said sarcastically. “I see Meera. Come on.”
 
“Heyyyy.” Meera grinned once they joined her on the outskirts of the camp
grounds, marked by the tree line of the surrounding forest. Among the boys,
Bran and Jojen were still on the short side of the spectrum but already both of
them had grown past Meera. Meera was short and she was always going to be
short. “Come on, my mate Megga told me about this place.”
Bran figured he’d have another go at getting an answer. “What is it exactly?”
“You’ll just have to wait and seee~,” she said drawing out the last syllable,
already marching off into the woods. They followed after her. After a few
minutes of making their way through the trees, she asked from up ahead, “So,
Bran... Catelyn was able to let you go?” Jojen snorted.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bran said grumpily. “Really the only reason she let me come was
because your dad promised her you two would babysit me. I’m fifteen. It’s camp.
It’s not going off to war.”
“She’s relying on us to steer you straight? Yikes.” She pulled a face of
exaggerated dread. “I’m glad your mum can’t see me now. She can be a scary
lady.”
“Don’t tell me,” Jojen said by Bran’s right. “One time she caught me showing
Bran that movie Theon showed us. I thought I might die. Right there in Eddard
Stark’s solar.” Meera laughed but Bran pursed his lips. That was a memory he
preferred to keep forgotten.
Meera stopped suddenly. “Ooo. You hear that?” They listened. “There’s a brook
around here. Where is it?”
It was Jojen who pinpointed it first. They followed the sounds of trickling
water to its source, a small brook that wound its way through the forest, and
they began following it downhill.
They spent a few more minutes traipsing through the trees. Bran’s thoughts
drifted back to the counselors’ patrol shifts, lazy though they were. Robb and
the others didn’t talk much about this camp besides how tiring it had been and
the shenanigans of the nuttier students. Was it strict? He thought of his
mother’s face, playing out all the possible disaster scenarios in her head as
she let go of him.
“Meera, how far is it we’re going?”
“Branny, Branny, Branny,” she chided ahead of them. “Your mum literally can’t
get to you right now and beat your friends to a bloody pulp for making you
adventure. You know, for making you live. So adventure.”
He didn’t say anything. If they weren’t there in ten minutes, he’d demand to
know where it was they were headed or he’d start back.
But it was only a short moment before Meera stopped again, Jojen accidentally
colliding into her this time. She paid him no notice. “I see it! That rock
thingy over there.”
“How can you see anything, it’s so dark here?”
“Do Reeds have better eyes than Starks?” she asked in mock concern before she
bounded down to the side, out to where the land flattened into a field.
He huffed. Jojen patted his shoulder. “Come on. Faster we see this, faster you
can get back to the cabin of safety.” They heard Meera give a cry up ahead.
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing,” she hollered back. “I just stepped in the brook is all. It curves
this way—watch out for it.”
They caught up to her where the ground evened out, careful to step around where
the shallow stream of water still trickled underfoot. Bran couldn’t see much
since they only had the moonlight which ebbed in and out of the passing clouds.
What he could see now that they were up close was the white of Meera’s teeth
reflecting in the dark. She grinned with unabashed amusement as she bent to
slip off her running shoes and socks.
“You should probably keep those on,” he started to say.
“Nah, this rock thingy is where Megga told me to come. I’ll put them on again
for the hike back.” Behind her was an odd looking wall of rock. It didn’t look
artificially made, warped as it was. But yet, standing like a wall in between
the field they were in and the dark thicket of trees behind it, it seemed oddly
placed there on purpose. Maybe it had once been a rudimentary wall of some
bygone dwelling.
“Alright, what’s up with this rock thingy?” asked Jojen.
“Let’s see!” She crossed the distance and went to make her away around the edge
of it, towards the side that faced the trees, a shoe in each hand. Jojen and
Bran followed behind her. As she disappeared around the bend they heard her
inhale sharply.
Admittedly, Bran was curious now. He wanted to see whatever it was and then
they could go back. Although he did somewhat resent Jojen’s ‘cabin-of-safety’
comment. He had used to run off into the woods all the time. Not to mention
Meera had a point. They had to get their irresponsible gallivanting in now
while it was still possible.
When he rounded the corner behind Jojen, he blinked at the sight in front of
him. He felt Jojen plant himself next to Bran, smiling up at the near total-
dark grove in front of them. Jojen said quietly, “Well look at that.”
The thicket of black woods expanding before them blocked most of the light
here. Behind them, the top of the rock wall was dimly illuminated by moonlight
that shone down over the tops of the closest trees. The trickling noise of the
water had followed them in here and it seemed the brook pooled into a small
pond at the wall’s base.
But what Megga had clearly told Meera to come see were the hundreds of blinking
lights floating about the grove, little specks wafting in the air. It almost
looked as if they had stepped past the clouds rather than into another forest.
“What is this?”
“They’re fireflies,” Jojen said quietly. “I’ve never seen so many in one place
though. Nor out this late.”
Bran spotted Meera’s outline nearby. She stood still, looking up. “Megga told
me that the fireflies in this forest are spectacular. And she said this was the
best spot to see them. See how we have a little way before the trees start? So
it looks like they go on forever.”
“This is pretty cool,” said Jojen. “I wonder how many other kids at camp know
about this.”
“Dunno.” She chuckled softly. “Megga only found it because her cousin Margaery
told her about it. And some boy had brought her here.”
Bran tried to ignore their chatter. Something felt off in his chest, like his
heart was beating faster. Was it anxiety? The glimpses of light winked against
the black expanse. He felt the summer breeze graze over the top of his skin,
heard it rustle through the grass. Quite abruptly, the image of snow falling
over the top of his parents’ house swam into his thoughts.
“A boy brings Margaery Tyrell and Margaery brings her cousin Megga?”
“Yeah. So Megga can bring a boy. It’s the circle of life.”
“Right. And you bring me and Bran.”
“Isn’t that sad?”
Jojen noticed Bran was staring off in concentration. “Bran?”
“Hmm?” He pulled his mind back to the present, back to the grove. “What?”
“What’re you thinking about?”
“I was looking at them.” He pointed unnecessarily at the fireflies.
“They are lovely, aren’t they?” Meera agreed in a hushed tone.
 
They spent a few minutes there to soak it in. Jojen let fireflies land on and
fly off his hands. Eventually Meera stepped back into her wet shoes and they
left the grove behind them to start the trip back.
Bran could tell Meera slowed her pace up the ascent, careful to make sure that
Jojen wouldn’t tire himself out by trying to keep up. They were starting to be
able to see flat camp grounds through the trees now. In five minutes or so
until they’d be creeping back into their own cabins.
Meera stopped, stretching her arm out to Jojen ahead of her. She whispered now.
“Look. Down the other side of the hill, where I’m pointing. Do you see it?”
From behind them Bran tried to make out what lay at the bottom of the shaded
slope on their left. “…the lake?”
“Yeah. It’s not the camp’s part of the lake though. It’s for the surrounding
houses.”
“So?” asked Jojen.
“Let’s check it out. They don’t allow us on the lake except for that shitty
lagoon part.”
He asked again, “…So?”
“Come on. Now’s a good time to check it out.”
“No, it’s late already.”
Meera found Bran in the dark and wrapped her arm around his. He stared down at
her. “Bran wants to come, don’t you, Bran? You’re the only one who doesn’t want
to go Jojen.”
Jojen rolled his eyes. “You’re not tricking me into another hike right after
that one. I’m off to bed.” He kept walking.
“Well fine!” she hissed, now that they had to keep their voices soft. “We’ll
have fun without you! Come on, Bran.” She steered him down towards the bank
below. Bran’s feet went with her but he twisted his head to look over at Jojen.
Clearly spent, Jojen didn’t bother looking back, waved them off with a lazy
hand.
 
On_Long_Lake
The shoreline started at the bottom of the hill. Meera tiptoed carefully across
to where a dock stretched out onto the lake. Bran followed her, puzzled as to
what exactly she was up to but figuring that he’d probably only have to humor
her a bit longer. Does she always stay up this late?
She took her shoes off again, placing them on the grass just before the dock.
Then she started out across the wood planks, small boats meant only for 1-
2 people tied to every other post.
“What are you doing?”
“Come on.”
He bit the inside of his lip, looked back at the forest behind them. It was
scarier once you were outside it, looking more like one large, dark mass rather
than the individual trees. He shuffled his feet after her.
Meera had reached the end of the dock where it finished in a small horizontal
stretch, resembling a ‘T’ shape. She sat down, arms stretched behind her, eyes
bright as she waited for him. Everything was a laugh for her. Ruefully, he
supposed if he were more like that he’d probably live longer.
When he reached her and bent to sit down, she drew in her arms, lowering her
back against the dock to stare up at the sky.
“When’s the last time you lay on the ground to look at the sky?”
“Hmn? I don’t know.”
They laid on the dock, almost at contrasting angles. His eyes adjusted to the
dark expanse up above them. “Huh. It looks like the fireflies.”
She hummed. “Yeah.”
The sky was pretty. Even with his parents’ house almost an hour outside of the
capital, they still had residual light from downtown which reflected on the
clouds above. But here nothing reflected back at the sky. The only light came
from on high. The moon and the stars shone out crystal clear in the blackness,
purple clouds faded against the backdrop. But he didn’t know what else he was
supposed to get from this after five minutes. He fidgeted his shoulders,
cramping against the dock’s crooked surface.
Meera broke the silence. “I like your parents.”
“What’s that?”
“Your parents seem happy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they seem like they love each other.” Oh.
He couldn’t deny that he was lucky. Both of his parents came from prestigious
families, old money. And yet they had succeeded at remaining above the scandals
and gossip that usually stained Westerosi high society. But still, his parents
were just parents. “Yeah, I guess so.” Meera sighed. He tried to look over but,
lying as he was, he couldn’t see her face.
“Your whole family is really cool.”
“Yeah.” He smiled warmly to think of them. “I like them. What’s it like growing
up with just two of you?”
She chuckled darkly. “It’s okay. I’m glad I’m not an only child. I couldn’t
handle my parents all by myself.” She sat up next to him now, stretched down to
lie on her stomach in the same direction as him. “I don’t know what it would be
like in a bigger group. It’s nice, just me and Jojen. He has no choice but to
suffer me.” Bran smiled.
He loved his siblings, but he didn’t know if anyone ever could come close, as a
sister, to Meera. She was dedicated to her little brother. The Stark kids had
been a smidge frightened of her until it was they learned how to play gently
with him.
“What’s it like in a big group of siblings?”
“Hmm. I guess we’re not as close as you and Jojen,” he said, sitting up himself
because his back had had enough. He hugged his knees instead. “But it’s not
about ‘closer’ or ‘closest.’ You might hang out with one of your siblings more
than the others, but it’s not like you love any of them any less.”
She glanced up at him. “Do you hang out with them as much as they hang out with
each other?”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno. You always struck me as a bit of a loner. Well, maybe not always.”
He didn’t know why she was so interested. “Do you wish you had more brothers or
sisters?”
“No.” Her voice was quiet. She was picking idly at the wood beneath her
fingers, like to give herself a splinter.
He wondered again what time it was. “Meera—”
“Did you know my parents are splitting up?”
He hadn’t.
“…Your mum and dad—”
“Are splitting up. They’re probably going to get a divorce. They’ve been doing
trial separation. That’s why me and Joj have been spending more time down south
with you guys. My dad wants to move away for a bit. ‘Clear his head.’ And I
think he’s happy to hang out with your dad. You know, they’re old buddies.
We’ve been splitting our time between King’s Landing and back home it seems
like. But even mum thinks we should go to school there.”
“I…I didn’t know.”
“Jojen didn’t tell you.” She frowned. “I don’t know how he’s taking it. I think
he’s…okay. I don’t know. Normally I always know.”
“I know you always know.”
“He just seems so unphased. Like he doesn’t care. Which makes me think he does
care, so much so that he’s hiding it. But I don’t know why. He’s never hid
things from me before. And he didn’t tell you either.”
Bran didn’t know what you were supposed to say. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well,” Meera said, pushed up from the dock. She sat similarly with her
knees popped up in front of her, leaned back nonchalantly, an annoyed
expression on her face as she stared out over the water. “What can you do?”
Should he pat her back? Hug her? Sat as they were, he couldn’t exactly reach
out to her in any way that wouldn’t be awkward.
She let out a long breath. “I’ll be fine. It’s Jojen I worry about. He’s really
close with our mum.”
“Should I ask him about it?”
“Yeah, maybe. Whatever you feel is right.” She shifted away from the lake now
to face him. “Sorry for dragging you out here.”
“No, no. It’s cool.”
She shook her head sweetly. “You’re too accommodating.”
“No, I like it. I never do things, you know?” He gazed up at the stars once
more and couldn’t help but to smile at the empty, serene night air. “I like
doing things like this.”
When he lowered his head again he saw that Meera was smiling too. But her eyes
were on him, not the sky.
Meera was quite different from him. She made him laugh when it was the three of
them but he was remembering now he didn’t quite know how to act around her when
it was just them two. There was something about Meera that had always been
bold. She was quick to boredom. Usually she was looking for an adventure or
some place new to discover.
His eyebrows rose.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said finally.
“Yeah.”
Elbow propped up on her knee, she rested her jaw on her hand. Even as her brow
furrowed, the corner of her mouth curved into an amused smile. “You looking
forward to start university prep?”
“I guess so.”
“Exciting times.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” she said, swinging her knees under her elbow a bit. “You’ll officially
no longer be a kid.”
He scoffed, staring at the water. “Seems a bit a late for that.”
“Oh. I see. Already a man grown?”
“No.”
She was still staring straight at him. He made himself scrutinize the dock
instead. But, feeling the silence stretch on, he furtively glanced to the side
a few times to check if she was still looking. And she was. It was almost
making him flush.
“…What?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re handsome?”
A little laugh burst from him. “No.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. “I
mean…besides my mum.”
The businesslike expression that she had had on her face collapsed as she broke
into a laugh. She covered her mouth with her hands to try to stifle it.
“Go on then. You’re taking the mickey.” He shook his head. But it was good to
see that bleak look she had when mentioning her parents disappear. He had never
seen Meera somber before—it felt unnatural.
Her laughter dissipated and she regained control of her breath. ‘Hooo.’ Then
she propped up her head again and went right back into that concentrated gaze.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Stop.”
By now his face must have been red. She chuckled again, looking away out of
mercy.
“You’re too easy rattled.” He couldn’t think of anything to respond to that.
“Is your class gonna be the same? Same students?”
“Erm, not all of them. It’ll be sort of mixed.”
“What about your mates?”
“Well, even if we’re not in the same class, we’ll be in the same school.”
“And them? They started dating each other yet?”
“What?” Bran laughed. “No. I mean, some of my classmates have, yeah. But not my
friends.”
“Aww, why not?”
“I dunno.” He smoothed down the jean fabric over his knees, straightening it.
“Are you nervous about it?”
“Nervous about what?”
Was is strange to hang out just the two of them? When was the last time that
had happened? It’d always been little bits and pieces when the three of them
had been hanging out. Waiting for Jojen outside the loos at the movie theater.
Bran sitting in the back of Meera’s car, patting his legs absentmindedly, as
they waited for Jojen to fetch whatever he’d forgotten before she’d drop them
off somewhere.
The air in his chest didn’t seem to be working right.
Bran was well aware he had problems with anxiety. Ever since the accident, he
could have bouts of vertigo or extreme apprehension when faced with the
prospect of doing something new, especially something dangerous. Legally
speaking, he could obtain a permit to drive. But even with his siblings’
teasing, his father’s nagging, his mother’s encouragement, Arya swearing
angrily that this was ‘the last time’ she’d be his chauffer, Bran ignored them,
content to ask people to drive him where he wanted to go for the rest of his
life.
This though. This felt different. He didn’t want to look up from the dock.
“All that stuff,” she went on. “I remember. I was nervous, before. Only at the
beginning. People were paying so much attention to who’d done what. You could
feel really scrutinized, you know?”
“I guess there’s some of that.”
“It gets easier.” She perked up a little, sat up straight. “I think the worst
part is the anticipation. Fearing the unknown. Having to learn something new.
Psyching yourself out. It stressed me out for like a month or two, but then I
got over it.”
Bran nodded, swallowed. Is she done?
Meera’s gaze was still upon him, direct and unwavering in a way he didn’t know
how to respond to. The tilt of her head was inviting. But he didn’t
know…anything of what to do with that.  Just as a sort of obligatory response,
he replied, “Oh.”
The corner of her mouth curved into that smile again. Serene and reassuring and
yet needling him. Bran didn’t look away but he sat, unmoving, breathing steady.
Why is she smiling at me like that?His mother had told him he was handsome, but
he had come to realize that was just a mother’s lie. He wouldn’t let himself
believe it now either.
“So…,” he asked, filling the silence. “What happened? Did you just change your
attitude?”
“Actually a friend helped me out. Showed me the ropes.”
Bran didn’t know how to respond to that except to steer his attention back onto
the surface of the lake, calm but for the white flashes of reflected moonlight
that rippled in the breeze.
He could still feel Meera’s gaze. Heat crept up his neck.
“Which friend?” he asked, stupidly.
Her grin widened. “Megga. At first.”
“Oh.”
The cogs in his brain seemed to be working rather slowly. He thought dimly that
any sane person would be pleased to find themselves being deliberately flirted
with by Meera Reed. Meera was…But Meera would never be interested in him in a
thousand years, he thought that was obvious. And yet there she was, gleam in
her eyes. But right now all he could process was the inconvenience of being
thrust into a situation that hadn’t been on his mental preparation list.
“You know,” she said, scooting herself forward on the dock so that she was
sitting alongside him now, her knees grazing his jeans. “I could help you out.”
“What?” Bran couldn’t help but swallow again, his throat felt uncomfortably
dry.
“Well…who’s going to teach you? Is it going to be Jojen?” She poked at his leg
with an accusatory finger.
He jerked his leg back a little in surprise. His arms fell away from his legs
so instead he let his hands test the surface of the wood to prop himself up. He
gave a quick shake of his head, not answering her question but dismissing it
with a small, breathless laugh.
A moment passed.
He had been looking away, so when her hand skimmed over his knee, he jumped.
She rose her eyebrows at him slowly. “I’m not going to bite you or attack you.
Why are you so nervous?” She pressed her lips together, then went on, “Bran,
it’s me. If I’m making you uncomfortable, just tell me. You’d tell me, right?”
He thought he had made to say, ‘Yeah.’ But what came out had sounded more like
a meaningless noise under his breath. He could not look in her eyes anymore.
Instead his eyes settled on her mouth.
When she came to accept that murmur as his answer, her grin grew wider. Then
she controlled it, tried to impose on herself an expression of neutrality. It
almost worked, apart from not completely succeeding in wiping away that smirk.
Her hand rested down on his knee, cupping it lightly.
He sucked in his next breath. He hadn’t meant to do that.
He looked back to her. Her small smile remained, unperturbed.
“Listen, it’s just occurred to me: who better than me, right? You’ve known me
forever. So it doesn’t have to be scary. There won’t be any pressure, it won’t
be high-stakes.” Seeing as he didn’t pull away, Meera spread her fingers
against the fabric, both to calm and egg him on. “I wouldn’t mind. Showing
you.”
She must have been leaning forward because now her face was very close to his.
His eyes darted back and forth over hers, searching her for a sign of what to
do. He opened his mouth but nothing seemed to articulate besides worried little
half-words.
“Shh. Just relax. You get so caught up in your own head sometimes.”
He breathed out. So did she. He could feel her breath float over his lips.
“It’s easy. Just close your eyes. Don’t do anything. This’ll just be a dry
run.” He stared, confused. Her voice was barely over a whisper. “Close your
eyes.”
It took a surprising amount of courage to do it. He closed them though.
He could feel her face before she made contact. The warmth that glowed out from
her, the untamable halo of curls that always fell in every which way, the faint
smell of her skin. Then he felt the side of her face brush his, felt her lips
softly fall over his own.
She had said not to do anything. So he didn’t, shifted only slightly. It struck
him as strange how unstrange it felt. By all rationale, this was bizarre. He
had seen people kissing a million times in the movies. But he had never been
kissed by anyone, not in this way. He had drawn a line between those kissing
adults in the movies and himself and he had figured that crossing that line
would feel stranger.
Not so. He was struck by how pleasantly normal this felt. Like of course it
made sense to have a girl’s lips brushing his own, to have Meera’s face tucked
this close to him.
She pulled back an inch or two. He opened his eyes experimentally.
“See? Not bad. Not scary. Easy. Now, this time—same deal: nothing scary. But
this time, when you feel me move, part your lips. No big change. Pretty much
the same.”
“Okay.” He was surprised to hear his voice.
She scooted up a little. Her face felt so close to his. And he found that he
liked it there. He shifted himself forward so that her face would be closer
still. She gave him an approving hum, subtly nodded. “Close your eyes.”
Alright. It was easier this time.
He felt her crowd against him again. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel
the curve of that grin as she tilted her head, leaned her mouth onto his. Her
lips parted slightly and he vaguely remembered his instructions. His mouth
opened slowly, still under hers.
In that moment, he figured Meera must have been lying when she said this would
be pretty much the same. It immediately felt different. The sensation alone of
someone’s mouth. Her mouth was wet, and it seemed he wanted more of it. Her
lips moved on an inhale and her momentum. So did his. Her hand was gentle on
the back of his neck.
Meera drew back, changed the tilt of her angle, pushing forward again. He
sensed a heat rising inside his chest. He still had the impression she was
smiling as she pulled him against her. He felt the sudden sensation of what it
was like to have someone slip their tongue shyly into his mouth. Now the heat
in his chest strained. Unknown to him, his hand had moved to cup under her jaw,
slid back, grabbed the nape of her neck through her hair.
His breathing had become markedly louder. He would have been embarrassed but
Meera’s had too, so maybe it was okay.
When she pointedly pulled back, he opened his eyes. She looked like Meera. But
her eyes were wide, alive, excited. Her lips were flushed and swollen-looking.
She took in a deep breath. And he had been right, she was smiling.
He lowered his hand. His brain was taking a longer time than normal to start up
again.
“Yup,” she breathed. She rubbed a thumb over his bottom lip which was hanging
open. He closed his mouth and her arms returned to her side. “That’s pretty
much it.”
***** Summer Camp (cont.) *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 20. Theon – 19. Meera – 18. Sansa – 17. Arya – 16. Bran,
     Jojen – 15. Rickon – 11.
     Mood: Monica Heldal – Follow You Anywhere; Vance Joy – Georgia
After that night on the lake, Bran hadn’t found himself alone with Meera again.
And in any case, the camp schedule made it impossible for him to spend much
time dwelling on the matter.
The counselors didn’t allow sleeping in. At the crack of dawn, they’d burst
into the cabins to rally the teenagers for morning ritual. Different counselors
assigned different wakeup exercises. Bran and Jojen’s counselor preferred the
lake.
Long Lake twisted and curved. Standing at the camp’s own stretch of water, Bran
couldn’t see the docks to where Meera had dragged them. Their portion was the
lagoon, partially isolated from the rest of Long Lake by a reef.
From their banks' furthest inland point, the reef lay much farther out compared
to where the docks had stretched to. More than twice that distance at least.
Long ago, the reef must have started out as naturally-occurring but had come to
since be reinforced with cement as people wore it down with use over the years.
Bran spent each morning lugging himself out of bed only to mope down the hill
and into the shallows. The philosophy was to wake the kids up each morning with
a bang by forcing them to jumpstart the senses. For the junior boys, that meant
swimming four laps to the reef and back before they’d be allowed to shower and
eat.
“IN!”
Bran shuddered each time. The small separation between the lagoon and Long Lake
made the water no less freezing. After the first two mornings, Jojen decided he
had had enough. He spoke with their counselor about his doctors’ concerns
regarding ‘physical excursion.’ He even waved around one of his inhalers as
proof (inhalers which he almost never used). From then on, Bran was treated to
the sight of Jojen smirking smugly from the shore, sarcastically cheering them
on from where he sat.
On one of the mornings, Bran paused for a second near the shallows before
swimming out again. He tried to catch his breath. “Looking good, Stark.” His
head snapped up. A group of girls was jogging around the bend. He knew that
some of them had to do laps around the grounds for morning ritual.
He spotted Meera. She winked at him as she ran by, laughing. In the next
second, the group had already reached beyond the lagoon’s bank.
“YOU CAN PAUSE WHEN YOU’RE DONE,” came the counselor’s shout from the other
side.
“Yeah, no pausing!” Jojen jeered.
Bran gestured his hand at him, giving him the fig, and struck out again into
deeper water.
After that, he had been a little uncoordinated, finding it difficult to get his
thoughts back on track. He felt uncomfortably aware of keeping a secret. He
didn’t want to have a secret from Jojen. But something in his gut sensed he
shouldn’t tell Jojen about what happened on the other side of the lake. Not
because Jojen was some sort of grouchy traditionalist, nor even because of a
friends-sisters line which may have been crossed.
The real reason he wouldn’t tell Jojen was because the nature of it. Fleeting.
Not real. Bran didn’t feel like telling anyone.
 
A few hours after the sun set each day, the lights in all the cabins were
switched off. Not that that succeeded in stopping the undercurrent of chatter
throughout the campgrounds. Occasionally there would be the additional creaking
noise in one cabin or another of somebody sneaking out.
Bran and Jojen had bottom bunks, one next to the other. After they spent a few
minutes going over the day’s highlights, Jojen would eventually turn over,
tucking his head into his pillow to drift off to sleep. Bran would have a few
moments to himself, staring up at the wooden planks supporting the bunk above
him.
She probably kissed him to have a laugh. He wondered if she’d do it again. If
he should initiate it if she didn’t.
He decided he wouldn’t. The few times they did see her, when she left her mates
in the mess hall or around the night-fires to come sit with them, he would
pretend nothing had changed, just like she was doing. Like it didn’t even come
up on his radar of things to mull over.
 
When at last the final day of camp came, Bran listened to Jojen’s rapid litany
of complaints about the depiction of Crannog peoples in one of the skits
preformed earlier. They were the only two left in their cabin. A few boys had
departed even before the ending ceremony, being picked up by parents who
couldn’t stay until the afternoon. Sansa was supposed to be picking Bran up,
driving to Long Lake for the practice with Robb accompanying her as a driving
coach. That would lend itself for an interesting trek back.
“They made it sound like we never had a system of government until merging with
the rest of the North. How in all wintery hell did they not get a failing grade
for that?”
“It’s camp, not school. We don’t get grades.” Bran chucked the last of his
stuff into his backpack. He pulled up the sheets of his bunk to check nothing
had fallen down the sides.
“Well, the counselors should have corrected them then, shouldn’t they? ‘The
North introduced the Crannogmen to early, structured monarchical rule.’ What
does the term ‘Marsh King’ mean to them?” he muttered to himself.
“Have you finished packing?”
“What? Yeah, yeah. I just need to pack my inhaler. Do you have it?”
“Why would I have it?”
“Well, I don’t have it.”
Their door pulled back and Meera hopped in, her things already apparently
packed away in the huge backpack she was now shrugging off onto the floor.
“Hiya.”
Bran nodded hello at her while continuing to shake his sheets about, making
sure nothing was hiding in them.
“Meera, was your group at that session with the skit about Crannogmen?”
“What? Oh, who cares about that? You ready to go soon?”
“I need my inhaler.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
She sighed, sitting down on Bran’s bunk, which was closer. He supposed he
should stop fluttering his sheets around in the air then and set them down. He
put his hands in his pockets, looking to Jojen.
“Why did you lose it?” she asked him.
“To ruin your day.”
“I’m going to leave you behind.”
“Great. I’ll go live with Bran.”
“Bran, would your family accept him? Why though? You know, I’ve heard that the
Crannog people didn’t even have a system of government until other people
taught them how.”
At that, Jojen howled exasperatedly from behind his bunk where he was searching
on the floor. Meera snickered.
He stood up. “I’m going to check the mess hall.” Playing with her feet in the
air in front of her, Meera offered to run over there for him. “No, no, I’ll be
right back,” he said as he slipped past her and out the door.
Bran shuffled his feet.
Meera got up from his bunk and crossed over to Jojen’s. She began to check it
herself, inspecting in between the bed frame and the wall, lifted the mattress
to peek underneath it.
Bran sat where she had gotten up from. Robb had texted ten minutes ago that he
and Sansa were half an hour away.
     Im not going to tell Sansa to drive faster bc she hasnt really gotten
     the hang of turning yet and we wont pick you up any faster if were
     dead.
“I love riling him up,” Meera said as she gave the floor a once-over. Bran
looked up from his phone, checking if there were any updates on their ETA. “So,
did you have fun at camp?”
Not really. “Yeah.”
Things like summer camp had far too much emphasis on sports and team spirit for
Bran’s taste. He missed his computer at home and the solitude of his room. He
did feel a little healthier, his back felt straighter, having exercised as they
did every day. But there was no way he’d carry on that incessant schedule when
back on his own free time.
Seeming satisfied with her search, Meera turned in place, smiling at Bran who
looked away to his knees. He popped his feet onto the edge of the bed frame,
angling his legs to the side so they would fit in the cramped space.
“That’s your bunk, huh?” she asked, gesturing at him sitting tightly wound on
the edge of his bed. He tried to make an effort to keep his arms loose in a way
he hoped appeared nonchalant and relaxed.
“Yep.”
“Where all the magic happens?”
“Pfft. Uhh—no.”
She chuckled. It was a sweet sound. Bran glanced back at her face. She was
grinning at him again, like she had on the docks.
She had light freckles on her cheeks. They had become browner in the sun over
the past month. I bet she’s freckled everywhere.
“Can I ask you something?”
“…I suppose.”
“I just wanted to, um, double check. That was your first kiss?” He was glad he
kept his face straight, didn’t react. That probably looked like being at ease.
“Back on the lake—was that your first?”
“Umm…”
“I’m going to take that as a yes.”
“Alright.”
She lowered her eyes demurely for a second before flitting them back up again.
“You know, you weren’t bad. And for your first time as well. Nah, you weren’t
bad. You were a bit nervous is all.”
“…Do you go around kissing people and then asking them about it?”
“Only innocent boys who make vulnerable prey.” He laughed. With his laugh, he
felt a little less small, felt his nerves ebb more into the background. “Wait,
scratch that,” she said, frowning. “That makes me sound like a pedo.” He
laughed again, hugging his knees in front of him absentmindedly.
She considered him for a moment. “I wish you knew that you don’t have to be so
nervous.”
“Um—”
“Ask yourself: what’s the worst that could happen?”
“Don’t underestimate my imagination when it comes to imaging worst case
scenarios.”
That brought a smile to her lips. “I’m only a person. So what if you embarrass
yourself in front of one person? The world is full of persons. It’s not
important. You don’t have to worry about what all of them think.”
“That…that’s not how it works. People being persons doesn’t negate anyone’s
anxiety.”
“Do you have anxiety?”
“I have the capacity to have anxiety,” he said, somewhat obstinately.
She shook her head disapprovingly. “You Starks—so pedantic. You know, I was
awful my first time.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I lived.”
“What, with Megga?”
“Oh no, not that. Because Megga was telling me what to do. My first time with a
boy. It was after one of those stupid little school dances.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to smile or blush. “Well, if you
were awful…”
“Oh no, you were definitely not as bad as me. Believe me.” She looked away, as
if she were literally looking back on the memory. “I may have tried to bite the
guy.”
“You what??”
“I don’t know!” She covered her face in her hands. “That wasn’t a part of
Megga’s lesson. I thought it was…creative. I thought you were supposed to be
creative.”
Bran laughed incredulously. “I’m glad you stopped doing that then.”
She shook her head, still covering it with her hands. When she lowered them,
their eyes met. She blinked, bit her lip for half a heartbeat.
She moved forward. He froze as she closed the space between them. She paused
for the smallest breath of a moment before she reached her hand out around his
knee and swatted his legs down off the ledge of the bunkbed, towards her.
He yelped, not having expected that. His feet landed on the floor. She had
yanked him out of angling away to where he sat now, staring up blankly at her
face, a knee on either side of her. She stood before him, a hint of her smile
still visible in the curve of her lips. She settled her hands on his shoulders.
“See? No need to be nervous. Right?”
“…You’re not going to bite me, are you?”
Her mouth dropped open in amused offense. Drawing closer, she said under her
breath, “Why, you cheeky…well I might just have to now.”
His hands had nowhere to go with her this close. He leaned on one to brace
himself on the bed, rested the other gingerly on the curve of her waist.
“So, you’re not getting uncomfortable again, right?” Her face was very close to
his.
“No,” he breathed. “No, I’m…f…” I’m fine? What kind of answer is that?
“You’re cute,” she whispered, lifting his face in her hands and bowing her head
until her lips brushed softly over his. He opened his mouth and reveled in that
faint scent of hers. Her mouth was so warm. Her lips felt softer than before,
as if she were being even gentler than the first time.
She pulled her head back, searching him with her eyes to make sure he really
was okay. He looked back at her, mouth hanging open slightly. Then he leaned
his face forward, catching her mouth again with his. It re-engaged her. He
could feel her pushing back, straightening up so she was above him again. Her
lips didn’t feel as gentle anymore, pressing hot on his, parting as she tasted
him eagerly with her tongue.
One of her hands was in his hair, grasping it, pulling him straighter. When he
drew back an inch to gulp down a breath of air, his eyes caught sight of her
shiny, moistened lips and he surged forward again. He could sense her chest
rising and falling quickly; she must be enjoying it.
Her other hand found his arm propping him up on the bed, gently brought it
toward her. She was showing him where to place it. When both of his hands were
covering her waist, he gripped down harder on the fabric of her jeans.
He wanted to tug on those belt loops of hers until she would lose balance and
fall on top of him, scandalized. Tug on them until, when she’d fallen onto his
lap, he could roll them over so that his body would cover hers.
He didn’t though. His hands stayed on her waist. His fingers reached
tentatively and he felt the soft skin of her stomach under her shirt. She
hummed, bringing herself closer still, but then froze rather suddenly. She
lifted her face a few inches.
He was out of breath. He only saw her, her head turned away to the side,
listening.
She jumped backwards, pulling the hem of her shirt down and throwing her hair
back to re-set it.
He didn’t move for a second. His lips felt swollen. His hands were still in
front of him in the air as if an invisible waist were there. Chuckling, she
hissed, “Fix your hair.”
He heard Jojen’s quick steps up the cabin’s porch stair. Still dumb, he dragged
a hand through his hair. His hands had only just dropped to his side as Jojen
walked back through the door.
“I found it. It had fallen under one of the tables.”
“Oh, good.”
“Okay, we’re off Bran. I’ll see you next week, yeah?” Jojen threw his inhaler
into his backpack and swung it over his shoulder. When he swiveled around, he
stopped. “Bran?”
“Yeh?”
Meera was grinning broadly on Jojen’s side. Then, forcibly composing herself
somewhat, she said, “Bran, are you good for a ride? Do you need us to drop you
off anywhere?”
“Hmm? Oh. No. No, Robb and…Sansa are picking me up.”
“Okay!” She bent and slipped her arms into the loops of her backpack. “We’ll be
off then. See you later, Bran.”
Jojen’s brow furrowed as Meera sauntered out of the cabin. “You sure you’re
alright, dude? We don’t mind waiting until Robb and Sansa get here.”
“No, no,” he waved him off. “They’re supposed to be here any minute now so…”
“Okay. See you later man.”
“See ya,” Bran said, clearing his throat since his voice sounded rather weak.
Bran followed Jojen out of the door. Meera evidently had already collected
their car from the long-term parking on the other side of the grounds. It stood
on the stretch grass before them. While Jojen tossed his backpack into the boot
of their car, Meera caught Bran’s eyes from the driver’s seat, resting her arms
against the wheel. She winked at him. Then her expression softened. One of her
hands left the steering wheel to give him a little wave goodbye.
He blinked back at her.
Jojen was opening the passenger door. He waved at Bran before getting in. Bran
waved back, not knowing whether or not he should feel guilty or weird.
As the Reeds’ car turned and headed off towards the road, Bran saw his family’s
second car appear over the hill. This car was just your average four-door
sedan, built more for safety than flash. It was a good thing they weren’t
driving Robb’s car; that one revved into speeds not safe for new drivers (or
any drivers really) in mere seconds.
As the two cars passed each other, they slowed down and idled for a moment.
They must have been saying hello. Bran went inside to collect his things. He
gave the empty cabin a quick survey before he heard them pull up outside,
wheels crunching on gravel and grass. He left Boys Cabin #4 behind, stepped out
onto the porch as Sansa killed the engine.
“Bran!” Robb cheered, popping out of the car. “A hard Man of Summer now.”
“How was Camp Rashes?” asked Sansa with a warm smile, standing up from behind
the driver’s seat door.
***** The Birds and the Bees *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 21. Theon – 20. Meera – 19. Sansa – 18. Arya – 17. Bran,
     Jojen – 16. Rickon – 12.
     Mood: Adrian Lux – Teenage Crime (Radio Edit)
Chapter Notes
     Chapter-let interjection! The next chapter will be a real one that
     covers how things moved on from the last chapter, not this one. Just
     some profanity-heavy banter.
Bran put down his textbook, The Lives of Four Kings. He hadn’t finished the
assigned reading. Instead, he’d been grabbed by the sudden notion that it was
too warm a day to spend cooped up in this dimly lit room.
The inclination probably stemmed from the current stillness of the Stark house.
The manse was nearly empty. Their father was at work, Arya and Rickon were off
with their mother, and Sansa must still be at Jeyne Poole’s. These days, when
they were home from university, it seemed that Robb and Jon spent more time out
of the house than in. They were free to take off in Robb’s car or on Jon’s
motorbike whenever they pleased.
Bran left his room, not exactly sure where it was he was headed. Maybe he could
bike to Jojen’s.
Most of the Stark kids lived on the third floor, the top floor. All of them
except Bran and Rickon. The two youngest had the honor (inconvenience) of
sharing their floor with their parents’ bedroom and the upstairs common rooms
like Eddard’s solar. Bran crossed the second floor landing. Before he reached
the stairs, he slowed to a halt. He heard something. An odd noise. A rude
noise.
The only way he could think to describe the noise was that of a woman during
sex. But it sounded strange. Something like the mix of caterwauling and a cat
in heat. There was something else now. Laughter?
It was coming from outside. He stood on his tiptoes, better to peer out of one
of the raised windows that accented the upper floor trimming.
Theon was down there. He was standing by the backyard garden, the apparent
source of the noise. His head was flung back in the throes of mock-passion.
Accompanying him were Robb, hunched over from laughing, and Jon, chilling on
the garden bench caught somewhere between a grin and a grimace.
Theon was saying something to them now. His movements jumped about from beat to
beat.
Theon’s stories usually made Robb laugh; laughter came easy to him. Jon didn’t
take to Theon’s gratuities as well as Robb did. But still, usually he preferred
Robb’s company even with Theon over the company of the other upper crust boys
who went to their school. The three of them were always hanging out.
Bran could hear Robb objecting. Theon responded with an animated rebuttal but
Bran couldn’t make out the words. 
He padded down the stairs and towards the back of the house where the three
older boys were visible behind the patio’s glass doors. Bran approached from
the side, going through the dining room, and paused behind one of the windows’
thick curtains. He could hear them clearly now.
 
Theon:Well, I knew that night was coming so I…I saved it all up. I wanted it to
be special, you know? But holy fuck, that was a mistake.
Jon: We don’t want to know.
Theon: I’m talking buckets here.
Jon: Uch. That is rank. What is wrong with you?
Theon: Well, I didn’t know she was going to do that. It’s okay, it’s okay
though. I saved it. I mean after my own, shall I say, ‘unfortunately timed
self-expression,’ I managed to bring it back up. Make it worth her while.
Jon: ‘Self-expression?’
Robb gathered his breath, eyes shining from pained laughter.
Robb: You brought it back up?
Theon: Well, no, not that. I mean the night. I salvaged it.
Jon: There’s not a thing in existence that would ‘save’ that night. Forget
about the night being ruined—year ruined.
Theon: No, no, no. It was fine. I just serviced that little love rub of hers
and it was fine.
Jon: Yeah right.
Robb: What about the mess?
Theon: We moved over, you savage!
Jon: Gross.
Robb: You talk as if there’s just some automatic switch you can flip on or off
for the girl.
Theon: Yeah, it’s called the clitoris. Is this new to you?
Jon: Hang on—this happened in your car? UGH, when did this happen?
Robb: Pfft, like a clit is an on switch? Just flip it and there you are. Never
mind that you completely destroyed the mood. It doesn’t work like that.
Jon: I’ve sat in your car. Oouh, and in the backseat as well.
Theon: That is how it works if you know what you’re doing.
Robb: And you do?
Theon: Of course I do. All it takes is for one bad review to ruin your
reputation. Think I’d compromise my reign as Sex God? You’re having a laugh.
I’ve already learned this shit. We’re talking proper study here.
Robb: That would be a first.
Jon: Porn is not studying.
Theon: You can’t neglect style like some thirteen-year-old who’ll nut in his
pants before anything even kicks off. Girls talk. You’ll be known as the pants-
nutting kid. Do you know how many girls want to sleep with him? Zero. Then
you’re stuck. Secure the gold, every time. There ain’t no drills man. No do-
overs.
Jon: No, that’s true. When your sex life consists only of disastrous one night
stands, there aren’t do-overs.
Robb: What—masturbation’s not a drill?
Theon: No. That’s not a drill unless you’re looking to jerk off some other
blokes’ cocks. I’m talking about pussy. Proper snatch. A little C U Next
Tuesday.
Jon: Given that story you just told, masturbation is a required drill for you
from now on.
Theon: Shut it. Now, as I was saying: pussy. Some of it’s simple enough. It’s
not like you need a teacher to know where to stick it. Some of it’s trickier
though. Their shit is a lot more complicated than ours. It’s all, you know,
hidden. At least we have the decency to keep everything we’re about right there
in the open.
Jon: So, you’re the clit expert now?
Theon: Expert? Mate, I am the clit master.
Robb chortled, shaking his head in quiet disapproval.
Theon: You know, with our competition, it’s not even hard. It’s ridiculous.
Half the guys in my year still don’t know what or where the clitoris is, let
alone how to work it. All you have to do is show up, and you’re already in the
top half of performers. My mate—Gevin—yeah? You know what he tells me? He was
dating this bird for five months. Yeah? Almost half a year he and this girl are
having sex. And you know what she tells him when she dumps him? He had never
given her an orgasm. What? What??
Theon pantomimed shock. Robb sucked in air like he’d just been stung.
Jon: That’s a bit sad. Why didn’t she tell him earlier? He had no idea?
Theon: Well, I ask my mate: is she good at faking? Like, is she just really,
really good at faking orgasms so that’s how you didn’t know? Because how could
you not know? How could you not have noticed that she’s never come once? You
know what he says to me? He says, ‘What’s it supposed to look like when they
come?’ WHAT?
Theon hopped up, tucking in his legs in the air to punctuate the question. At
that, Robb broke into another fit of giggles.
Theon: W-You-WHAT?
Jon: Well, they don’t all react the same, do they?
Theon pointed down at Jon, eyes wide.
Theon: That sounds like the words of someone who’s never given a girl an
orgasm.
Jon: No, they don’t, do they?
Theon: What, like the difference between a moaner and a screamer?
Jon: Yeah, there’s that. There’s not only that though. Some girls are loud,
some are quiet. Not everyone comes in the same way. I’m not saying it isn’t
weird your mate didn’t notice but it’s not like there a flashing sign or—
Theon: MATE! No man. No way man, don’t tell me you’ve never satisfied a woman.
Jon scowled. The sheer energy of Theon’s boisterousness was tickling Robb. He
was still laughing but he extended a hand, motioning for Theon to calm down.
Theon turned to Robb.
Theon: Robb, what are your signature moves?
Robb: ‘Signature moves?’
Theon: Yeah man. To assure a successful venture, an enthusiastic accord.
Robb: Get out of here, signature moves. What is it, a video game? Combo power
moves?
Theon: Hell yeah. ‘Finish her!’
Robb: You are mental. What are your signature moves, Theon? Gyrating your hips
over some poor girl while trying not to accidentally call her…what’s that porn
star’s name you love so much?
Jon: I bet his go-to fantasy is Professor Mordane.
Theon tutted. “Don’t be sick. Alright. When I can tell I’m about to bust, yeah?
When my stamina bar is all the way in the red. I just—,” he popped his thumb
into his mouth and bent at the knees to mime what appeared to be wall sex. He
rubbed his thumb in the air in front of him. “You just do a bit of that while
you keep on keeping on. No changing up the rhythm either. Don’t switch to a new
position or whatever, not if you can tell she’s close to peaking. Impressing
with fancy moves—that’s for earlier, it’s too late for that now. Them fillies
need consistency. You can let it build and speed up, but no sudden stops or
changes. Jam it up there just right, at an angle is best. Apply some tender
loving to that little nubbin. They’ll be screaming your name in no time.”
Robb chuckled at the audacity of it all. Jon wrinkled his nose in distaste.
Theon: Now you can’t be a wimp about it. No being a pussy about pussy. From
what some of the ladies have told me, other guys do a bit of rubbing—if they
bother—like they’re afraid if they keep their hand there too long, a snake’s
gonna leap out and bite them.
Robb: That image is horrifying.
Theon: They know vaguely that something’s down there. And they hope if they
smack it around a bit they’re bound to land it. It’s not like there’s an auto
targeting setting. If you were hammering something into a wall, would you place
a nail between your fingers and then just blindly swing, figuring it’ll
probably work out? A half-assed try is not a try. Don’t blow your shot by
blowing your wad before she’s got a chance to get hers.
With a sardonic smile, Jon said, “That was beautiful. That changed me.”
Theon: Good, something needs to change you.
Jon: I do just fine, thanks.
Theon: Jon, you are the type of bloke who cries on top of the girl after sex.
Robb snorted. Jon whipped his head towards Robb who covered his mouth with his
hand momentarily.
Theon: Don’t be upset with me just because you fail half the time.
Robb: Nah, but he’s got a point.
Theon: Oh, not you too.
Robb: Some of the best times are when the girl gets really quiet. You know,
really drawn into herself? Yeah, those times aren’t bad. Maybe it’s got
something to do with the setting. Maybe sex in the toilet of a club doesn’t
lend itself to the intense, quiet variety, Theon. Sounds like you’re missing
out.
Theon: …quiet sex?
Robb: You’d be surprised.
Theon: I mean…it’s quiet if her father’s sleeping down the hall or something.
Jon: Oh, you are so full of shit. You’ve never had it off with a girl with her
father sleeping down the hall.
Theon: What, you think that’s so impossible to pull off? It’s not like you guys
noticed anything. Hohooo.
Robb: Maybe that would wind me up if there were a single person living under
this roof who would consider shagging you.
Theon: Is that a challenge?
Robb: Nope. A challenge would be you getting home after Jon and I saw to you if
you ever harass our sisters as a joke.
Theon rolled his eyes, rolled them right over in his head until they landed on
Bran.
Theon: Bran!
Bran started, flinching backwards. Robb and Jon looked over and found him too
now, standing by the living room curtains.
Theon: Listening for a lesson, are you? Youu lunatic. Come ‘ere.
Robb: Oh no. Don’t talk about it in front of Bran.
Theon: Why? Sisters—you said sisters. You said nothing about brothers.
Robb: No no, he’s too young to be subjected to the inner workings of your
brain.
Jon: There are inner workings of Theon’s brain?
Theon: Sod that. He’s almost a man grown. Bran!
Bran hesitated. Robb was shaking his head.
Jon: If Bran wants to come over, let him come over.
Theon: Exactly. For once in his life, Jon is right. Oi! Bran! Come over here,
man.
Bran pushed open the patio doors slowly, joining them in their little circle.
He didn’t want to seem interested, but he didn’t want to seem intimidated
either.
“Bran is on the cusp of puberty. I don’t want him to build his perception of
sex or dating on a foundation built by him,” Robb said, nodding at Theon.
Jon: Well, that’s true. Bran, maybe you should go.
Theon: Fuckin’ hell. Anyways, cusp of puberty time is when you’re like ten
years old, man.
Jon: I think it’s twelve.
Theon: He needs someone to teach him the ropes. What, is it gonna be you? You’d
have to be able to say the word ‘vagina’ without dying from shame, so I doubt
it.
Jon: Piss off. Anyways, we’ve already given Bran the talk.
Theon: ‘The talk?’ What is ‘the talk’ coming from you lot? ‘Bran, sometimes,
when a man loves a woman, he marries her. And he respects her by not touching
her. And he uses a condom.’
Robb: Spot on.
Theon: You don’t need a ‘the talk.’ You need something practical. Something you
can use. You know what you need, Bran? Lysene Sluts 9.
Arms folded across his chest, Robb turned to Jon. “See this is the shit I’m
talking about.” Jon smiled apologetically at him.
Not looking at his brothers, Bran said, “I’ve already seen that.” Jon’s
eyebrows rose up towards those black curls that fell in front of his face.
Robb: What?
Bran: Jojen showed it to me.
Jon: Ohhh. Was that that time Catelyn was yelling at Jojen?
Bran: Yeah.
Jon: Oh man. She was none too pleased with that. I thought that was the end for
poor ol’ Jojen.
Theon: ?? I showed him that. He showed that to you in front of your mother?
Bran: Well, he didn’t exactly start the video while she was in the room.
Theon: What a right mess. So, has that been all your education? Where would you
put your level at how versed are you in the matters of love and/or the art of
dipping one’s wick?
“Hey, hey,” Robb interrupted. “Maybe you can talk about sex in front of him but
that doesn’t mean you can ask him shit. I’ll be having none of that.”
Theon: Ignore them, young Brandon. What percentage of your class would you say
have lost it?
Bran: What?
Theon: I’d say for the kids who graduated in my year it’s about…75%? Then
again, I really have no idea what the quiet people are up to. They could all be
virgins, there’s really no way of knowing.
Jon: Don’t answer, Bran. He’s just being a twat.
Theon: Fuck me, your boy here is sixteen years old and you’ve already got him
as uptight as your sixty-year old father.
Robb: Good. Better that than end up like you.
Theon: Got a girl picked out yet to punch in your hymen for ya? Don’t answer.
You know what’s a solid way to move things along? Tell them you love them.
“What?” Robb gasped. “What in seven—are you serious?”
Looking coolly up at Theon, Jon said, “Ah, you’ve gone and done it now.”
“What? I’m not saying you fake it or anything. I’m just saying, you know, have
a liberal interpretation of what love is.”
Robb grabbed Bran around the shoulders and pulled him over to his side of the
circle, keeping him protectively away from Theon. “You tell girls you love them
to get them to sleep with you? The clit master has to scrape so desperately?
Absolutely not, that’s not on.”
“Who’s to say I’m not in love with them?!” Theon shot back defensively. “When
you’re balls deep in a girl, you’re bound to—”
“I swear to all the gods, Theon,” Robb started, pointing a hand at him. “You
say one more word and I will give a transcript of this to your sister.”
Theon blanched. “Hey! Who are you to meddle in the goings-on of my family? You
keep her out of this.”
“Bran,” Robb said, turning to him. “You never tell a girl you love her unless
you love her. Do you understand me?”
Bran nodded. It wasn’t exactly like Theon would ever become his archetype for
mature behavior in any case.
“Yeah,” added Jon. “Only if you love her. Or maybe if she’s just killed Theon
Greyjoy for you.”
“Yeah, that’d be acceptable too.”
Theon groaned. “Save me from these bloody, dire Starks.”
***** Reed House (I) *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 22. Theon – 21. Meera – 20. Sansa – 19. Arya – 18. Bran,
     Jojen – 17. Rickon – 13.
     Mood: Stateless – Bloodstream
Chapter Notes
     This chapter was supposed to be 5 scenes but good god I write at the
     same pace as GRRM (without the intrigue nor the money). So instead
     I’m splitting it: 3 and 2. And apparently I write making out with
     more descriptions than GRRM does for heraldry, which I should edit
     down, but shan’t. At least not now.
     Also, last time I stick to 1 tense. Listen my man, my bruh, sexy and
     otherwise fast paced scenes just feel better in present tense. So
     I’ll probably switch back and forth. Shame. Shame.
House_Reed
It was fall. The leaves in the backyard were smattered brown, red, and yellow.
Occasionally one snapped off its branch, wafting to the ground. Today was
Aegon’s Landing, a minor holiday. But it meant a one-day closure for most
places.
Bran and Jojen were already a couple months into their third year of university
prep. The two of them sat by the kitchen in Howland Reed’s house, finishing up
the last of the homework they had neglected over the weekend.
Howland Reed had bought this house soon after they had returned from summer
camp during the first few months of their classes. It was meant to serve as a
base for the Reed children during school, although for Meera less so since she
had already moved away to university.
The house was under a half-an-hour bike ride from the Starks’. Bran and Jojen
usually spent the day hanging out in one house or the other. Bran opined that
having your best friend share all your classes had made studying much easier.
Bran hadn’t told Jojen about what happened between him and Meera. With Meera
gone all the time now, he didn’t feel the need to. He had tried to imagine how
he would feel if Jojen kissed one of his sisters. Somehow, it seemed to him
that neither Sansa nor Arya would like it. And neither, he figured, would
Jojen.
When they had started university prep, things began to go more or less along
the lines Meera had suggested. Their classmates started getting awkward at an
alarming rate, focused on who was linked to whom, who had done what, or where
somebody ranked among the students in terms of attractiveness. Bran had
remained mostly out of it, uninterested. He couldn’t say if that was due to
strength of character or because already having that tryst with Meera freed him
from the fear of falling behind. He supposed it was probably both.
The gossip and competition didn’t interest Jojen either. This was from strength
of character, Bran knew. Jojen had a clear recognition of what he liked and did
not like. And he was able to hold to that, placidly. Even in their first year,
among their giggling, sometimes cruelly teasing classmates, Jojen had no qualms
about being openly bi. There was something about Jojen that just didn’t care
when it came to the opinions of others. He cared about specific people’s
opinions, certainly. Bran had to endure hours of Jojen playing him different
versions of a drumbeat so he could tweak it just right, paying no heed to the
fact that Bran maintained he couldn’t tell one beat from another.
It wasn’t only petty opinions that didn’t bother Jojen. Bran supposed Jojen
possessed a maturity enabling him to handle whatever came at him with grace. As
far as Bran could tell, Meera’s concerns of Jojen not handling their parents’
divorce panned out to be extraneous. He knew that it had bothered him in their
first year, and that he found the arrangement of spending time with one parent
or the other to be less than ideal. But Jojen acclimated as best as could be
expected, and with generous patience.
 
Jojen leaned over to look at the sheet of paper Bran was writing on. “Which one
was Rhaenyra’s firstborn?”
“It’s in the chapter.”
“No, lemme see.”
“No.”
“Mate, I refuse to memorize these stupid names. They’re all spelled the same.”
“Then suffer the consequences of that decision honorably,” Bran said, holding
his sheet protectively to his chest as Jojen made to grab it. “Deplorable.
You’re behaving just like Rhaenyra’s firstborn.”
“Let me see that paper!”
Bran snickered as he scooted out of range.
A few feet away, Howland Reed reclined on the living room sofa in front of the
TV, ignoring them. The kitchen descended two steps into the living room’s
sitting space. Beyond that, the room stretched to the back wall where lay the
staircase leading up to the house’s three bedrooms. Bran and Jojen usually hung
out in Jojen’s room where he kept his old video game console. It wasn’t as nice
as the one in Bran’s house, but in Bran’s house you also had to fight Robb,
Jon, Theon, Arya, and Rickon for it.
Before Jojen could make another swipe for Bran’s homework, the front door
opened. They looked up from the kitchen table down the hall to the front
entrance. Meera scuttled in, grocery bags stuffed in her arms, her head tucked
against her shoulder to hold the phone she was talking into.
She kicked the door closed behind her with the back of her boot, evidently in
the middle of a conversation. “That’s way out of line. What did you say?”
Bran’s eyes flitted down to a stretch of milky white skin was visible between
the bottom of her navy skirt and the top of her boots. Those motorcycle boots
of hers, with those superfluous metal straps here and there. They had a tough,
masculine vibe to them, which in Bran’s opinion accentuated smooth legs like
Meera’s nicely.
She walked down the hall towards them, ‘mhmm’—ing at whatever her friend was
saying.
“I didn’t know Meera was here,” Bran whispered across the table to Jojen.
Jojen shrugged. “Yeah. Just for the day. She came by yesterday evening for
dinner. She’s mostly been away, catching up with her mates, the ones who are
also in town.”
 
Since summer camp, Bran had seen Meera about as much as he normally had as a
kid, which is to say a couple of times a year. Now that both families had
started sending their kids off to uni, and with the Reeds adjusting to
separated life, they hadn’t vacationed together as often. But now that Bran and
Jojen were also in the same school, Bran had become something of a
supplementary feature to Howland Reed’s house, much like Theon was to his.
Meera had gone off to university in the Reach. It was not so far that she
didn’t come up once a month or so to their house in King’s Landing. It just so
happened that, on those occasions, Bran normally stayed in his own home if
whatever was giving Meera the extra time to visit also freed up time for Robb,
Jon, and now Sansa as well. Per usual, Robb and Sansa were in town from uni for
the long weekend. Jon hadn’t bothered this time though since it was only an
extra day.
Still, Bran and Meera had seen each other a few times over the past two years.
Meera: driving Jojen and him somewhere. Meera: sitting across from him at the
table if he stayed at theirs for dinner.
She acted perfectly normal around him. She didn’t avoid his gaze (if he
happened to be gazing), but no one would be able to guess she had kissed him
from how ordinary she behaved with him. The only indication she gave,
confirming for Bran that he wasn’t crazy and hadn’t dreamed the whole thing up,
was an occasional hint of smirk. A sly smile she made only for him whenever
neither her father nor brother were looking but he was. If he happened to look
up and catch her eye on such an instance, she might wink at him, which would
catch him off guard and cause him to blanche. She had to practice maintaining
her straight face for that.
They never chatted on the phone. She had sent him two texts before leaving for
university.
     Take care of my brother for me
and
     Don’t be so nervous, Stark. You’ll do fine
He never sent her any. But he reread hers from time to time.
 
Meera came into the kitchen and plopped the grocery bags onto the counter
space, swinging the strap of her purse back over her shoulder. Taking the phone
in hand now, she continued talking to her friend. “Who the hell does he think
he is? I know…I know, I know. Well did she say anything?” She strode past them,
waving a hand as greeting, and made her way across the living room to the
staircase as the three men (or one man and two teenage boys) in the house
watched her. She laughed, “No really?”
“Meera,” Howland called as she started up the stairs.
She was still chuckling. “Absolute minger.”
“Meera.”
“Hold on.” Meera pulled the phone off her ear, looking down at where Howland
sat. “Yes?”
“How about a ‘hello?’”
“…Hello.” She turned and was bringing the phone back to her ear but Howland
called to her again so she snapped it back down. “What?”
“Are you going to put those away?” he asked, pointing to the grocery bags on
the counter.
Meera put the phone back to her ear. “I’ll call you back, okay? ‘Kay, bye.”
Hanging up, she pointed at the counter with the phone in hand. “Why can’t Jojen
put them away? I bought them.” Howland considered it. “If the person who buys
them has to put them away, that just penalizes the person who does the first
chore, which is me. It’s always me.”
“Alright. Point taken.”
From back in the kitchen, Jojen shook his head disappointedly at her in
sarcasm.
“Also your mother called. She wants you to call her back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask, Meera,” Howland said, voice tinged with the
repressed annoyance of a parent of teenagers.
She scampered upstairs. They could hear her grumbling ‘rrgh’ before the sound
of a door shutting.
Bran wondered if he should try to focus again on his homework. He watched out
of the side of his eye as Howland Reed turned off the TV, sighing.
“Mnn-okay,” Jojen yawned, stretching. “Bran and I are gonna go play video
games. I’ll put these away after Bran leaves.”
Bran had a feeling they should sort the groceries now. But Jojen was already
gathering his things and Bran didn’t particularly want to be left alone down
here. He scrambled up his stuff as well and followed after Jojen, head bowed.
 
Jojen’s_room
Bran sat on the shaggy carpet in front of Jojen’s dingy TV. He watched while
Jojen smashed buttons furiously on his controller from where he sat on his
favorite, crappy, depleted chair. They were trying out the new installment of
their favorite game series, this latest one being titled A Nest for Vipers.
Jojen muttered, tilting in his chair as if it would help his character dodge
incoming attacks. “I’m tired of these motherfucking vipers in this
motherfucking nest.”
Bran wasn’t listening. He thought he could hear Meera’s voice over the pings
and hisses of the game, through the wall.
“Because I don’t have time, Mum!”
“Ignore her,” Jojen said, not looking away from the hoard of vipers attacking
his player.
“What’s up?”
“She’s just being irritable.”
“…What like in general?” He added in a softer voice, “Oh. Like a lady thing?”
“If you count yelling at our mum a lady thing, because that’s probably what
she’s doing.”
“Did they have a row?”
“Pfft. Probably. They’re always yelling at each other.”
“But not at your dad?”
“Well, she’s always gotten along better with Dad. And we’ve been spending more
time with him.”
“What about you?”
“Oh well, I quite like our mum,” he said indifferently, putting his feet up on
the short, stunted table which he used for work when sitting on the floor.
Bran looked at his feet stuck out in front of him. He could see why Meera had
called Jojen’s reaction ‘unfazed.’ He didn’t talk much about his parents
separating or how it had been to move house. But Bran sensed that whatever
Jojen hadn’t taken in stride wasn’t so bad that he hadn’t been able to deal
with it alone, as he seemed to prefer on this particular matter. But still,
Bran never knew what you were supposed to say.
“Fuck!” Evidently the vipers had won. “Fuck this game. You wanna play?”
“Meh.”
When Bran looked up, Jojen met his eyes with a grin, raising his eyebrows.
“Wanna get high?”
That made Bran laugh. The way Jojen could just switch on cheeriness was always
amusing.
Somehow, Jojen had managed to worm his way into a medical prescription for
marijuana as a means to ‘alleviate the risk of seizures.’ A prescription which
he had been known to supplement on the side. It wasn’t exactly a secret from
his parents. It most definitely was a secret from Eddard and Catelyn, however.
Bran made sure his parents never smelled any weed on him when he went home.
They would not condone marijuana, medical or otherwise.
“Nah. You know I don’t do that.”
“Got to live a little man,” Jojen said as he pulled out his weed box.
“I dabble in living.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I…drink with my family even though I’m underage.”
“Paint me scandalized.” Jojen was futzing with a small amount of crushed
leaves, getting the quantity he wanted for his pipe.
“Anyways. Getting high is numbing. So that’s like…living less.”
“Whatever you say, Catelyn.”
Bran took up the controller, tutting to himself.
 
After another hour of hanging out, in which Jojen smoked while Bran progressed
two more levels in the game, Jojen began to get tired. He rubbed at his temple.
“Mnf. This shit Symon sold me is stronger. Kinda don’t like it.”
“You alright?”
“Yeah.” Jojen got up from his low-seated chair. “I’m just gonna chill for a
bit. Or a while.”
Bran knew ‘chill’ meant space out. This happened occasionally. “Okay, man. I’m
gonna bike back to my place before it gets dark.”
“Yup.”
Jojen shifted down on his bed, arranging himself to look up at the ceiling,
blowing air as if to whistle despite Jojen not knowing how to whistle. Bran
smiled, patted him on the shoulder before picking up his backpack.
Bran closed Jojen’s door behind him and wandered over to the stairs. He had
just reached the railing when he heard a voice whisper ‘psst’ behind him.
Twisting his head, he saw Jojen’s door was still closed. He turned all the way
back around. Meera’s room stood opposite to Jojen’s. The door was slightly
ajar, behind which he glimpsed Meera lingering in the small space that was
visible.
He raised his eyebrows at her. “What?”
She crooked a finger, motioning for him to come. Then she disappeared behind
the door.
Bran glanced about the landing. Jojen had started to play rock music from his
room. He preferred Dothraki bands which were typically drums-heavy since Jojen
fancied himself a drums legend in the making. Bran couldn’t hear what Howland
Reed was up to downstairs. Howland’s room was on the opposite end of the second
floor to Jojen’s and Meera’s.
He swallowed. He didn’t know why she was prompting him now, out of the blue.
And yet he found his feet crossing the landing back towards her door. He
squeezed himself through the thin crack left open.
 
Meera’s_Room
They stood face-to-face just behind the unshut door. Face-to-chest more like,
as both he and Jojen had continued to grow after camp unlike Meera who was
stuck with her height and lack thereof.
She was standing quite close to him. She seemed to be scrutinizing him with
those curious, brown eyes of hers, her mouth breaking into that familiar grin.
Bran set down his backpack. He cleared his throat, arms at his side. He paced
back a little since she was so close he had to tilt down to look at her. “Hi,”
he mumbled, trying to find something he could fix his eyes on in her room.
She took a step forward, closing the space. She reached up and her hands
clasped playfully on buttons of his polo shirt. He felt like his throat
evaporated, being caught in a sudden heat. “Hi yourself.”
He supposed he meant to say, ‘What are you doing?’ but the words didn’t come
out. Her smiles were always so lovely. Wicked, and lovely. He stammered. She
tilted her head, waiting for whatever he was going to ask. When it didn’t come,
she hooked her arm around his neck, bringing him down to her while she pushed
forward and caught his mouth with hers. With her lips opening under his, she
crowded him back against the door which closed shut behind them.
Bran smiled into the kiss, hand raising to her neck, to her hair. The rigid
nervousness of a moment ago gone as he tasted her mouth, wet and eager, again.
His other hand brushed over her face to her jaw so he could use both hands to
angle her up for him.
When she pulled back, she drove forward again just as fast. She grabbed at his
back, pulling him down against her, the flat of his chest bearing down on the
rounded swell of hers. He almost thrummed with the pleasure of how she felt
against him but he didn’t, he refrained. Privately he took some pride in that
she was being louder than him, rasping noisily for air whenever they broke
apart.
He hadn’t kissed her standing before. It was nice. He could use his height to
push her back, her feet stepping backwards slowly, sending them into the middle
of her room.
He hadn’t realized until his body pressed against hers how much he had been
wanting to feel her, to kiss her, to hear her maybe succumb to this visceral
part of herself. He figured he had been content to leave what happened at camp
by the lakeside, a bygone summer oddity. But now, her mouth hot on his, his
hands sliding up her back and brushing over those thick curls of her again…
Meera stood back, laughing breathlessly. She grabbed his hand in hers, pacing
backwards, leading him with her. The back of her legs bumped up against the
frame of her four-poster bed, a bed which garnered Bran’s immediate approval
for its copious amount of cover.
But with her bed imminently behind them, he sputtered again, nerves spiking.
She rubbed her hand soothingly over the back of his head, pausing for a moment
so they could catch their breath. “Loath as I am to admit it,” she said in a
whisper. He had to incline his head to make sure he caught all her words. “I’ve
thought about you a few times since that summer.”
He blinked at her, gulping in air best he could with his lips pressed tightly
together. Her smile reappeared as she played with the hair above his neck.
“You’re cute. You’re somehow more confident and just as anxious as before.”
He tried to respond, but what could he say? She leaned up and kissed him
softly, delicately. His let his eyes close, opening again to look into hers
when she drew back. What was she doing? Where did this come from?
And then she pulled him roughly, tripping him forward to her, whispered, “Come
on,” into his ear as she dropped backwards onto her bed, sending Bran reeling
down on top of her.
Bran shot a hand out to catch him so that nothing like an elbow or a jaw would
smack into her. She was already wriggling higher onto the bed, tugging at his
sleeves as she went for him to follow. Compelled by something certainly other
than his inner monologue, which itself was semi-panicking, he advanced over
her, body skimming against hers. He settled with his chest below hers, his hand
sliding up into her hair as his mouth found her neck. He tasted her skin there,
finding the hollow of her throat, sucking in at the flat expanse of skin and
heard a low hum vibrate through her neck.
It was a bit like the first time they kissed in that he couldn’t help but note
with curiosity how natural this strange new sensation felt, to lay on top of
her. He had never lain on top of a girl.
His classmates had begun to awkwardly court each other. And he had gone out
with some girls, made out with a few even. The most horizontal he had ever been
though was when a girl in the year above him, Merry, had lunged forward on him
in her car. What he mostly remembered from that was how the armrest of the car
door painfully jutted into his side and how he had been unable to stop himself
worrying about potential passersby in the car park.
The grooves and peaks of Meera’s body felt good underneath him as she squirmed
under his weight. Her hand was wrangling through his hair, the other was
yanking impatiently at the top of his trousers, trying to bring him up higher,
closer to her. Impulsively, Bran bucked his waist against her, expelling from
her a startled gasp as she shut her eyes. He looked to her and her eyes
fluttered opened. She panted softly above him.
He surged higher, cupping her jaw with his hand to bring her face to his, her
mouth opening for him. He swallowed a soft moan from her into his mouth.
He kissed her hurriedly, sloppily, desperate to feel more of her.
His hand trailed down from her neck, across her collar, fumbled over her
sweater. He wanted to reach out and clench down hard, feel how she felt there.
But he couldn’t, it was too ingrained in him not to. But then she arched into
his touch and he gripped her through the wool of her sweater. He pulled his
mouth off her, sucking in air for a second.
He turned his face away from her, looking down at the rest of them, tangled
around each other on her bed. He stifled another urge to rut against her. He
kneaded through the thick of the fabric to the pliable feel of her breast as
her chest rose and fell, him rubbing and gripping down not as roughly as he
would like but rougher than he thought he should.
Under him, Meera was agitatedly fidgeting her legs, bending them up and
dragging them down again with her heels digging into the heavy comforter. Part
of him (the part raised by Catelyn Tully) couldn’t help but fret that she still
had her boots on. Oh, that will be a right mess to clean. You can’t have
outside dirt on your bed. Who raised you, a wildling? For the rest of him
though, the teasingly limited stretch of bare skin piqued a fervid longing to
push back the rest of the skirt, expose what lay hidden and out of reach. Her
legs looked like they would be soft to touch, smooth to run his hands over. It
must be so nice to touch them.
When she moaned again, he grunted, bucking involuntarily.
Okay, okay. No more.
He had to stop. This was enough. Too much. He hadn’t paid attention to the
exact moment it happened but he was aware now that he was fully hard in his
pants, cock rigid and straining uncomfortably. He still had to bike home. His
head was swimming. He felt dizzy, disorientated.
He veered off her, leaned back onto the arm propping him up while he caught his
breath. And now that they were staring at each other, he was starting to feel
embarrassed.
She met his eyes as his hand opened and clenched at his side. His breathing
came in uneven rushes.
She beamed up at him. Then she spoke softly, voice sounding lower and thinner
than usual. “Do you remember when we were kids and we used to play chase? Or
have snowball fights?”
His brow furrowed. “…Yeah.”
“That was fun, wasn’t it?”
His throat felt a little tight. She was already playing with him, he could
tell. “Umm…”
“You know, there’s a game that we haven’t played yet.” He blinked at her. “Do
you know how to play ‘come into my castle?’” She searched his eyes, her
grinning face looking at his speechless one.
This wasn’t helping the dizziness. “No.” He swallowed. It hurt, his throat was
too dry.
“Do you want me to show you?”
Bran was a little taken aback when he heard himself say, in a hushed voice,
“Okay,” without much pause.
She shrugged him a little further back. Sitting up, she stretched her arms
forward, curving them and reaching her hands up under her skirt. Bran’s
breathing began to quicken. He didn’t know…What is she…What am I sup…She
hitched her hips up. Her hands reappeared, dragging with them a small pair of
thin cotton underwear down her legs. “Meera, bu—” Paying no mind to his
stammering, she snaked them over her boots, kicking them off finally at the end
of one foot.
She laid back down, looking up at him like it was normal and she hadn’t just
done that.
Again he tried to swallow, to breathe, but it didn’t even seem his jaw could
work properly.
Bran had been surprised up until this point at just how much he had been
enjoying himself. For once, not only did he find the girl to be pleasing, he
felt as if he were pleasurable himself. Like it wasn’t only him wanting to
explore the girl. That she in turn wanted him. Almost like being desired.
Almost at ease, almost confident.
It was true he had had those few relationships already. But they were the
innocent, clumsy relationships between two virgins who weren’t particularly
invested in each other. They had always split up before he ever faced an
underwear-removed stage. The furthest experience he had in terms of physical
contact was fiddling about under the shirt of that Merry girl when she lunged
at him in her car. And there was the time his classmate Wylla had put her hand
on his crotch, without warning, while they were at the movies, making him jump
and spill their popcorn. He had not liked that.
Well, he did not feel confident or competent right now. Meera held her hand out
for him, unmoving, blinking sweetly at him but his arm had turned to lead. His
voice faltered in his throat. His eyes darted over her face, beseeching her for
something to do. Yes, she was offering him something, but something he knew how
to do.
She closed her eyes slowly, nodding gently at him. ‘Don’t worry, you’re fine.’
“I’ll show you. Give me your hand.”
Brain numb and on silent, his hand moved to hers. She wound her fingers with
his soothingly.
Holding his hand in hers, she brought them down to her leg, above her knee. Her
hand wound its way back around so that it was his palm now that was on her
skin. She began to slide them up inch by inch. His breath caught in his throat.
Reassuringly, she rubbed the back of his hand. Her hand receded from his as
they slipped past the boundary of her skirt. How cruel. She should have taken
him all the way.
He paused for a second, eyes fixed on that first stretch of leg extending out
from under the skirt, his hand covering her leg closer to him. Then he pressed
forward, along the slope of her thigh. He shifted his face away, eyes fixed at
a point over her shoulder.
In the back of his mind, he was aware that he was frightened to let him hand
reach all the way up; he didn’t know what to do. But somehow he didn’t stop. He
slowed as he neared where her legs came together. Reaching out where he
couldn’t see, the tips of his fingers grazed against what feels like short
curls. His fingers explored further, delved past the brush of hair. And then
they bumped against something. They felt. There was a crease. Breathing
heavily, he persisted. And when he probed further, slowly, at what he felt
there, he parted it. His finger slipped, infiltrating, into what felt like
warm, wet folds.
He turned his head down, resting his brow on her shoulder, and couldn’t help
the quake that came from his throat.
He traced his hand at what he found there; Meera shifted her legs. His skin was
moist now. It was slippery here. The only sound was Meera’s steady breathing,
Bran’s shaking inhales, and the muffled bass coming from Jojen’s room.
Some innate urging from within, unfurling inside him, impelled him to push
forward, sinking a finger into that unseen slick heat he felt down there.
Perhaps Meera had wanted to keep her eyes on him, coach him. But her head
rolled back now, eyes shutting as her lips broke into a breathless smile. He
gazed at her, mouth open, breathing in heavy stutters as he began to pump into
her. Fingers slipping unevenly, unsure, in the flush valleys that he had
discovered between her thighs. When he pulled back next, he tested a second
finger, slid them into her cunt as if through hot butter, shuddering again
above her.
Meera hummed through lips pressed tight together. Even so, he thought dimly
that he could say goodbye to his mental self-congratulation at being the
quieter one. Every plunge into her brought another over-loud, shaky breath from
him. This was…this was… This didn’t feel like the hand lotion on his
nightstand. This would feel better, if he tried it. ‘Gods save me,’ he begged
privately to himself. This would feel a million times better than the rough
denim he was feeling now. This was warm, and soft, and welcoming, enveloping.
He brushed over the crest of her folds with his thumb.
Meera’s brow furrowed and knotted, her eyes still shut. Her hand shoved across
his chest, twisting in his shirt.
He grunted and she groaned with him. He wanted to join her. They could explore,
together, this exciting new type of pleasure they could bring out in each
other. Her mouth hung open slightly, bottom lip glistening, panting quietly.
She looked so good, so unbridled, lost in rapture. So fuckable. He wanted to
fuck her. He choked on his breath again, returned to squeezing his brow against
her shoulder.
Maybe she heard his thoughts and took pity. Her hand rose and her fingers
flexed around him where he tented his trousers, cupping over the bulge that had
manifested there. He hissed, screwing up his face at the touch. The rough feel
of denim, even though his briefs, was frankly unpleasant. But at the same time,
knowing that it was Meera pressing her small fingers over his length, sliding
up and down, he could barely stand it. He wanted more.
His hand was still working her in between her legs. Bran lifted his head to
take her mouth with his own, covering her completely, possessively. She groaned
into the kiss. Her hand fell away to grip into the blanket beneath them while
the other clung to his back, gripping his shirt as she arched up into him. He
shifted higher in the bed to allow himself to deepen the kiss, to take more of
her. She was steadily moaning now. He bucked his hips forward again, grinding
against the side of her, desperate for some relief to the strain he felt in his
cock that was missing out on everything his hand felt as it pumped into her
again where she was seeping.
Her hand on his back pulled on him tighter. She rasped, “Oh god.” She started
repeating his name in nearly inaudible whine. “Bran, Bran.”
He was dying, he couldn’t take this. He drew his head back to stare at her,
lost, looking for help, where was he supposed to go.
And then Howland Reed’s voice came calling up distantly from downstairs.
“Bran.” Bran turned his head to the side to listen, not breathing; Meera
snapped her head towards the door too. “Bran? Are you up there? Your brother
Robb is here.”
“What?” Bran whispered under his breath.
“Bran?”
Meera’s hand thumped against his chest. “Answer him,” she hissed. “Answer him
or he’ll come up here.”
“What?”
“Answer him. Quick.”
“Bran??”
“Uh-YEAH,” Bran yelled back. He cleared his throat.
“Robb’s here to take you home.”
“Um, OKAY. I’M COMING.”
Now Meera giggled beneath him, breathless and red faced, but giggling with her
hand over her mouth. He heard her mutter faintly to herself, “Gods be good.”
Then she said quietly to him, “Bran.” He turned back to look at her,
bewildered. She mussed his hair affectionately. Then she waited for a second.
Her eyebrows rose. “Bran…your hand?”
“What? Oh.” He reeled his arm back, sliding out of her, causing her to wince a
little. She pushed herself up from the bed, tittering anyhow. She tiptoed to
the door, keeping her legs apart. She cracked the door open. Bran still sat on
the bed, lightheaded, wiping his hand on his hip.
“Okay, no one’s out there. I’m going to think positive and say Jojen’s too
baked to have heard that just now.” She turned back to face him, took in the
sight of him sitting on her bed, wide-eyed. “Well…you have to go.” He stood up
slowly. She helped him along to the door. “Just snap yourself out of it,
breathe regularly, and say normal pleasantries. I’ll see you later.” He stepped
out into the hallway; he almost fell when she grabbed his arm. “Your backpack.”
She thrust it into his arms.
“Um, okay.”
“I’ll see you later.” She smiled at him. Then her eyes trailed downwards and
she tried to restrain the smile. “You might want to, er—” she said, snapping
her fingers downwards, “readjust.”
Bran looked down and saw a bulge, unmistakable, pushing out below his belt.
“Okay. I will,” he said breathlessly. Meera hadn’t closed the door. “Go away.”
He wasn’t going to shove his hand down his trousers while she stood there
looking smug.
Smirking, her face still flushed, Meera conceded, bowed her head politely and
backed away into her room, closing the door.
 
After a moment, Bran made his way downstairs, trying not to limp. He had tucked
himself up but he was not comfortable, in many, many ways.
Howland and Robb were chatting by the front entrance. Robb stood in a way Bran
had nicknamed to himself ‘his lord’s stance:’ wide gait, arms folded across his
chest.
“Any time, any time,” Robb was saying cheerfully. They turned as Bran shuffled
over to them. “Well, look who is it.”
Howland smiled good-naturedly. “Sorry to interrupt you boys. Were you finishing
off a level? A boss fight?”
“Er, no, no. Just listening to some music. I didn’t hear you at first. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s no problem. I was just catching up with your brother here.”
“Ready to go, Bran?”
Bran stared at Robb, trying his best not to glower at him. “Robb…I rode here on
my bike.”
“Yeah, I know. I brought Mum’s car since hers has the bike rack.” Robb stared
quizzically at Bran’s agitated face. “Jon popped home unexpectedly so Mum told
me to come get you for dinner.”
Bran repressed a grumble. “Thank you, Mr. Reed, for having me.”
“Anytime, say hi to the rest of the kids for me.”
“Absolutely,” Robb said, shaking Howland’s hand, still looking slightly puzzled
as Bran doddered past them to the door.
***** Stark Manor *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 22. Theon – 21. Meera – 20. Sansa – 19. Arya – 18. Bran,
     Jojen – 17. Rickon – 13.
     Mood: Teen Daze – Hold
Car_ride_home
Bran stared, eyes vacant, at what happened to be in front of him. Which in this
moment was the dashboard of their mother’s car. His hand was nervously clenched
into a fist at his side.
It was making him feel incriminated.
He would have been fine—almost fine—if he just been given a few seconds alone,
maybe in the bathroom to splash water on his face or check his appearance. Just
a moment would have sufficed.
With dread, he pictured being imminently thrown to the tumult which he knew the
living room must already be in. Everybody would be particularly chummy tonight,
wanting to catch up with the three oldest. The dogs would be barking, Arya
would be talking over Jon with questions, Sansa would be appealing their mother
for one thing or another but she would be busy clucking at Rickon over the din.
He hadn’t even gotten there yet and already it was too noisy.
“You want to listen to something?” Robb asked as he turned on the radio,
flipping through stations.
“Nah.”
Robb searched for any generic music channel out of politeness to Bran, who
didn’t seem to be much for talk at the moment. Robb paused, brow wrinkling.
He sniffed. “What is that smell?”
Bran’s thoughts had been back on Meera’s bed. He hadn’t been listening. It took
him a second to hear Robb, then he paled. “What smell?”
Robb ignored that, trying to hone in on whatever he’d caught. Then his jaw
dropped open in offense. “Did you smoke pot?”
Oh, that. Bran shook his head, heart still beating too fast. “No.”
“No? Because you smell like pot,” Robb said, glancing to the side at him.
“No, I—Jojen smoked a little.”
Robb rolled his eyes, groaning. “Oh, great. Here,” he pointed towards a plastic
block fastened to the dashboard’s center vent. “Open that up. See if the liquid
will come out.”
“What is it?”
“It’s one of those scent dispellers. Mum loves them; she keeps putting them in
all the cars, even mine. I swear, Dad will beat you to within an inch of your
life if you come home smelling like weed.”
Eddard had never given Bran a beating. He’d only gotten the occasional clout on
the ear. Bran was sure their father wouldn’t beat any of them…Then again, there
was that time Jon came home buzzed, having ridden his motorcycle home drunk.
That got more than a clout. Bran wondered where this fell on the spectrum. For
that matter, where was it on the spectrum to stick his hand up the skirt of
their family friend’s daughter?
Maybe that would be considered the more permissible of the two. Something that
his parents would have expected to happen sooner or later, whomever the
recipient.
It didn’t matter; he preferred being charged with smoking pot. That was less
private.
Bran fumbled at the edges of the plastic casing but it didn’t seem to be made
for re-opening.
“Why didn’t you get rid of the smell before I picked you up?”
“Well, I didn’t know you were coming. You didn’t give me any warning.”
“I texted you.”
“What?” he said, distractedly, looking up. “Oh. I didn’t see.”
Robb’s eyes, back on the road, narrowed. “Did you smoke with Jojen? Answer
honestly.”
“No. I said no.”
“Let me smell your hand,” he said, reaching out to grab Bran’s arm. Bran jumped
back.
“NO.”
Robb shrunk into his shoulder a little in surprise. “Why—you little shit. You
did.”
“No, I just, will you jus—”
Robb cut him off. “Un-fucking-believable. Alright. We’re stopping before we go
home.”
“Why, where are going?”
“A petrol station. You’re going to wash your hands, thoroughly. You think Mum
and Dad don’t know how to check for smoke? Hasn’t Arya taught you anything? And
I’m going to find you some cheap cologne or something to cover the smell.” He
grumbled, “Puh, the things I have to do. Honestly.”
Well then, Bran thought, pursing his lips, feeling a little placated. At least
this part of the evening might work out in his favor, net loss notwithstanding.
 
Stark_Manor
The Stark Manor was warm and cozy in golden light with all the lamps turned on
as the living room and dining room buzzed with all the extra activity, having
everyone back for tonight. The house reverberated in the cacophony of the
conversations and teasing being thrown from one sibling to another, the clink
of plates and glasses as they passed around the food, and, of course, the dogs.
He had been right, the dogswere barking, jumping up to paw at whoever was
closest to them if any of them stayed still for a second too long.
Bran spent the evening in an edgy stupor, ignoring the bustling going on around
him while at the same time admonishing himself, telling himself to snap out of
it and join in with them. All the while, a prickle from the disappointment
earlier coursed beneath his skin.
He smelled like the sitting room of an older lady who abused the use of
potpourri. Robb had the choice between a men’s body spray, marketed openly as
an enhancement for insecure masculinity, and a spray meant to spruce up
unwashable fabrics like cushions. So, just to tickle himself and to nettle
Bran, Robb had hosed him down with the fabric spray in the gas station’s lot.
“You know, the body spray would have been just fine.”
“Nah,” Robb said as he circled Bran to get all of him. “I can keep this. Why
should you get a complimentary body spray out of me saving your ass?”
For Jon being one of his favorite people, Bran had never been less pleased to
see him. As they sat down to eat, he saw Robb whisper into Jon’s ear. Jon
opened his mouth, just as Robb had, playing up their state of low-key
scandalized. He looked over to Bran and shook his head. Oh, how they love to
lord their status as eldest siblings over the rest of us.
During dinner, the usual jabbering rolled back and forth around the table. Bran
heard it and caught none of it. He kept his eyes down, staring at the food, and
nudged his honeyed chicken around his plate without eating much.
It would have been better if he could pay attention to the conversation. Every
once and a while, he would lose track of the present and his mind would
unintentionally flit back to that afternoon. Meera’s hot breathe in his ear as
she groaned underneath him. Fingers digging into his arm. Silky heat,
enveloping.
His cock would twitch and he’d be thrown back into the present with a little
jump before hastily turning his face back to his dinner, feeling the top of his
cheeks burn.
Robb and Jon threw sanctimonious glances his way whenever one of his flinches
were noticeable. Like the chatter, Bran ignored them. He shifted uncomfortably
in his seat, unable to lapse back into ‘normal.’ The excitement that he had
felt unfurl, on her bed, with her…well, nothing had ever been quite like that.
Bran was sitting beside his mother’s end of the table. She watched him over the
top of her wine glass before reaching over to put her hand on his forehead. He
buffeted her away.
“Mum, stop.”
Catelyn Tully was not to be deterred. “Did you eat something off?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You sure, Bran?” Robb asked from the other side of the table.
Jon added, “Didn’t eat anything with raw eggs, did you? You know: undercooked
cakes, pastries…brownies?”
Oh, shut up. Bran didn’t have the energy to fend off their ribbing. He only
returned their self-satisfied looks with one of his own, utterly unamused. It
managed to subdue them not one bit.
***** On Holiday: Mount Ironoaks *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya – 20. Jojen,
     Bran – 19. Rickon – 15.
     Mood: Coldplay – Sparks
It took three cars to transport the lot of them. Howland took Meera and Jojen
up in his jeep. The Starks had to split themselves up between the SUV and
Robb’s car to fit the children and the dogs.
For the penultimate week of summer, the two families decided to finally go on a
joint-holiday again, this time to the southern edge of the Fingers. They had
rented a cabin on a lonely stretch along the headlands before the cliffs.
Even Meera and Arya, both of whom envied their classmates’ warmer excursions,
couldn’t complain about the view up the hill from the countryside cabin. The
house looked up onto the stretch of grass before the ground dropped off,
plunging straight down into the waters of the Narrow Sea. Walls of rock over
500 feet high. Below the house sprawled once-cared-for, neglected tilled fields
and gardens.
 
The_first_day
On their first afternoon there, Bran wanted some time alone to decompress from
the drive down. He took one of his textbooks with him, walking towards the
unkempt field below.
He found a small alcove in the nearby garden. It had a private space, separated
from the rest of the greenery by a row of hedges and hydrangeas. Two white
stone benches adorned the small, dried up fountain at its center. He sat with
his legs crossed on a bench, opening up The Red Dragon and the Black.
Not an hour had passed before someone inevitably found him anyways. It was Arya
and Jojen. They walked by, making their way to him when they spotted a glimpse
of Bran’s dark hair through the bushes.
“Hey,” Jojen called as they popped in. Looking up from the notes he had been
writing in the textbook, Bran saw they had boots and nets with them. Arya was
toting a bucket with her.
“What are you up to?”
“There’s supposed to be a pond fifteen minutes from here. I mean a real one,
not like that,” Arya said, waving the bucket at the stained cement of the
fountain. “We’re gonna see if there’s any tadpoles or frogs to catch. Come
with.”
“Mmn.”
Jojen brandished his net at him, nagging, “Come on.”
Smiling coyly to himself, Bran said, “…Frog hunting? Isn’t that a bit
stereotypical for a Crannogman?”
“Hey!”
Arya sniggered.
The downtime had done Bran good. Feeling refreshed, he closed the book and
stood up, adding, “Okay. I just have to run back to the house and put this
back.”
“We’ll just get it on our way back. Hurry up now.” Arya hooked her arm around
his so that he had to toss the book back onto the bench carefully as she hauled
him away, stumbling after her.
 
However corny he might have thought of it, Bran had to admit that tadpole
chasing was actually quite a laugh. The tadpoles were a cedar-y brown, matching
the mud floor of the pool’s shallows to where they swam out to chill.
The three of them had to master pinpointing the hint of tadpole body outlines
from amongst the murky brushwood and twigs. If they managed to spot one and
approach it without piquing its notice, they’d lunge down with a net. When they
caught one, they chucked it into the bucket which they had filled with pond
water. When they missed, the tadpole raced off, into the colder depths of the
middle of the basin. Either way, each time they made a go, mud kicked up from
the bottom and swirled about, clouding the water and making it impossible to
pick out anything for a few minutes.
Jojen, who didn’t want to admit that he and Meera had done this a few times as
kids at their grandparents’ farm, was quicker at it than Bran and Arya. The two
of them had gotten the hang of it though by the time the sun hung low in the
sky and they headed back, first dumping the bucket of annoyed tadpoles back.
 
The atmosphere in the house was breezy. Everyone enjoyed the fresher air up
here, the last of the warm summer air blowing over the tops of the cliffs from
Essos across the Narrow Sea. Hanging out as Starks and Reeds reminded them of
the relaxed holidays when the kids had been young.
The cabin had a glass sunroom that hung out over the hill’s slope, supported by
pillars underneath. Its three glasses walls presented a panorama view of their
slice of headlands. With the background behind them of the sunset’s shadows
cast down at the sea, Meera and Sansa sat in one corner, catching up and
gossiping. Robb and Jon listened curiously to Ned and Howland’s discussion of
the latest political fallout in King’s Landing. A few of the dogs were dozing
in a huddle.
If he wanted to, Bran could listen to the politics talk, or he could join Arya,
Jojen, and Rickon who had gone into the other room to watch cartoons. It being
the first day of the trip, however, his reserves of extroversion had depleted
again. He got up from his chair next to Eddard, kissing his mum on the cheek as
she came to join them, giving her his seat before he took off upstairs.
The third-floor loft, the very last of the cabin’s available space, had been
relegated to the three youngest boys. He plopped down onto the bed on the far
side of the room, under the tiny window. Too lazy to pull up the sheets, he
rooted out his old, grey sweatshirt from his pack, embellished with the team
name WOLVES on the front, slipped it on, and laid back.
He had it in his head that he would close his eyes for ten minutes before
rejoining everybody. But when he jolted awake from a clap of thunder, the room
was dark and he saw that Rickon was dozing on his own skinny bed across from
him.
Bran rubbed his eyes, blinked at the window outside from which he couldn’t see
anything except the occasional blinding flash of white lightening. Disoriented,
he padded downstairs to see what time it was or who was still awake.
He found the entrance room empty except for Meera standing with her back to
him, in front of the open front door, staring out into the blackness. Almost
all the noises from within the house were being muffled by the noise of the
deluge outside, but still he could hear the murmur of quieter, more languid
conversations from the sun room.
“What’s this? When did this start?” Bran asked as he crossed over to her to
peer out from behind the door as well.
Meera turned to see who it was. “Yeah. It just started a few minutes ago. It
started raining kind of quickly but quietly. And then it started picking up.
And now it’s crazy.” She gave him a once-over, taking in the sight of him. She
asked, grinning, “Did you fall asleep?”
Bran’s head fell back towards the ceiling. He groaned, “Ohh, I left my book out
there.”
“What book?”
“My textbook.”
“Oh.” She frowned out of sympathy before leaning over to check the sky again.
“Well, you can always replace it, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Bran messed his hair grumpily. “It’s just, I had my notes in
there. I was all proud and everything. I can’t believe I forgot it. All that
stupid work.” He sighed, trying to remind himself to let the disappointment go.
He felt a stab of annoyance at Arya even though he knew it was more his fault
for forgetting. “Well, I suppose having done them once will help when I redo it
when we go back.”
“Where did you leave it?”
“In that little garden down the hill. There was this cool little bench area. Oh
well, it’ll be all drained by now.”
“Mmm,” she agreed. She glanced to the side at him. “Hey, I’m getting a tad
chilly. Can I borrow that sweatshirt?”
“Hm?” he said, distracted. Looking over, he saw she was in jeans and a summer-
y camisole, arms and neck uncovered. “Oh yeah.” He shrugged it off and held it
out for her.
As she slipped into it, looking pleased, she said, “Thanks.” She threw the hood
up over her hair and flashed him a quick little grin. “Wish me luck.”
“What—”
She bolted out of the door, sprinting down the porch into the field below. Bran
rushed to the open door to find her but she was already disappearing into the
darkness, screaming as she went, somewhere between laughing and genuinely
shrieking.
“OI!” he yelled after her.
The noise of her screaming was being drowned out by the rain. “OH MY GOD.
FUCKIN’ HELL.” There was another clap of lightning.
Fuck me. What else could he do but run out after her lest he be a total ass?
With a quick, irritated little sigh before the plunge, Bran ran out, skimming
down the porch stairs and bounding down the slope towards the garden, trying
not to slide on his bare feet.
After one or two seconds sprinting under the downpour, he thought, ‘Oh, it’s
not so bad.’ Then he realized he was wrong. He felt like he was somehow taking
a bath (a cold bath), standing up, and in which the bathwater was shooting out
sporadically but somehow still covering him completely. He nearly slipped. It
was difficult to make out the shadows of the surroundings in the dark with the
rain smattering over his eyes.
He heard Meera’s hysterical giggling again. From the way the ground was leveled
out now, he knew the alcove must be around here somewhere. And then he saw dark
block of artificially square hedges and darted forward, slippery feet steadying
when they hit cement beneath them.
Meera had just turned around, book in her arms. He could barely see her face,
under the hood and with her hair fallen in front, but she was laughing
breathlessly. “…Come on man, I have a feeling it’s raining.”
“What in seven—”                
She ran forward, grabbing his arm with one hand, holding the book in her other,
and pulled him back with her. As the two of them fled up the hill he thought
that the rain was somehow wetter than a bath. In a bath, the water stopped at a
certain level. Out here, the water kept pounding down on his head, down his
back, over his front.
At least it was an easier run back since the house was lit and stood out like a
beacon in the dark. Meera made it first through the door, flying into the
house. Close behind her, Bran rushed in, muddy feet slipping on the floor. He
staggered for a second before she shot out on arm to steady him.
Completely winded, trying to catch their breath, they stood at the cabin
entrance. Bran clutched at a stitch in his side.
She was soaking; he was soaking. Their clothes dripped onto the wood. She put
her hands on her knees, that blasted book still in her hands, breathing in
deep.
“What…the…,” Bran tried to scold at her, but he didn’t have enough air in his
lungs to finish.
“You didn’t have to follow,” she panted. “I had it perfectly under control.”
Standing up slowly, she looked at his feet and added, “And I had shoes whereas
you don’t.”
“I had to go after you. Why did you go? It’s just a book.”
“It’s just rain.” She was grinning again, looking breathless and so very proud
of herself. “Here.” She handed him the book.
Bran took it. The covered was badly warped. He flipped it open. The first dozen
of pages and the last dozen of pages seemed equally as bad, but the center had
held up surprisingly well besides its outer edges.
“Thank you. But wow, it was so not worth that. That was crazy.”
“Yeah. The scars from this rain will never heal.”
He narrowed his eyes at her as she laughed at him.
“…Thank you.”
“You’re silly. And you didn’t need to follow. Well, maybe you did. On your
honor as a Stark, I suppose.”
He tutted at her.
“Here,” she said again, unzipping the hoodie and peeling it off her.
“That’s why you wanted it?”
Shaking her hair, sending droplets of water flying about, she muttered, “Short-
haired people don’t understand what a time commitment wet hair can be.”
He took the hoodie from her, holding it over his book. “You should have asked
me if it was that important, I would have told you no.”
“Where’s the fun in that? If anything, I needed an excuse to run out there.” As
her breath leveled out, she put a hand on her hips. “Rainstorms like this don’t
come along often. You gotta seize the opportunity to run around in them.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
He shook his head slowly at her, looking down. His eyes were drawn to the side
by the strips of white shine where water had dripped down her neck and chest.
Her collarbone, the shadows and curves of her chest—they stuck out from the
camisole’s thin straps.
He had seen before. But the sight looked just a little different now, shimmery
bands catching the light on her skin where the water had trailed down her
front.
His eyes wandered back up and grew wide when they found her face. She had been
watching him, bemused, her eyebrows rising as her lips slowly broke into
another glib smile. “You alright there?”
He didn’t answer but to look away. Clearing his throat, he said,
“Anyways…thanks.”
“Oh, Branny Bran.” She started to shuffle towards the stairs, walking
uncomfortably in wet clothes. As she passed him, she swatted his shoulder
affectionately. He glanced down at her, close, and she paused, her eyes finding
his.
He didn’t move. She swallowed self-consciously and he took a step back, turning
his head away to avoid her eyes. He was trying not to blush.
She said, in a hushed voice now that the moment had grown quiet, “I’m gonna go
change. Don’t you run out into any more storms.”
Bran stood by the door, dripping, as she went up. He’d have to go up to the
other bathroom and wash now too.
He was happy to have his mangled notes. But she made him feel silly, exposed
again. Maybe this little crush he had on Meera was making him dislike being
around her now, since she knew about his but she had so clearly gotten over her
flirtation with him.
It made him feel…childish.
From behind him he heard an outraged intake of breath. Spinning around, he saw
Catelyn’s eyes boring down at his mud-soaked feet on the floor.
 
The_third_day
One morning Robb and Jon put forth the proposal of a sightseeing outing which
they had read was one of the must-see local attractions. Apparently, the
sunrise from the top of Mount Ironoaks, an hour drive away, was an experience
to behold. Unless they wanted to wake up and drive over there around 2:00 in
the morning, it made the most sense to drive up the mountain tonight and spend
a few hours resting there before heading back.
While all the kids wanted to go, somehow the parents deemed a sunrise not worth
spending a cold night on top of the mountain without a bed, especially as the
sunrise was already quite beautiful just along the cliffs.
After minimal persuading, Catelyn had been the last of the parents to give
their blessing. That night, Robb and Meera were to take the rest of them up,
Robb driving the SUV and Meera driving her father’s jeep.
“I haven’t been up Mount Ironoaks but I have slept on a mountain top before,”
Howland had told them. “It will be cold. Colder than you think. You hear me now
telling you that it will be cold, so you’re getting ready for it, thinking of
it as cold in your head. It’s colder than that.”
 
Bran stood, yawning next to Jojen, as they waited for Jon to come down. They
had all thrown on their warmest clothes, feeling a bit dumb standing about with
coats and scarves in the evening’s perfectly pleasant air.
Jon finally came down, hauling with him all the blankets he could fit in his
arms.
Robb, Jon, and Sansa had gotten it in their heads that they wanted to drive up
the three of them, the oldest. They would have taken Meera as well if she
wasn’t needed to drive the other batch.
“Meera, are you okay to take the young Starklings?”
She nodded serenely at Robb, climbing into the jeep as Jojen crawled into the
passenger seat.
There was a scuffle among Arya, Bran, and Rickon over who would have to sit in
the middle. Bran and Rickon tried to lay the responsibility with Arya, saying
she needed the least amount of legroom. In one of the few ways she resembled
their mother though, Arya was not to be cowed. She shoved Rickon into the
middle, Bran taking the other side.
 
It hadn’t taken quite an hour since there were no other cars on the road. They
made their way up the mountain, driving past the park facilities a mile from
the top, and at last pulled up onto the flat stretch of land which served as
the overlook on the summit. Meera parked her dad’s jeep next to the SUV. Robb
and Jon were standing by its open passenger row door, talking to Sansa still
sitting inside it.
Catelyn had begun to fret before they left. “What if there’s no mobile
reception? How will you let us know if you need help?”
“We’ll manage,” Robb assured her.
“What if there’s other people there? Questionable people?”
“Cat,” Ned had said. “It’s better the kids go with Robb, Jon, and Meera to look
after them. Better that than go with their friends from university. We don’t
know what kind of influences their friends might be but we can trust Robb, Jon,
and Meera.” Robb nodded.
Cat wrung her hands all the same. Robb put his arms around his mother’s
shoulders. “Mum, relax. It’s a chaperoned family trip to watch the sunrise.
It’s not like to break out into an orgy or ritual animal sacrifice.”
As they arrived, though, Bran thought to himself that if he ever were to
witness an orgy or ritual sacrifice, this was probably the place it would
happen.
There were other cars at the top, other parties of people, six or seven.
The park staff had dug out a depression in the middle with a fire pit at its
center. Some of the groups were sitting around the fire under blankets or
jackets. But most the cars still had the bulk of their respective parties
milling about them.
There was a van closest to them that had several blond and brown-haired twenty-
somethings. A cluster of them were sitting on fold-up lawn chairs, passing
around a bottle of honey colored alcohol. A few of them were sitting crossed
legged on top of their van, draping blankets over their shoulders, smoking a
joint.
One car in the back was playing music. Dornish music by the sound of it, and
its occupants were mostly Dornish by the look of them. A few of them were
dancing, giggling and yelling jabs at once another.
The largest group (and scariest in Bran’s opinion) was the caravan off to the
side. This was the only group that included men and women past thirty-
somethings. And based off their appearance, their clothing, and the way they
scowled at them as they got out of the jeep, that group seemed to be wildlings.
“Are those wildlings?” Bran asked Sansa, keeping his voice low as they
clustered by the SUV.
“Most like. They’re in a caravan.”
“What are they doing here?”
Arya whispered over to him, “They’ve come to eat your face.”
“Fucking hell, it’s cold,” Jojen muttered, shaking his legs to stretch them
out.
Sansa said, “I know. Your dad warned us but we did not listen.”
“What? I listened,” Jon said indignantly. “I brought the blankets and
comforters off our bed. Did any of you bring some?”
“No,” a bunch of them answered.
Reaching into the van to get the comforter, Robb asked the group, “Shall we
grab a spot by the fire?”
 
As they were laying out a space, one of the older wildlings spoke up, a red-
headed, thickset man with a beard. “Fuckin’ hell, will you get a load of this
one?” He raised the bottle he was drinking from at Jon’s direction, who looked
up, alarmed. “He’s prettier than half my daughters.”
A skinner bloke fired back, “Varamyr’s cunt is prettier than your daughters,
that’s not saying much.”
The gruffer one stared at him for a second, considering him. Then he chucked
his bottle at his companion, smashing it on his shoulder. The two of them
jumped up and started at each other, shoving and yelling nonsense as a few of
the others in their party cheered them on.
Standing behind Bran, Rickon said under his breath, “Woah.”
Robb shook his head reproachfully as he put down the comforter for them to sit
on.
A pretty ginger girl of the wildlings group, ignoring the fight going on beside
her, smiled at Jon. “He is a pretty lad. I bet girls claw each other’s eyes out
to get close to him.”
Jon sat down with his back to her, blushing.
Sitting next to him, Sansa asked, “How are we supposed to sleep in this cold
and with this racket?”
“If you can’t beat them, I guess you have to join themmm,” Robb announced,
producing a bottle of whisky from his jacket.
 
For a while they sat on their space by the fire, drinking, shivering.
Robb began to play a drinking game with the girls and Rickon while the rest of
them stared up at the sky. When the pretty ginger girl called over to Jon
again, he got up, saying he’d see what she wanted.
“Oh, I think you know,” Meera said quietly. Jon left, ears red.
One of the blokes in the burner enclave shouted out, “Jojen?” Jojen looked up
and his face broke out in a grin.
“Stinky Peat? Who the hell let you out of the Neck?”
Jojen made his way over, exchanging familiar handshakes with a few of them.
“Oh, that lot,” Meera said, watching them. “It figures they’re here.”
 
Eventually, Meera stood up. “I’m going to go smoke a fag. Be back.” Jojen was
still in the smoking circle with his mates from the Neck and Jon had apparently
hit it off with the wildlings. Robb got up from where he, Sansa, and Arya had
been playing, saying he was going to do a rounds of the different groups, get a
sketch of who they were.
Sensing that Sansa and Arya were itching to talk, Bran got to his feet as well,
leaving Rickon, not sure if he meant to go join Jojen or Meera. He certainly
didn’t mean to join Jon. He ended up going towards the jeep, where Meera had
popped its back open to sit in the boot with her legs dangling in the air. She
smiled as he approached and sat down next to her.
“Want a fag?” He shook his head. After a minute she said, “I don’t like that
lot Jojen’s with.”
Bran was surprised. He thought she liked the Neck. “Why?”
“They’re high all the time. I mean, yeah, Jojen’s high now. But what else are
you gonna do in this frozen pit until the sun rises? But them. They’re never
sober.”
Bran gave a disinterested shrug of his shoulders.
She looked at him, tossing her cigarette on the ground. “So, how you been?
How’s uni?”
“I like it.”
“Figures. Nerd.”
He laughed, despite himself. “Thanks again, for saving my book.”
“I wouldn’t have done it if I knew you were going to be so grateful.”
She made him smile. He liked that about her. “So. Not too many Starklings for
you on this trip?”
“So many,” she chuckled. “It’s nice. It’s like back when we were kids.”
That made him think of Jyana. He hadn’t seen her in a few years now. He wanted
to ask Meera about her. But he didn’t, remembering how Jojen said that was a
sore subject for her.
“So, Bran,” she said, shifting up into the jeep a little. “Broken many a heart?
Girls besides themselves to get with a college man?”
Unbelievable. He shook his head, disapprovingly.
“How many fawning Jonquils would you say you’ve accumulated?”
“Does that make me Florian? A fool?” She lifted her foot to nudge at his. He
glanced at her to the side, smiling, before he quelled it and looked at his
feet shyly. “How’s Tyrek?”
Bran vaguely knew she had started dating a boy her age, Tyrek, distantly
related to the rich Lannister clan.
She sighed, reaching into her back pocket for another smoke. “Oh, Tyrek.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s alright,” she said, words a bit muffled as she held the cigarette between
her lips to light it. “Bit of an idiot.”
“An idiot??”                                                   
She shrugged. “He means well. I think. But he doesn’t do much for me.”
“Why are you dating him then?”
“My mum’s keen on him. Really keen. She and his mum are old friends.”
Well, since she’s brought it up…“I thought you didn’t get along with your
mother.”
She frowned at him curiously. “I…We’re not the chummiest of pals. Not like your
greeting card of a family.” He opened his mouth to protest but she went on,
“But of course I love my mum.” Her legs twined together, swinging below, as she
added in a soft voice, “Everybody loves their mum.”
“I didn’t mean—”
She patted his arm to mollify him. “So, what about you? Got your own Tyrek?”
“Do I have a Tyrek Lannister? No.”
She breathed out a small laugh, nudging her shoulder against his. “Don’t evade
the question.”
Bran looked back to the rowdy group around the fire. “Nope.”              
She knocked some off the ash from the cigarette down. “Why not?”
“I dunno. I’ve—” He didn’t know what verb to use. He had slept with a few girls
since starting university last year. Three. But talking about his love life to
Meera, he didn’t want to use a word denoted only for sex. It made him sound
shallow.
If you were supposed to remember losing your virginity as something special, to
be cherished for the rest of your life, that wouldn’t work out very well in
Bran’s favor. He had been dragged to one of the parties at the start of the
year. All the incoming new students like himself had made a point of it to get
wasted, trying to snuff out their insecurities in a flood of alcohol. Somehow,
he and a girl had gotten to talking, probably not making a lick of sense
between the two of them. They had scuttled back to her dorm, her roommate
hadn’t been there, and the two of them, both virgins, had fumbled their way
clumsily through sex.
He couldn’t recall it very well but remembered that it had been disappointing.
He knew it had been more disappointing for her. He tried his best to forget
that that had ever happened. Whenever he saw her on campus now, he paled, and
she would roll her eyes and speed past him.
The times with the other two girls had been better. The third girl and he had
even dated for over a month. But they had been equally uninspired by each other
and ended things neutrally.
Maybe he should feel worried he hadn’t managed to have an actual relationship
yet. He didn’t feel that was anything was missing from his life. But if he
thought of himself in comparison to everyone else, maybe he was becoming weird…
Every time he tried to stick himself into a relationship, like the proper
relationships he saw on TV and the ones his classmates were taking up, it felt
forced.
You were supposed to go to dinner together, to the movies, maybe do homework
together if you were too snowed under to go out. (He preferred his study
cramming sessions with Jojen.) You were supposed to remember things like ‘first
song’ or what your anniversary was. The boy was supposed to dote on the girl
with chocolates or jewelry and get mad at her for not wanting whatever he
wanted in bed. And the girl was supposed to be delighted in his attention to
her and play dumb, play up childishness, amuse him by blushing when she
admitted to having stuffed animals or being afraid of the dark or whatever. Did
everyone really enjoy that?
He liked hanging out with the mixed group of coeds he and Jojen were friends
with. He liked joking around with them and laughing at whoever was currently
the drunkest or most stressed out and cheerfully making a fool of themselves in
front of everyone else. And he liked it those times he slept with second and
third girl.
He hadn’t managed to combine the two into the mold that seemed to be expected
though.
“Bran?” Meera was watching him.
“Oh.”
“You don’t need to answer if I’m being nosy.”
“No, no. It’s fine. No, it’s just, I haven’t actually felt compelled to…date
anyone, you know, long term.”
“Ah,” she nodded, taking another drag. “Short term girlfriends. One night term
girlfriends.”
“No, no, no.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know, there was this one girl.
I liked her. But she was only at our university for a month, doing an exchange
from the Citadel. Sometimes I think it’s a shame Jojen hadn’t met her first.
She and Jojen would have probably hit it off.”
“Oh??” Meera smiled, opened mouthed. “What do you mean?”
Out of his minor escapades, the second girl had definitely been his favorite.
It was the only one that was actually a positive memory. But when they slept
together it had been with the clear understanding that it was not to lead to
anything. She had explained that to him. Maybe that’s why he remembered her so
fondly. She had been straightforward, much braver than he was.
She was a black girl from the Summer Islands, Kojja. Like with the first girl,
she and Bran had gotten to talking at a party, except this time neither of them
had been sloppy drunk. When he differentiated himself from the native King’s
Landing crowd, explaining he was Northern, she had called that exotic. It made
him laugh, taken aback. “I wouldn’t think of us as exotic.”
“I thought you have your own gods and own holidays. Keep to your ways.”
“Well, I guess that’s true.”
He had thought maybe they were flirting until she mentioned that soon she would
be headed back to Oldtown, and even that she disapproved of her friends who had
gotten themselves into real relationships before a more stable time in their
life.
At one point she had been dragged off and he had assumed that would be the last
he saw of her. But she had found him later that night, putting her arm on his.
“I just wanted to say goodbye before I go. It was nice talking to you.”
“Oh, you’re leaving already?”
“Yes, early morning tomorrow.”
“Okay. Nice talking to you too.” He had smiled.
“Unless you would like to walk me to back to my room here?”
Bran had worked himself up into a state of nervousness again by the time they
got to her room, remembering the disaster of the only other time. Sensing his
plight, Kojja had leaned against the room’s desk, away from him, letting him
take in the new surroundings without any pressure.
“Can I ask you about the North?”
“…Sure.”
“What would a Northern boy think if a girl invited him to her room, alone?”
She didn’t rush him but he couldn’t make himself answer.
“Do you want to know what a Summer Island boy would think?”
“Okay.”
She walked him through the steps of sensing out someone’s interest, approaching
them, testing their response, initiating things. By hearing them spoke aloud,
regardless how obvious they might be anyways, it had given Bran the courage to
get over himself and act. He supposed, now that he thought about it, she had
been like Meera in that sense. It seemed the only ways Bran had actually made
any progress in terms of sex was with women who had to spell things out for
him.
But unlike Meera, he knew where he stood with her and what she wanted from him.
She didn’t favor the pretenses that some of the other students did on where
they wanted the line to be between hooking up and going out. In that way, she
was like Jojen. If Jojen had any problems dating, it was because he had no
patience for people who wanted to stir up melodrama.
 
“I met this girl,” Bran explained. “She was pretty open. Open about dating,
about what she was thinking. I almost think it’s a shame she was only visiting,
and that Jojen hadn’t met her first. They could go out and be all analytical at
each other.” Meera tittered. “You know, just sit across from each other at a
restaurant and logic the shit out of each other, weirding everybody else out.”
Meera sighed, smiling. “Oh, Jojen. Sometimes I worry he’s gonna show up one day
in a weird, four-way marriage or something.”
“What if he does? Would that be a problem?”
Meera kicked her legs below her absentmindedly. “Oh, I dunno. I just want him
to be happy.”
Bran wanted to ask her if she was happy.
She looked to him. “You don’t have to worry about this kind of stuff. You’re
the youngling. It’s Robb and Jon who have to worry about you.”
“Myeh,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “They don’t worry so much as
gloat.” Before Robb had left to do a survey of the other groups, he had turned
to Sansa and told her she had babysitting duty. Bran wondered if they would
still be in their thirties and Robb would treat them like little kids who need
to be watched. He wondered if it was an older sibling thing, a mentality that
would never go away. It was unnecessary by now.
No sooner had he thought that when, to a whoop of cheers, Arya started climbing
onto the hood of a car. The group in the back was still dancing merrily, and on
their car’s roof there already was a Dornish girl and blond southern girl
shaking their hips to the music to the crowd’s delight. The Dornish girl
reached down to help pull Arya up with them. Once on, Arya began to show off,
punctuating the music with on the mark gestures and spinning in a circle,
dangerously close to the curved edge.
Robb, who had been standing chatting with one of the calmer parties, uncrossed
his arms muttering, “Okay,” as he headed over there. He grabbed Arya around her
legs where he could reach her, holding her up above him as she stared around
perplexed at her new predicament, and brought her back to their spot by the
fire, to the boos of some of the boys in the crowd.
Bran rubbed his temple as Meera applauded quietly from where they sat away from
the crowd.
“Aww. Let her dance.”
“I’m so glad my mum doesn’t know about the lot here.”
“Yeah. She would have a conniption.” Meera finished this latest cigarette and
dropped it on the ground to join the other. “Do you ever big-brother worry
about Rickon?”
“Rickon? He’s fifteen. He can’t get into any real trouble.”
“No?” Meera asked, nodding over to the hippie enclave. “Because he’s been
lighting up with them lot.”
“What?” Bran snapped his head to the side to scan the group. And then, gaping,
he saw Rickon had sat next to Jojen in the smoking circle, sucking down on a
joint. “What!” Bran started, incensed. Meera snickered. He kicked off from the
jeep. “Who does he think he is—what in seven—when Robb finds out.”
Instead of marching over to extricate Rickon from the group, Bran hurried over
to where Robb had joined Sansa and Arya lying under the comforter. “Robb,” he
called out.
Robb stared up at him, looking a little drunk. “Where you been?”
“Robb, have you seen Rickon?”
Robb’s eyes widened. “Why?? Is he missing?”
“No.”
“Oh,” he said, lying his back against the stone barrier of the depression
again. “Don’t freak me out like that.”
“He’s over there,” Bran pointed.
“Okay.”
“Okay? He’s with them hippie lot.”
“…”
“Smoking pot.”
“Ohh.” Robb shrugged.
“What? Aren’t you mad?”
“No, why would I be mad? It’s only weed. He’s with Jojen, isn’t he?”
Bran sputtered. “Only weed?? You don’t have anything else to say about it?”
“…Blaze it.” Robb giggled sleepily, unconcerned. So did Sansa and Arya, though
Arya looked half asleep already.
“You gave me such shit for smoking pot.”
“Oh yeah, I s’pose I did.”
“You smoked pot?” Arya said, eyebrows rising.
Sansa clucked, sounding like their mother. “Of course he does. What do you
think he and Jojen do all the time?”
“I had my theories.”
“Bran,” Robb said lazily, “It’s not exactly like Rickon’s in front of our
parents right now and heading over to them high. And meh. With all the other
debauchery going on up here, weed is probably the least harmful of them all.
We’re stuck here for a few more hours and it’ll wear off by then.”
Bran grumbled, indignant. Then, realizing how cold and how tired he was, he
said, “Move over.”
Robb made to move but Arya groaned. “No, sleep on my side. I’m cold. I need a
body to serve as a buffer between me and the outside air.”
“Oh, great,” Bran quipped, moving to her side of the blanket.
He climbed in beside her. They only had a thin sheet underneath the freezing
ground. It did a little to protect them from the cold but nothing to make the
ground any less hard or bumpy. Laying underneath the comforter though did offer
good protection from the mountain air, their collective heat pooling a little.
It wasn’t long before Jojen and Rickon came over. The noises of the summit in
general were slowly growing softer as more people dropped off to sleep.
“Scooch in,” Jojen whispered. Bran backed as best as he could, trying to shove
Arya over, but there wasn’t much room left. Rickon was left without.
“Hey,” Rickon whined, sounding exhausted. “What about me?”
Robb turned his head over to him grumpily. “Ugh. I suppose you can have my
spot.”
“No,” Meera cut in, also whispering as she returned to the group. “There’s
still one more blanket in the SUV. Three people can sleep in there with the
seats down. It’ll be warmer in there.”
“Sweet.” Rickon made his way over.
“I’m going to go too,” Sansa said, climbing out with much effort so as to not
move Robb or Arya.
“Meera, I suppose that gives you the last slot in the van,” Robb said, eyes
closing.
Meera walked over to Bran and Jojen’s side. Jojen had already started dozing
off. She shook him gently. “Joj.”
“Mnn.”
“Jojen, wake up. Go over to the SUV.”
“What?” he complained in his sleep.
“It’s warmer there. Go join Sansa and Rickon.”
“I’m fine, stop doting on me. Ow!” She had pinched his neck.
“Jojen, we’re here for a few more hours. I swear to all the gods, you have one
fit or cough just a little, I’m throwing you in the jeep immediately and
driving back into town and we’ll miss the sunrise.”
“Ughhh.” Jojen kicked up the comforter, causing Arya to hiss and growl under
her breath on the other side of Bran, clutching it back over her.
Meera watched him go before sliding in next to Bran. He backed up again towards
Arya.
“That was nice of you.”
“It wasn’t nice, it just is,” she murmured, turning over.
From the other side of the blanket, Robb whispered, “Shut up.”
The music had stopped by this point and once the music stopped, people stopped
feeling free to talk in loud voices. Bran shifted his shoulders uncomfortably
against the ground below him, closing his eyes to the stars above him, trying
to drift off as best as possible. He hadn’t really been able to by the time he
heard someone else whispering. This time it was Jon. “Hey. Hey, where’s room
for me?”
“There isn’t any,” came Robb’s voice.
“Hey!”
“Jon, we’re trying to sleep,” Arya mumbled.
“Hey. I’m the one who brought the comforter.
“…And you have served this house honorably,” Robb said. “But there’s no more
room.”
“What the hell?”
“I thought you were getting along with the wildling lot?” Meera asked.
“I was. That doesn’t mean I was planning on sleeping with them.”
“Why not?” Robb whispered. “That Tormund fellow seemed down.”
“That’s not funny, let me in.”
“There is no room.”
“Well then, what am I supposed to do?”
“There’s a blanket in the car,” Arya offered, eyes opening reluctantly.
Jon was thinking about it when Bran piped up, “Oh you’re going to take the
blanket away from Sansa, Rickon, and Jojen?”
Jon snapped, voice hushed in the quiet, “You lot are the worst.”
Unperturbed, Robb insisted, “That caravan looks mighty warm.”
“Ugh, to hell with you,” Jon hissed as he stormed off.
“Looove you,” Arya whispered after him.
“Sod off.”
Bran tried turning on his side. It helped his shoulders a bit although now it
was his arm and hip that were digging into the ground. He closed his eyes,
trying not to breathe on Meera’s neck but not exactly sure where he should
direct his head.
He felt her shift in front of him. He ignored it. Then he felt it again, the
faint impression of movement from below the comforter, grazing against him.
He didn’t want to say anything, let Robb or Arya know he was bothered to sleep
next to Meera. He grumbled, shifting back to lie looking straight up at the
stars. He heard the light, nearly inaudible suggestion of Meera chuckling.
***** On Holiday: The Car *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya – 20. Jojen,
     Bran – 19. Rickon – 15.
     Mood: The Album Leaf – Twenty Two Fourteen; Avec – Heartbeats
Chapter Notes
     A/n: Totally unrelated to the contents of this chapter but in this
     au, birth control works on STDs as well. Not in our universe. Have
     safe sex.
There was a hand on his shoulder, pushing. Rocking him out of sleep. “Mmfph.”
Bran opened his eyes, squinting. A blue glow hung in the air. The dark dome of
sky looked like someone was shining a light on it from below. Lapis fading
lighter and lighter until the horizon where it almost radiated neon.
“Rise and shine, little B.”
Bran lifted his head. He blinked at the girl beside him before he realized he
had been using Meera’s arm as a pillow. She laid more or less on her stomach,
one of her arms folded behind her into which Bran had nestled, with his arm
draped around her back. He swerved upwards.
He removed his arm carefully before he turned under the blanket to find Robb on
his other side, already out and crouching low to stir him. He had reached over
a sleeping Arya to get to Bran. Bran wondered if he had woke him up first out
of a chivalry to the girls’ sleep or to let Bran detach himself from snoring on
top of Meera. Either way, he appreciated it.
“Wake the girls, will you? I’m gonna see if the wildlings haven’t carried Jon
off as as their new bride.”
Robb stretched and walked off after a perfunctory shake of his legs. There were
faint sounds around the campsite now of people rousing. A few whispered
conversations. The sounds of morning groaning or yawning.
Bran regarded Meera beside him. Her face was planted on her non-Bran-annexed-
arm and she sported a particularly unruly mess of brown curls furling out
behind her. He put his hand on her back, nudging her. “Meera. Meera?”
She took a deep breath before her eyes flickered open. Lazily, she turned and
spotted Bran behind her. She veered back a few inches, her eyes large. They
scanned up to the steadily illuminating sky until, after a second, her memory
clicked on again.
She propped herself up on her elbows, looking as grumpy as Bran was betting
they all felt from the little to no sleep.
He shuffled to the other side and shook Arya lightly on the shoulder as well.
“Arya?”
Arya grunted. Her hand snapped back and struck Bran across the face.
“Ow!”
She opened her eyes, narrowing them at cold mountain air. “What’s going on?”
“You just smacked me in the face.”
She yawned. “What?”
Meera snickered behind him, climbing out. She whispered, “I’m gonna go fetch
the others.”
 
By the time the sky glowed cyan, all the sleepy campers had gathered at the
lookout point, a quarter-sized stone wall overlooking the eastern valleys. A
car had even pulled up which had evidently been lying in wait by the park
facilities down below, having skived off last night upon seeing the summit’s
riff-raff. A family with young children emerged out of the car. They huddled
together away from the rest of them, looking cross.
Sansa, Arya, Jojen, and Rickon sat on the miniature wall, sharing the comforter
among them as their group watched the orange clouds over the horizon, waiting
for the sun to creep up. The other four stood behind them. Robb and Jon had
given the remaining two thinner blankets to Meera and Bran. Jon didn’t want to
so easily forgive them for exiling him. But, despite a valiant effort, he
failed to hide the shy smile which kept spreading over his face at the thought
of the wildling girl who had shared her sleeping bag with him.
“So, what’s her name, when do we meet her?” Robb asked, leaning over to peer at
the caravan in front of which the wildlings were throwing jokes back and forth,
quite unbothered by the cold.
“No, no! Don’t look over. Just…just leave it alone.”
“I’m only messing with you.”
“Yeah well, none of you lot are in a position to. I thought we were family and
you all abandoned me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robb said, prodding at Jon’s leg with his foot.
The two of them started trying to see which one of them could trip the other
using just their foot until there was an ‘ooo’ among the watchers and they
looked up.
Flares of yellow light streaked across the sky at the first glimpse of the
sun’s white blaze. Compared to how long they had watched the sky brighten baby
blue, the sun grew large and rose up into the sky at a startlingly fast pace.
The sky and clouds burned pink and orange. Jojen twisted to look behind him,
catching Bran’s eye first and then Meera’s. He exchanged with them impressed
smiles at the sight. When he turned back around, Meera glanced sideways to
Bran. Her skin was washed pink. His head tilted, puzzled by her expression. She
lowered her gaze and directed it back towards the horizon, shielding her vision
where the sun blazed too bright.
 
Jon tried to say his farewells to the wildling girl as best he could while
ignoring all the eyes on his back.
Robb’s group had re-welcomed Arya into their fold and she hopped into the back
of the SUV with Sansa.
As Meera’s group made their way to the jeep, Rickon went over the different
things he had gleaned from the smoking circle with Jojen.
“Is it real hunger or fake hunger?”
“Well, what is hunger?”
“…Being hungry.”
“If you feel hungry, is that hunger not equally as real?”
“…”
“It hasn’t vanished the food you ate previously, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The two of them climbed into the back, leaving Bran to sit in the passenger
seat in the front.
Both groups made a pit-stop at the park facilities below the summit where
everyone changed into their lighter clothing. From their drivers’ seats, Meera
and Robb exchanged a few shouted confirmations over the route. In the end, Robb
gave them the thumbs up and the SUV took off towards the descending roadway.
 
It occurred to Bran that Meera was driving much faster now that the mountain
range was flooded with light. Glancing down his window, he took in the blur of
road flashing past and, beyond it, a birds-eye view of the valleys and trees
hundreds of feet below.
He said something which sounded like ‘eugh’ as his head snapped back against
the headrest.
Meera took a pause from rapping along to her choice of fem-pop music. While
making sure to watch where she was going, she spared Bran a quick glance.
“What’s up?”
“You’re going way too fast.”
“I’m actually going the speed limit.”
“No—there’s no way that this is the speed limit on a winding road over the
ridge. You need to go slower.”
Smirking, it occurred to her to ask him, “Bran, show me again your driving
permit?”
“Don’t torture the boy,” Jojen said in the back.
“I’m not. I am the one who is chauffeuring you mardy pedestrians.”
“Slow down, slow down, slow down,” Bran murmured, shutting his eyes.
Her voice rose to tease him. “Do you want me to swe~rve?”
“Gods, no.”
Meera chuckled and Rickon shook his head, embarrassed by association. Jojen was
the only one trying to placate Bran. He tutted at the others, nagging, “Meera.”
“What? Okay, okay. Bran, don’t worry. I am not going that fast. It just looks
that way when you look down because we’re so high up.”
“That doesn’t really help.” Bran peeked down again. “Seven save us,” he said,
voice squeaking as his hands flew up to cover his eyes.
And that, Meera broke out into laughter, though she checked behind them in case
they needs slow down.
“Oi, mate,” Jojen called. “Bran. Bran, look at me.” Still covering his eyes,
Bran shook his head no. “I’m serious. Look at me…on your honor as a Northern
bro.”
That made him laugh despite himself. Lowering his hands, Bran twisted warily
towards Jojen in the back.
Jojen was sitting comfortably with his arm strewn across the top of the
backseat. He shrugged his arms in an aloofness that was reassuring. “It’s not
so bad right now, right?”
The only thing passing outside behind Jojen was the wall of rock that had been
blasted into the structure of a road long ago. “I guess.”
“We’re almost at the base anyways. So how was sleeping by the fire?”
“…Cold.”
“And bumpy,” Meera offered.
Jojen pressed, “Did you get any sleep?”
With Jojen distracting him, Bran settled and endured the rest of the drive
until the ground really did start to even out around them, first through a
forest, then into open flat road stretching back towards the Fingers.
Meera did speed through the valley but, as there was no empty space through
which to plummet to a fiery death, Bran could brush it off. He even let himself
appreciate with the others the weightless feel of air soaring past them,
sticking his hand out the window.
Meera bobbed her head to the music while sunlight made the hair that whipped
around her face glow like honey. Her legs were poking out from drawstring
shorts, one perched on the gas pedal while the other one hung back for the
brakes. To see her, it dawned on Bran that cruising over open road appeared to
unburden something within her.
Whenever she caught Bran staring at her, she played up the current line of
whatever she was singing. “Yeah I know it’s stupid,” she sang, jabbing at him
with her finger.“I just gotta see it for myself.” He squirmed back, swatting
her arm away.
Meera was older than him, but she always made him feel younger. What was wrong
with him then, if he wasn’t being properly young the rest of the time?
 
Rickon had started grumbling that he was hungry. When he continued to ignore
Bran’s orders to knock it off, Meera relented, deciding they’d grab a bite. She
had Bran tell Robb’s group.
Sansa texted back that they had almost cleared the town of Old Anchor but they
were pulling off now to join them. Over the phone, Bran tried to listen to
Sansa who was listening to Jon explaining directions, which Bran then tried to
relay to Meera. Robb also wanted Bran pass on what everyone wanted to eat so he
could get the order in while they waited.
Bran was leaning out of Rickon’s reach as Rickon tried to tap him on the
shoulder. “Ask if they have milkshakes.”
Jojen added, “Ask her if they have veggie burgers.”
“Guys, shut up, I can’t hear Sansa if you’re—what? Jojen, they do but their
salads are apparently better. Rickon, what did—what? Yeah—”
“Milkshakes. I’m craving a milkshake. You haven’t asked her yet.”
“Rickon wants to know if they have milkshakes…she’s checking.”
Meera peered over the steering wheel. “Bran, when did they say to take a left?”
Rickon prodded at Bran’s shoulder. “What did she say?”
“Rickon, shut—where do we take a left? The sept? Rickon, they don’t have
milkshakes…Well don’t yell at me, they’re the ones interrupting.”
“I don’t see a sept.”
“What do they have besides milkshakes?”
“She says it’s near the very end of the town. Rickon, I swear to—”
 
Meera found the place, spotting the others sitting on a bench outside just as a
waiter brought out the food. When they got out and Meera realized Robb had
already paid for everything, she flushed, pulling out her wallet while she
rambled apologies.
Robb spoke over her, pushing her cash away. “If anything, I owe you more for
taking care of the Starklings.”
She glanced at Bran. A smile played across her lips. “I suppose that’s true.
The rascals.” The others joined in.
“The young pups.”
“The wild wolves.”
 “The whippiest of snappers.”
“Okay,” Bran grumbled.
 
 
The Stark and Reed kids finally made it back to their rented cabin in the
headlands. Much to their parents’ chagrin, they passed day drowsily unfocused.
That night the house fell oddly quiet as all of them ran out of steam soon
after dinner.
The following night, however, was quite the opposite. By the time Eddard,
Catelyn, and Howland had retired upstairs, all of the kids were chatting away
in the sunroom, save for Meera who had skived off to take a phone call. The lot
of them had bounced back having slept for a longer period than usual. In the
parlor overlooking the coast, the group was feeling chipper and cooling off
from the day’s excursions with cold beers or ice water.
Bran slouched in a chair next to his brothers. He propped his head on his hand
as he gazed through the glass at the ocean horizon where waves lapped inland
reflecting moonlight. Robb, Jon, Arya, and Rickon had steered the conversation
to sports, which held little interest for him. Sansa and Jojen had already
removed themselves and settled on the opposite couch. Sansa was listening as
Jojen ran the idea for his thesis past her.
Bran managed to revert his attention back to the room. He didn’t particularly
feel like listening to either conversation. He might as well get in the alone
time he needed now.
He stood up and put his hand on Robb’s shoulder, telling him in an undertone,
“I’m going out for a stroll before bed. See you in the morning.” Robb checked
Bran’s face to make sure nothing was wrong and gave him a nod.
Instead of going down to the gardens, Bran headed up the hill to amble
alongside the cliffside. A draft blowing in from the sea ruffled his short
hair.
He drifted away from the cabin and its out of place glow in the dark headlands.
The surrounding air was black and warm and he mused about how it had been the
very opposite on top of Mount Ironoaks, pink and freezing. He recalled the
bumpy, unbelievably cold ground. And Meera nudging him with her shoe in the
boot of the jeep. “He means well. I think. But he doesn’t do much for me.”
Bran supposed that his clumsy flings hadn’t done much for him. That’s why they
were flings though.
He shook his head, hands in his pockets. There was no point to try to figure
out what was ever going on with Meera. Or why he couldn’t seem to shake this
little crush of his. It had been years already.
All of a sudden he hopped back. He could have sworn he felt something tap his
leg. He skimmed his hand over his jeans, checking for something like a small
animal or (gods forbid) a snake.
Whatever it was struck his hand next. He sprang up, scanning around, squinting
in the direction it came from. And then…“You.”
Meera was sitting in the dark on her crossed legs, a small ways away from him.
She was still collecting pebbles for her arsenal, trying not to laugh and give
herself away.
He folded his arms, waiting as she aimed again. She chucked the pebble but
missed this time. Unimpressed, he said, “And what exactly are you doing?”
“Nettling you.”
“And why?”
“Because you’re easily nettled.” She gave up and leaned back on her arms,
flashing him a cheeky smile as he approached. He wanted to be annoyed but it
was difficult, seeing as she was so clearly brimming with glee at the chance to
mess with him.
He sighed as his legs folded on a spot close to her. They sat beside each
other, facing the water.
Deciding he didn’t want to deal with her self-satisfaction and her sass grin,
Bran he reclined onto his back, cushioning his head with his arms folded above
him. Meera waited a moment and then joined him on the grass. Above them were
the clouds and stars and, even from all the way up here, they could still hear
the spray of the waves breaking up over the rock face below.
Meera twiddled her thumbs over her stomach. He could sense her gathering up
words to say something. She inhaled, but then said nothing.
“What?” he prompted.
“…Jojen doesn’t do anything stronger than pot, does he?”
He shot her a side glance. “Why are you asking me?”
“Of course I’d ask you. Who else?”
“I’m not going to spy on Jojen for you.”
She huffed. “I’m not asking you to spy. I’m just wondering.” Bran shook his
head ambiguously against the grass. “Is that a yes?”
“Nope.”
“Hmpfh.”
“Why? Are you worried about him?”
“No. Not really. I mean, I’m always somewhat worried about him.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She wrung her hands under her chest. “He’s…unique. And special, and
cool, and sweet. And he’s the best person, the world doesn’t even know how
grateful it should be.” Bran smiled next to her in the dark. “And it’s my job
to look out for him. Our parents,” she waved a hand above her, wafting the
thought of them away, “…It’s not that they’re clueless. They’re just
distracted. Those kids from the Neck he was hanging out with on the mountain—I
know they’re all burnouts. And he lights up all the time.”
“He doesn’t. No—really. He doesn’t smoke all the time. The other night was the
first time he’s smoked pot for something like two weeks now. And, honestly, who
wouldn’t—stuck up there for a couple of hours, freezing your ass off under the
stars. Even Rickon smoked. Robb didn’t even get angry when I told him.”
“Yeah well, Robb was pretty drunk.”
“But you get my point. Even I think it was pretty harmless up there. Jojen’s
good. Really.” Bran stretched, yawning. “I envy him. I wish I could be…at ease,
like he is. He’s doing better than most of the kids in our year.”
“What’dya mean?”
“Eh. Everybody’s always stressed out. They’re trying so hard to present
themselves the way they think they’re supposed to be seen. Jojen just,” Bran
slapped his hands together, demonstrating one arm surpassing the other,
“breezes right past them.”
Meera was quiet for a minute. He looked to the sky, acting like he couldn’t
feel her eyes on him.
“Better than most of the kids, you say?”
“Yeah well,” he shrugged. “Besides those pricks who get all top levels and are
athletic and good looking and still have active, well-meaning social lives…You
know, the ‘Robb’ type.”
She laughed. “Do you get jealous of your brothers?”
Bran shifted his shoulders on the tough soil. “Meh.”
“Aww.”
He grumbled, “Don’t ‘aww’ me.” His chest was feeling tight. Inwardly, he kicked
himself for the childish spike in nerves that her presence triggered. Why did
this bloody crush have to make him so on edge?
“You know what really makes me ‘aww’ at you?” she mused, turning on her side.
She supported her head with an arm to gaze at him still more directly. “I was
thinking about this yesterday. I thought, ‘Poor Bran. He was in quite the
predicament. Trying to have his first spoon with Meera Reed while spooning with
his sister and brother.’”
“Blech.” Bran shuddered as she chuckled to herself. “You’re gross. And wrong.
And I didn’t try to have a spoon with you.”
“Oh?” She shifted onto her stomach, now having rolled next to him. Her legs
twiddled lazily behind her.
He moved his arms out from under his head, careful not to bump her, propping
himself up with his forearms.
“Seeing the stars, underneath that comforter…it kind of reminded me of that
time we went stargazing at camp.” The time you came onto me? My first kiss?
That time? She had been almost a year younger than he was now. “Except that
time, Arya and Robb weren’t lying beside us.”
He shook his head just to make it harder for her to see his face, in case he
looked flustered.
Meera stifled another laugh. Bran almost didn’t want to know. “What’s up with
you now?”
“You know, sometimes I think…” she shot a nervous glance back at the cabin,
“what would happen to me…if Catelyn Stark knew I had sullied her baby boy?”
“Shut up, Meera.”
“You’re blushing.” She made to poke his cheek but he buffeted her away, pegging
her hand to the ground. He reeled his arm back and her eyes followed him.
She just finds this all entertaining, doesn’t she? “What are you—”
“Has it occurred to you that Arya and Robb aren’t beside us now?” Try though he
might, he didn’t manage to wrench his eyes away from her. Meera tried to mask
the smirk that bloomed across her lips by biting down.
Wasn’t she dating someone? She was just riling him up for no reason now. He
tried to find the air in his lungs to tell her to cut it out.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said in a soft voice. “I love Robb, but...” Her eyes
flit from his lips up to his eyes. “That was pretty devastating. When he
interrupted us.”
“In-interrupted? I figured we had pretty much reached as far as we were going
to go.”
She made a quick clicking noise with her tongue, raising her eyebrows at him
skeptically. “Is that so? Were you planning on stopping?”
He admitted in a faint whisper, “No.” Utterly disoriented, Bran scanned her
face. “Weren’t…weren’t you planning to?”
“I hadn’t really planned anything. And then Robb had to come and steal you
away.”
Despite how tense he’d become, he still smiled at that memory. “You know, he
thought I was high.”
Meera’s eyes grew wide and she let out a breathless laugh. “He what?”
“Since I was acting weird.”
Meera sat up. Her grin was too knowing and too pleased. “That must have been
tough for you.”
“I’m sure that’s what you were after.”
“What? For you to be all…hot and bothered?” He bowed his head. Why did she get
such a kick out of embarrassing him? “Did you think I wasn’t hot and bothered?”
When he looked up, he swallowed. “You know what was really unfair though? What
really…rubs me raw about that afternoon?” She drew out the words like she
enjoyed the sound of the innuendo. There was a lull in which Bran stared, open
mouthed, as his heartbeat sped up. She planted an arm on the other side of him.
“You got to feel me.” She used the leverage to slink over his legs leaned
backwards with a sharp inhale.
“What are you—but—”
He tried not to actually shut his eyes at the twinge in his cock as she settled
over his lap. He had been half-hard, being subjected to her incessant flirting,
but now he flushed, achingly stiff. His eyes glazed over as he tried not to
look at her. But Meera’s hand swept lightly under his jaw and signaled for him
to follow. He did, automatically, and brought his face close under hers.
Her lips ghosted over his. “You felt me. But I didn’t really get to feel you.
Is that fair?”
He meant to say, ‘wait,’ but her hand rubbed down over his cock and all that
came out from him was a desperate, “whai—” She thrummed, feeling him through
the denim as her mouth covered his. He opened it to her and she explored him
with her tongue.
She tasted like Meera. And like the berries up for grabs on the cabin’s kitchen
counter. What a sweet mouth she had and it had been so long since he had been
granted a fleeting taste of it. With the press of his hand on her back, he
bound her closer to him.
It seemed each time he made to push his question, she blocked him with her
mouth back on his. Or maybe it was he who was interrupting himself, tugging her
back to him whenever she drew away for breath. He was pretty sure he meant to
ask her something. But at the pressure of her weight on top of him, he was so
hard, it blocked out most any other thought.
She gripped his neck, her hold on him growing rough. She pulled back for air
before turning her head down to see what she was doing, fingers snapping open
the buckle of his belt and snatching at the zipper.
His legs jumped, sending her forward. He remembered the question now. “Wait,
stop.”
She looked up, breathing nosily, hands still gripped onto the unzipped top of
his trousers.
“What about…about…Whatshisname?”
“…Tyrek?”
“Yeah,” he panted, out of breath.
“Oh,” she waved it off with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t worry about him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s not that kind of relationship.”
“What?”
“Bran.” She blinked slowly with the air of suppressed impatience. “I know what
I’m doing. There’s no problem on my end, or his end for that matter. But if
you—”
Bran cut her off with his mouth on hers. He was kissing her quickly, still a
bit unaware to what was happening around them or between them. But now that he
had started, his mouth, his hands acted as if by reflex. Her hands roamed over
his chest and his arms, grasping at random. He moaned into her mouth, drew back
to go after her throat, kissing and nipping at her skin.
She shoved him back onto the grass. She shifted, keeping her face out of his
reach. Her hand nudged past his waistband, fingers traipsing over the cotton
beneath it and his breath caught when she squeezed him through the fabric.
She withdrew her hand to slide under the cotton and his eyes pinched shut. He
suppressed an angry hum when her fingers glossed over the head of his cock. She
tried to help him with a soothing, ‘shh,’ as her fingers wrapped around him and
began to slowly jerk him.
He murmured nonsense under his breath, his head lolling back. He didn’t know
how or why this was happening, but any resistance was over for him now, searing
from the impossible need coursing through his veins and skin.
She withdrew her hand again to pry at his jeans to better open them.
He looked up at her. Her lips a little swollen, eyes focused on their intent.
With a quick grunt, he boosted them up, flipped them over. When he landed on
top of her, her legs gave, moving to either side of him. The sheer position
knocked the breath from him. It took him a moment to move again. When he lifted
his face to see her, she beamed at him, serene. His eyes darted over her. She
really wants this? Does she? He lowered his face, his nose skimming across her
cheek before he parted his lips as she matched him and he let his tongue try
her, tasting her.
She arched up into him. Both of them groaned. Her hand pulled up on the back of
his shirt, he was trying to cradle her neck so she would align with him but she
kept moving, lurching back and then catching him again.
He was still kissing her as he felt her hand sneaking under his waistband
again. Blindly, he found her hand to scoop it off him, bringing it back up to
her stomach. She drew off to sigh, “What? What is it?”
“I mean…we’re…we’re not doing it—we’re not doing this here, are we?”
She glanced around them in the weedy grass, the precipice of the cliffs not too
far. “Hmm. Maybe not here.” She stood up, offer him her hand. “Do you trust
me?”
“No.” He said it emphatically, without hesitation. That made her smile. It made
him smile too.
“Are you coming with me?”
He put his hand in hers, pulling himself up.
Quietly, she led them back the way he came. He trailed behind her after doing
up his zipper, watching her curiously. Certainly she didn’t think to continue
this in the house.
As they got closer, Bran studied the cabin, trying to detect any light or
movement. He could tell a light was on the side of the house facing away from
them, but all the windows they could see were dark.
She planted herself a few hundred feet from the porch. He followed her gaze.
“…My parents’ van?”
“It’s unlocked, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
She let go of his hand, tiptoed over to the SUV, the hulking black mass in the
dim moonlight, and opened up the backseat door. “I presume you’re not expecting
anyone in here?” She climbed in, scooching to the far window and looking back
to where he stood, speechless.
When he didn’t move, she patted the space next to her like a cartoon.
After a nervous side-glance at the house, Bran’s feet carried him across the
yard. He pulled himself up and into the van, shutting the door.
 
He sat by one door and Meera—the other. She didn’t move. In the cramped space,
she kept her hands over her knees which were pressed together. The inside of
the car was dark. He could make out a glimmer in her eyes though.
He turned consciously in his seat, watching her awkwardly as he reached behind
the headrest to find a lever there. With a shove, he brought the back of the
passenger row down against the row behind it. Meera almost squawked as she
tipped backwards with the seat. Her hands flew up to her mouth to cover a
giggle.
“You’re just having the time of your life, aren’t you?” he said grumpily as
drew near. He maintained himself aloft, poised above her with an arm braced
against the seat. He had to angle his legs just right to fit in the legroom.
She flashed him a hopeful smile. “Not yet.”
He didn’t go for the bait. He let himself take in the sight of her, her eyes
fixed on him, her chest rising and falling in quick little breaths. A dumb
smile spread across his face.
She pressed her lips together, stubbornly trying to appear neutral, challenging
him. He still didn’t take the bait, unbothered. He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Tsk, you are the worst.” Her hand shot up and she tugged his shirt, collapsing
him onto her. He stifled a laugh as his lips pressed against hers and closed
his eyes. Her mouth opened and upon feeling her beneath him, tongue licking
into him, his laugh turned into a groan.
Her fingers let go of his shirt, smoothing over his chest. He pulled off her to
fumble at the drawstrings of her shorts, pulling them apart as she watched.
With a quick glance to her, he dug his fingers under the hem of the shorts and
lacey cotton underneath. She hoisted her hips up from the seat so he could slip
them down her legs until she wriggled out of them.
The shadows of moonlight that made it into the car illuminated her pale thighs.
The stretch of skin that traveled up to her hips looked smooth. His hand
brushed over it and he gulped. It was smooth. She shimmied higher onto the
seat, shy to his gaze. His eyes traveled from the whiff of hair she was trying
to hide between her thighs up to her face, her cheeks reddening.
He stooped to kiss her, earnestly, caressing the side of her waist with an
wavering hand. Her head tipped back and he trailed down her neck, testing her
skin with his lips, tongue, teeth. While he sucked a spot on her throat, his
hand slithered down, parted her legs, and he slid a finger over her folds to
find her slick. He skimmed over her clit, deliberately without much attention,
just to nettle her. He sank a finger into her warmth and both of them groaned.
The silence of the hull of the car accentuated their every breath, mouths open.
She cupped a hand over where he tented his trousers. She mumbled, “I want to
feel you.” Her fingers agitatedly undid his zipper once more; she was muttering
in annoyance that he had done it back up in the first place. He reached into
the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. Holding it in hand, he
nudged out the wrapper from the pouch, dropping the wallet once he got it. She
worked down the top of his trousers, yanking his briefs forward first so they
wouldn’t snag on him. He bit off the perforated edge of the condom wrapper so
he’d be able to extract one-handed.
 
Bran vaguely knew that Meera was on birth control. Years ago, staying over at
Jojen’s, he overheard snippets of the row her parents had had when Jyana
decided Meera would go on birth control at 14 as a preventative measure.
Still, Bran figured this warranted using a condom. It was something of a
formality for the first time two people had sex. Of course, it wasn’t exactly
like he was still getting to know Meera. But there was also the fact that she
was partially somebody else’s girlfriend, whatever she had meant by that
cryptic comment. He didn’t want to think about that right now. He’d last longer
with a condom. Even if he hadn’t had that problem since the very first time, if
the already dizzying ache in his cock was anything to go by, it couldn’t hurt
to be safe.
 
He shirked free of his trousers and briefs that had fallen by his feet. Leaning
back over her, he rolled the condom down the head of his cock to the base.
Now he froze. He glimpsed at her, heart hammering in his chest. She was looking
back—maybe scared, more excited. Seeing him freeze up, her expression softened.
She leaned up and smoothed back some of the hair fallen over his forehead. Her
hand fell to his jaw, beckoning him forward. He dipped his head for her. Her
lips settled on his, her touch light, a brush. When she drew back, Bran gazed
wide-eyed at her, unnerved.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so gentle with him.
She rested her back down on the seat again. She held his gaze as her hand ran
down his length. He tried to suppress a groan, eyes flickering, when she
aligned him against her.
They shared one last look, eyes darting across each other’s faces.
He pressed forward. Her warm pressure enveloped him. Meera’s eyes shut as her
breath caught. While he pushed into her, her arm up slid behind her to grab the
headrest. He was quiet until he had sheathed all the way into her, when he then
let out a choked breath, head falling forward. Oh god.
Meera.
He needed a second to collect himself. When he opened his eyes, he saw her,
face screwed up, panting, gripping onto the back of the seat.
He thrust again, eliciting her to a gasp. He straightened up best he could in
the space and began to pump into her. Each breath of hers was noisy. He
grunted, one of his arms grabbing her thigh. Her eyes blinked open, heavy
lidded. It was weird, he thought, to see Meera looking unplayful. He pounded
forward harder, watching her teeth grit down. She exhaled in a hum as she
turned her face to the side.
Seized by a sudden urge, compelled by the ache in the way she hummed, he
gripped at her thigh roughly, snaking his arm around her leg and stretching it
back until he could hitch it over his shoulder. She gasped, and then moaned as
he started to snap his hips, driving into her. He closed his eyes in
concentration. She mouthed out curses silently.
He emitted a groan from deep within his throat. Loud, too loud. He needed to
regain control. They had to be quiet. If they weren’t careful, they could still
be heard by the cabin.
He paused. He turned his head towards the leg slung over his shoulder, dragging
his cheek across her calf. On instinct, he planted a grateful little kiss on
the skin under her knee before guiding her leg back down.
He lowered himself over her, bracing his arms against the seat.
When he caught a glimpse of her face, he saw her startled eyes had locked onto
his, watching him. He faltered. Did I do something wrong?
With some effort she boosted up on her elbows, rising closer to him in their
small space. When she bowed her head forward, her face just reached him. Eyes
fluttering shut, he leaned his brow against hers. They breathed in sync
together. He tried to catch her mouth again to kiss her but she evaded him,
inhaling unevenly. He dipped lower to chase after her and his cock sunk in
further. Her mouth opened under his as she groaned and so he took her there
too, smiling a little at the noise she made until he broke and moaned himself.
He tore back to duck his head beside her, burying his face in her hair.
He felt the slight bounce of her shoulders, her chest beneath him, propelled
forward by his rhythm. His hand rose up and tapped down on the seat helplessly
before it meshed itself in her curls. She wrapped her arm around his neck,
pulling him in tighter.
Her breath floated over the back of his neck as she whispered, “Please, don’t
stop…please, please.”
That wasn’t helping anything. He felt himself tightening. If she said things
like that, he wasn’t going to last. He pushed up from the seat again, her arm
still held onto him, so he could snap his hips faster.
Her hand moved to instinctively push back at his chest, his hips. She arched
into the surge. As she lifted herself, they slid into a deeper angle. Bran held
her there as she whined until he had to stop again, almost toppling over the
edge.
He descended on top of her once more and thrust in from that angle—not good for
speed, but he could feel all of her beneath him, her chest heaving, her hips
canting up. Her hand dug into his shoulders.
He grunted under his breath, “Fuck.”
She began to murmur his name into his ear. Over and over again. He didn’t want
her to stop, still not fully believing it could be his name she whispered.
She said, voice heavy and hushed, “I’ve wanted this.” His eyes rolled shut. He
could feel himself getting ready to burst. Not yet, not yet.“I wanted to feel
you.” And then, voice nearly inaudible and hitching with his strokes, “And it’s
so good, you feel so good.”
He whimpered, still driving into her.
“Have you wanted me?”
For once, he had no qualms about answering honestly. He rasped out, “Yes,” into
the crook of her neck.
Her breathing spiked, rising in volume.
“Meera.”
“Oh god, oh, god.”
“Shh.”
“Just do it. Please. Gods, please.”
He shifted his weight onto an elbows. As his cock dragged in and out of her,
his other hand rushed down. He searched and found her clit again, sweeping his
fingers up and down, up and down.
“Yes, oh yes, oh yes. Please..”
He groaned, head lolling forward. This was unbearable. He was coming apart. He
felt something coiling. She whined, gripping painfully onto him, her eyes shut.
She started to gasp, growing louder and louder.
“Shh, shh.” She didn’t shush. His shushes intermingled with her gasps which
grew deafening. But even as he half-worried about the noise, a smile broke out
over his face while he shushed her, relieved he had made it this long. It felt
like she pulled him in, tighter, before her breath released.
He moved his hand to her waist. Holding her against him, he pummeled her
faster. She moaned softly, exhausted. He groaned. Pumped into her once, twice
more. He stilled, buried in her, and then he could feel himself pulsing into
the condom. He shuddered, the groan fading into a choked whimper when the very
last of him spilled out and he collapsed on top of her, vaguely feeling her
hand curling upwards along his back.
Bran breathed in, out. He didn’t notice or think anything for a few seconds.
System rebooting. Then he became aware of Meera’s hand stroking the back of his
head. He realized he had concealed his face in her hair.
Sudden panic set it at the realization that it was Meera—Meera—stroking the
back of his head soothingly. The Meera who was a family friend, the sister of
his best friend. Meera who knew each of his siblings and parents just as well
as he knew her family. Meera, whom he would probably know for the rest of his
life. He was trembling in the wake of having come while inside her. And so now
it felt like she was also: Meera, with whom he had heedlessly just shared a
glimpse of his soul.
He lifted up a little so he could see her face.
Her eyes shined, over-wet, while they searched him.
They were both still out of breath.
She touched the side of his jaw with a finger as she asked, “Are you okay?”
He nodded slowly. “Are you?”
She reciprocated and gave him a smile, although her lips quivered.
He could still feel her surround him. He lay his head down beside her again. He
just wanted a moment. One more moment. Her voice whispered, “I kind of don’t
want you to leave.” Hidden in her hair, he smiled to know she had been thinking
along the same lines. She sighed. “But it would lead to some awkward reactions
back in the house.”
She is incorrigible.
He rose again, narrowing his eyes at her as she kept her mouth shut, looking
utterly delighted with herself.
As quiet as possible, Bran said, “You are the worst.”
She laughed lightly. “Don’t copy my lines. Make your own.”
Watching her giggle at her own stupid joke, his vision swam a little. He paid
that detail no mind—such a thing was common after sex.
He said in a hushed voice as he leaned down to kiss her cheek, “You are
gorgeous.” As he leaned towards the other cheek, he said, “You are precious.”
And then he muttered, “And you are awful, you are the worst,” before he parted
her lips with his. If their tryst would end when he pulled out and they would
revert to being platonic pals, this was his last chance to kiss her. He kissed
her, fully, taking his time, and she was happy to receive him, inviting him to
indulge. Her arms tugged at him, wrapping him in a farewell embrace.
He stopped only with great reluctance. He blew out a stream of air before
bracing himself on the seat.
“Wait, wait.”
“What?”
“Just, um, do you have a tissue? You used a condom so if you don’t, it’ll still
be fine. But just in case you have one…it’s a little more comfortable that
way.”
He wondered if the seat would be damp. Of course it would be. Seven hells. They
hadn’t used a towel. There weren’t any; they were in his parents’ van.
“Beneath that seat,” he said, indicating the front passenger’s seat in front of
her. “There might be some there.” That was his mother’s seat and she liked to
be prepared.
Meera’s arm went fishing under it and came back up with a packet of tissues.
He pushed himself off her, sliding out, his skin feeling a little tender. He
sat back on the passenger row, beside her as she wiped herself. Do I take the
condom off here or outside? He didn’t want to step out of the van like this. He
tried his best to keep his back to her as he worked it off, tying off the top
of it carefully. She looked away, sensing his embarrassment.
 
When they emerged from the van having righted their clothes and lifting the
seat back, he looked up at the house. The light on the other side of the house
had gone out. All was dark.
Meera sighed. “I want a smoke.”
“That good, huh?”
She grinned to see him playing with her, confident. “Five stars,” she said
begrudgingly. “I’ll be leaving my review in the morning. The accommodations
could have been a little better, I’ll grant you. But the service more than well
made up for it.”
He ducked his head at the innuendo.
“Do you want to sit with me?”
He nodded, a little dumb still in a stupor. Meera crossed to the jeep, opened
the passenger door and started rooting around. Bran put the condom, now back in
the wrapper, on the ground for the moment. He’d get it when they went back
inside.
Meera sauntered back to him, a small box in her hand. He noticed that it wasn’t
the brand she had on the mountain. Those must have been her own.
“Where do you wanna sit? We’re probably too close to the house here.” They
looked around. Bran didn’t particularly want to go back to the cliffs. “What
about down there?” She pointed down a short hill off to the side, on the route
to the gardens but closer.
As they made their way down Bran said quietly, “Are those your dad’s? I didn’t
know he smoked.”
“He doesn’t,” she frowned. “It was my mum who started putting these in the
glove compartment. Jojen and I just keep up the habit I guess because we used
her stash sometimes.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No, no. It’s fine.”
They stopped at the bottom of the hill. Bran sat down on the grass, hugging his
knees. Meera sat with her legs crossed beside him. She put a cigarette in
between her lips and lit it with a match. She drew in a deep breath, exhaling
away from him.
She slowly leaned to the side, resting her head against his shoulders. It made
Bran smile to himself.
“So, Bran. Do you take all your women out to the romantic countryside to seduce
them?”
He puffed. “I don’t think I’m the seducing type.”
“Oh? Are you the mark? The rube?”
“I am the victim of older ladies out to take advantage of my trusting nature.”
She chuckled to herself as she took another drag on the cigarette.
“Score for us cougars.”
Smoking would be the least of my mother’s concerns about me right now. “Do you
mind if I have some of that?” Her hand moved to his and he removed the
cigarette from between two of her fingers. He had smoked a few times with
Jojen, both varieties, but it was never really his thing. But right now it was
a nice cap to this moment with her.
After a bit of silence, she said, “I’m glad Jojen has you as a friend. Not
everyone gets Jojen. And that’s a shame.” 
“I meant it before. You really don't have to worry about Jojen. He’s got it
better than most people.” He passed the cigarette back. He gazed up to the
night sky before continuing, “He knows who he is.” He felt Meera staring at him
but he kept his eyes trained upwards, unhurriedly studying the splashes of
indigo and navy.  “Look at the sky. The stars are so bright here. I couldn’t
even really appreciate it on the mountain, it was so bloody
cold.” Meera glanced up. “Just like the fireflies.” 
“...You are something,” she said quietly. 
He laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” But as he turned back to her he
thought he caught a glimpse of something different than the usual Meera. She
looked glum.
“Hey—”
“You should go back inside. We should go in separately.”
She was telling him to drop it.
He blinked at her. “Listen, I…I don’t know anything about your relationship
with Tyrek, but as for you and me—”
“Can we talk about this some other time?” Meera asked, rubbing her temple.
“It’s late.”
She wasn’t looking at him, she kept her eyes on the grass.  “…Okay.”
She took another drag on the cigarette before putting it out next to her.
He braced himself on the ground to stand up. He said softly, “Goodnight.”
She glanced at him. She looked sorry. He wondered if she regretted sleeping
with him, or if she just regretted her tone right now.
Does she wish I was Tyrek?
“G’night.”
On his way back, he nabbed the condom wrapper, thinking he better hide it in
something else, like a packet of crisps, before throwing it in the trash.
When Bran got to the door of the cabin, he peered back down the hill. Her
silhouette was visible in the moonlight, sitting in the grass with her back to
him, looking up at the stars.
***** The Morning After *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera, Gendry – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya –
     20. Bran, Jojen – 19. Rickon – 15.
     Mood: Death in Vegas – Girls; Zayn Malik – I Won’t Mind
Chapter Notes
     I hope to go back and edit eventually. But with ADHD (and prob just
     in general), if you don’t go forward with rough work, you’ll end up
     sitting on 5 billion unfinished projects.
The_next_day
Bran awoke to the unfamiliar sight of the loft’s ceiling. It took him a second
to remember he was at the Fingers, on holiday with his family. And the Reeds.
Rickon’s low snores drifted over from across of the room. In the middle was
Jojen’s bed, which currently lay empty and tidy. He must have quietly made it
before heading downstairs. Bran had taken the furthest bed, underneath their
window. He rubbed his eyes before sitting up.
Out beyond the window stretched the expanse of grassy headlands. From the way
the sun hit the trees, Bran figured it was around mid-morning.
Last night he had crept past Rickon and Jojen, both asleep, to crawl into bed.
He had strained to curb the heavy breathing from having just climbed the
stairs. As soon as he laid flat, he remembered that he couldn’t well sleep in
his jeans and had to rustle himself out again to change in silence by the foot
of the bed.
He made a point of it to set aside time to go over what had just happened
before falling asleep.
Had it just happened, with her? And why?
Would it be like before, when around the others she pretended nothing
whatsoever had taken place? Refusing to look at him. Or what was worse was when
she did look at him, with a straight face. But he knew. And she knew. And
feigning ignorance couldn’t change that.
                                          
Fully awake now, Bran tossed back the blanket and stood up. He supposed he had
to go downstairs, eat with the others if they were still eating. They’d all be
untroubled, likely gearing up for whatever excursion someone fancied next.
He must have been hovering in the middle of the room for too long, as Rickon
began to stir. Bran snapped out of it and hastened to change, slipping out
before Rickon would wake in earnest.
 
A short while later, Bran left the upstairs bathroom from a rushed shower, hair
wet and shirt sticking a little where he hadn’t quite dried yet. It was time to
join the fray. He didn’t hear any voices as he proceeded down the stairs but
could hear the faint rustle of movement and dishware.
He wasn’t sure who he wanted it to be down there. Which batch would be the
best, would be the least interested or perceptive? He sort of hoped Meera
wouldn’t be there. He hadn’t woken up enough to jump straight into the
pretending game so soon.
 
When he made it to the first floor and padded over to the kitchen, he was
greeted by the remaining morning stragglers, Jojen, Sansa, and Catelyn. Sansa
didn’t look up but chimed in with a dulcet, “Mor-ning.”
He echoed them, hesitating on the first row of kitchen tiles.
Catelyn came over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Nice to see you up. You and
Rickon are the last to wake.” She held a mug of tea in one hand. The other
began to fix his hair. “The others went on a hike to the tallest point of the
ridge before it gets too hot. They should be back in an hour or so.”
“Okay.” Of course they would.                             
Jojen and Sansa had finished nibbling at the crumbs left on their plates. They
were occupying themselves by absentmindedly trying pieces of the puzzle
scattered on the table.
Catelyn took a sip from her mug, studying him. “You missed the sunrise.” Her
eyes roamed upward to the ceiling, as if looking through the floors. “Do you
know if Rickon’s getting up soon? It’d be a shame for him to miss the holiday
sleeping.” Wouldn’t want to waste a vacation getting rest.
“Mum, it’s barely 10:00.”
“Some of us, Bran, have been up for over four hours already.”
“Yes, well some of us are crazy,” he muttered. She pinched at his ear, sending
him off to the counter to collect what food was left. “Anyways, he was waking
up when I left.”
Seemingly to herself, she sighed, “My boys.” His mom always had seemed to
grieve for her babes who were growing up only so they could slip away.
Bran didn’t think they were slipping away. How many families regularly traveled
together, ate together? Returned home on the weekends to be under the same roof
together again?
At least he wasn’t the youngest. He figured that, though his mom did her best
to restrain herself, Rickon would get the full blast of last-minute panic when
it sunk in that she’ll never watch another one of their recitals or games.
“What would Catelyn Stark do if she knew how I defiled her boy?”
He scuttled over to the counter, taking in what options of food remained.
Deciding on oatmeal, he scanned about for its ladle when he caught sight of the
kitchen window ahead. The SUV was sitting on the grass straight in front of
him, beyond the window. Was it really that close? That’s not so close actually.
Well, it is a little, it’s a little close.
Realized his arm had frozen mid-air, he snatched the ladle up and made a bowl.
He sat down next to Jojen, looking at no one.
“You sleep alright?” Jojen asked.
“Mhmm.”
After a few more bites, they heard Rickon blustering down the stairs. He came
peeling into the kitchen only to stop in his tracks when he spotted he was the
last to wake. Rickon had inherited their father’s honey brown hair, which at
the moment looked not its best as it seemed he had simply snapped his head off
the pillow before running down here and now was wishing he’d reconsidered. It
was too late for that, though, as Catelyn had already locked on target, tutting
as she went to find a comb.
Bran took the opportunity to wolf down the rest of his bowl and break away into
the front room.
 
Their wolf-dog Lady perked her head up from where she was lounging on the
floor. Evidently when the hiking group set out with the rest of the dogs, Lady
preferred to hang back with Sansa. Bran approached to scratch her ears, and she
returned the favor by licking at his fingers. “Come on, girl,” he said, leading
her outside with him so they could sit in the sun.
It was there Jojen joined him a few minutes later. Bran sat on the grass, his
back to where the cars were parked. Lady rested beside him enjoying herself a
thorough petting.
“Hey man.”
“Hey.”
Jojen wandered over and knelt down. Lady stretched to give him an obligatory
sniff before plopping her head down again.
“Your mother’s drowning Rickon in orange juice. Says it’s good for ‘growing
boys.’”
“Oh god.”
“Yep,” Jojen chuckled under his breath. He scratched Lady’s fur for her too.
“Where’d you go last night? I thought everybody went to sleep but I didn’t see
you.”
“Yeah,” Bran started, voice a little higher than maybe it should have been. He
hadn’t begun to piece out what or if he was going to tell Jojen. He had
probably been awake for something only around two hours since it happened. All
he knew was that he wasn’t discussing anything with anyone right now. He
cleared his throat. “I fancied a bit of time to myself. You know, it’s just so
much time with everyone.”
Jojen nodded slowly, petting Lady. “You should be glad you’re not Rickon, way
your mum is.”
“I know, I know.”
 
That evening, to wind down the day, the group had gravitated towards sitting
outside on the porch, enjoying the breeze while they chatted.
Bran hadn’t joined them yet. He was staring at himself in the mirror of the
cramped half-bath.
His hand smoothed over the peach fuzz sprouting along his jaw after two days’
neglect. Nowadays, Robb and Jon walked around with full beards neatly trimmed.
His didn’t grow like that. How old had Robb been when he had truly needed to
shave?
The day had passed alright. As he expected, Meera acted blissfully unaware that
anything was out of the ordinary. It almost felt sometimes like he forgot too.
Bran exited, closing the door carefully behind him. As he headed to the front
door to join everyone else out on the porch, Jon strolled out the kitchen and
stopped upon seeing him. “Bran. Quick word?”
“Uh…” Bran’s eyes flashed towards the open doorway where Jojen, sitting next to
Meera, caught sight of him and waved him over. “Sure.”
Howland came out of the kitchen behind Jon, shaking his hands dry after washing
them. He smiled politely as he scooched past them out the door.
“Up here.” Jon turned to make his way up to the second floor.
Outside, Robb vacated one of the chairs so that Howland might take it instead.
Bran held up a finger to signal to Jojen his delay before following after Jon.
 
“What’s up?” Bran asked as they walked into the room Jon was sharing with Robb.
The noise of the chatter died away when Jon shut the door.
This can’t be about last night. Jon doesn’t know anything…Whatever’s on his
mind must be something else.
Jon pondered the floor for a moment before he looked up. With those large, dark
Stark eyes of his. Bran stared back with own slightly lighter brown eyes. He
shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “What?”
Jon said, matter-of fact tone, “I know.”
Bran opened his mouth to say something to the contrary, but an inspired defense
to shut down this line of questioning didn’t present itself. All that came out
was, “What—Listen, I don’t know what you’re—”
“You’re not missing your wallet by any chance, are you?”
He felt the air freeze in his lungs. The wallet. He had made sure to bin the
condom, but his wallet? Had he had his wallet with him when he got upstairs
last night? No…Bran’s hand jumped to the back pocket of his jeans where he
might keep it. It lay flat, empty.
Jon was watching him, and what he saw seemed to solidify his suspicion. He
reached into his pocket and pulled out the wallet, holding it in front of him
for Bran to take. And Bran saw, under Jon’s thumb on the leather, was pressed a
thin shred of the purple wrapper.
His mouth fell open. I swore I got all of it.
What he had thrown away had looked like a complete square, albeit with an even
tear down almost an entire side. But had all the edges of the square been
manufacture-straight? He couldn’t remember. It had been so dark.
Jon nudged his hand forward again, tired of holding it out there. Bran took
them, wallet and wrapper shred, sliding them into his back pocket as his face
felt hot and he tried to think of something to say to undo Jon’s assumptions.
“Bran, believe me, I didn’t drag you up here to make fun or lord it over you.”
Jon’s eyebrows rose as he witnesses his brother seemingly visibly shrink before
his eyes. He tried to summon all the geniality and harmlessness his voice he
could muster. “But, after we got back this morning, I went to get a game for
your mother in the car. I opened the van up and this was right on the seat.”
Gods be good. “I’m just telling you to be careful, alright? If it had been your
mother who found it…” he trailed off.
Bran nodded his head, eyes cast low, and mumbled, “Right.”
“I’m just reminding you to, you know, be careful. Don’t be an idiot.”
“I thought I got all of it.”
“Well, you didn’t.” There was a small silence while Jon continued to watch him.
Bran inwardly grumbled that he needed to get over himself and calm down. He
sighed and met Jon’s gaze, trying to swallow his own awkwardness. There was a
hint of a smile on Jon’s face. He asked in an undertone, “Want to talk about
it?”
“No, no—”
“Okay,” Jon assured him, cutting him off. “No need to fret. I was just
checking.” Jon was straightening up, relaxing now.
Bran shot back, sounding touchy, “I mean, do you want to talk about that
wildling girl you hit it off with?”
“Yeah, why not? Her name’s Ygritte. I got her number. When I go back up north
for uni, she and I are going to go out.”
Bran shook his head. That didn’t convey his point. “Listen. Please, don’t tell
anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Please. No one. Not Robb, and definitely not Theon.”
“Okay. Of course. I won’t. I mean, I was going to tell Robb but if you don’t
want me to, I won’t. Promise.”
“Okay. Thanks. It’s just—” He inhaled, trying to explain himself.
They couldn’t know, the rest of them. They couldn’t. They would be smirking,
and they’d know Bran liked her. But they’d figure out eventually when nothing
happened that she didn’t like him, not for real. Only on holiday or in her room
if she had the time. He remembered Meera’s four poster bed in her room and
wished he could draw the curtains shut around them, keeping everyone else out.
“It’s not such a big deal.”
“I know but—but I don’t—it was just…It’s just a sort of one-off. I—we—it’s
not—”
Jon slid over to Bran and put his arm around his shoulders. “Relax. I only want
to tell you to be careful. It’d be a shame for you to—let’s say—break new
ground or whatever, only to have your mum throw you from the top of the cliffs
right after.” He shook Bran by the shoulders until, reluctantly and still with
his head bowed, Bran couldn’t help but to smile with him.
“Thanks.”
“Ah, teenagers,” Jon said, letting go of him. “Don’t be so glum. I have been
there, little Bran, I have been there.”
 
 
The_last_day
Only a few hours remained of the holiday.
Everyone had packed up their things for the most part. They sat in the front
living room, twiddling their thumbs while they waited for their parents to tell
them it was time. The adults were currently outside, quibbling over route
details.
Bran was glad of it. It was nice to see everyone but he desperately wanted the
solitude of his room for at least a few hours. Let himself decompress. While
Meera behaved perfectly normal with him, cordial, he found it stressful every
time, being reminded of how bizarre this all was. Now it was worse if Jon was
present as then he’d also be wondering what this must all look like to him.
Robb had started a game with Arya and Rickon on the coffee table. The players
needed to build a replica of the Wall out of paper blocks, save for the player
assigned as Night King whose job it was to undo their work. Sansa and Jon had
taken the dogs outside for a run in an effort to tire them out before the ride.
Robb, this game’s Night King, was reminding Arya and Rickon of the rules since
they seemed none too concerned with them.
A voice called from upstairs. “Bran.”
Bran had been absorbed in watching Arya and Rickon figure out how to cheat. He
swiveled his head around to see Meera standing by the second floor railing.
“I think I may have packed away some of your things in my suitcase by accident.
Will you have a look?”
“Okay.” He stood up to sneak past where Robb and the other two were huddled. No
one even paid him any attention, apart from Jojen who had turned his head
towards the stairs. The rest were too involved in the game.
“No, I’ve told you,” Robb said in his slower accent from their hometown. “You
can’t bend the pieces like that.”
“We’ve invented new technology. We’re advancing as a society.”           
“I’m telling you that is against the rules. Are you men of the Night’s Watch or
savages?”
Arya and Rickon added several more layers, aided by the fact that they were
bending the edges of the glossy paper, which had originally been intended to
slide off each other more easily.
“No! No, no,” Robb grumbled. “There’s no point. It’s not a game, now it’s just
a mess of paper.”
“The Night King throws a fit when he can’t win. It’s in their nature,” Rickon
said with a condescending shake of his head.
Bran reached the top of the stairs beside Meera.
She whispered to him, “Hang on a sec,” watching their tiff unfold with
amusement.
 “There!” Arya proclaimed when they finished, jumping up in triumph.
Robb sat back for a moment. Abruptly he charged forward, low, and scooped Arya
up over his shoulder. She yelled and kicked out, sending most of the Wall
flying as Rickon scrambled back.
The door opened just then and Jon stepped in, eyes widening in surprise.
“What’s this?”
Arya shouted out, “The Night King is attacking me,” from where she hung over
Robb’s back.
Bran glanced to the side where Meera was grinning, delighted. It made him
smile.
There was a split-second where Robb and Jon stared at each other, not moving.
Robb bolted and Jon went after him. As he cleared the doorway, the dogs came
pouring in, led by Sansa.
“Nymeria!”
Their pack always became a little too worked up whenever play among their
masters teetered too close to actual fighting for the dogs’ comfort. Arya’s
wolf-dog bound across the room in a flash. She leapt onto Robb, bringing Robb,
Arya, and Nymeria herself all crashing downwards as Jon skidded around them,
catching Arya before the side of her head could smack into a cabinet.
Nymeria scrambled to her feet, skittering back and forth at the ready if Robb
needed to be subdued again. Grey Wind pounced up onto the coffee table, over
the ruins of the Wall.
Bran’s senses suddenly honed in on the shadow of his mother careening up the
porch. He grabbed Meera’s hand. “Come on,” he said in a whisper. They just
receded out of sight as Catelyn burst in, making all the dogs sink lower
towards the floor.
“YOU DO REALIZE THAT THIS FURNITURE IS NOT OUR PROPERTY?”
Meera snickered silently as she opened a door on the second floor, letting Bran
in past her.
“WE’RE LEAVING IN TEN MINUTES, AND YOU DECIDE TO TRASH THE PLACE NOW?”
With her back to him, Meera quickly double-checked that everyone was
sufficiently occupied and that no one else was up here. When she shut the door,
the sounds of Stark kids trying to defend themselves became muted and
unintelligible. Although Catelyn’s orders to clean up the mess and start
loading the cars more or less came through, being at a louder volume after all.
This was like with Jon. Another person pulling him into a room to talk in
private. He hoped this would be the last one.
Though, he still hadn’t talked to Jojen.
The window in the girls’ room was close to the door. Bran drifted over to stand
by it. He could see the three cars parked in front of the house from here. His
father was shaking his head, unimpressed with the ruckus inside.
Meera turned back around and Bran looked away from the window. He stood by as
he waited for her to start.
After some deliberation, Meera said, “Hi,” her soft voice almost apologizing
that they hadn’t spoken alone for the last two days.
Bran had been wanting to speak with her, wanting to resolve the uncertainty of
it all, which he couldn’t help but find maddening. But now that she was here,
wringing her hands, he found he wanted it to be over already and to be back
downstairs. With people he hadn’t slept with, people who weren’t now wringing
their hands while they contemplated him, attempting damage control.
“Hey.”
She seemed to swell as she tried to find the words for whatever it was. Does
she think she needs to give me an ‘I’ll call?’ I didn’t ask for one…
“About the other night…” The tightness in her shoulders, the way she had a hard
time looking him in the eye—it was quite un-Meera-like. He was trying to be as
unobtrusive as possible, but it seemed Meera had already worked herself up into
this state before he got there, only temporary distracted by downstairs’
commotion. “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding quite dumb but,
anyways…I’m glad it happened.”
Slowly, he nodded. That wasn’t what she had brought him up here to tell him.
Hands in his pockets, he said, “Me too.” She smiled sweetly at that.
“I don’t—I don’t know what your expectations are. I’m still dating Tyrek.”
That wasn’t really a surprise.
Not that it made much sense to him. She hadn’t explained what she meant the
other night and he didn’t want to press it, as though he had hopes or delusions
about her intentions.
Since she was watching him, he offered, “Yeah,” and looked back towards her.
Apparently she was hanging on his every word, forgetting to breathe. He gave up
hope that they wouldn’t have to dissect this. “I understand. It’s…fine.” Her
face brightened. “No big deal.” Too much. That had been a misstep, going by the
nearly imperceptible way her brow furrowed.
“Well…” she went on tentatively. “I was sort of hoping that we might keep this
between us.”
He caught a glimpse of outside. Out the window, Ned and Robb were tossing in
packs into the boot of the SUV. The dogs were barking as Sansa and Arya
attempted to divvy them up. Meera noticed too.
“Jon knows.”
“You told him?” She had kept her tone easy, trying to steer clear from
accusatory.
He ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “Not exactly. I may have left
a…little bit of the wrapper behind.” Her eyes grew wide. He hurried on, “Well,
Jon found it. He promised not to say anything.”
“Oh. Okay.” She bit her lip, thinking. “He won’t tell Robb?”
“He said he won’t.”
She paled. “He won’t tell Theon, will he?”
“Pff.” That, Bran could wave off without much worry. Jon didn’t think much of
Theon. He’d never betray Bran’s trust to him. Robb—maybe, but definitely not
Theon. Meera looked reassured.
Are you asking me not to tell Jojen? Bran opened his mouth, trying to phrase
this right since he wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to tell Jojen.
Meera understood before he said anything and added, “I’m not—I’m only saying
maybe we don’t, you know, publicize anything. Might make things a bit awkward.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not telling you to lie to Jojen or anything. I wouldn’t ask that of you.”
“Okay…because he’s my best friend.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “I get it. No worries. He and I are good.”
There was a lull. Bran decided this made for sufficient scrutiny for the week
over this little caper. He started towards the door behind her, saying, “Look,
we probably should—” She swiveled in place so he bumped against her when he
made to pass. Steadying, he looked down at her, plaintive. Why did she have to
draw this out?
When she didn’t say anything, he sighed. “Meera…”
One of her hands reached up to play with the hair above the back of neck. She
scanned over his face, like she was committing it to memory. She said, her
mouth curving in a sad smile, “I’m going to miss you.”
“…We’ll see each other still. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
But it won’t be the same.
Jojen’s voice called up from downstairs. “Meera, Bran, come on. We’re almost
ready to go.”
Not looking away, she hollered back, “OKAY.”
Now Meera looked sad. She said, “Have a good year at uni then.”
“I—”
Before he could say anything she pulled his head down, bringing his mouth to
hers.
He felt tall when he kissed her, something he didn’t feel often. It made him
feel a little handsome.
They knew they had to go downstairs. But every time one turned away to stop,
the other tugged them back. Bran pulled her in closer, knowing this was it,
this was the very last moment.
“Sansa,” Ned voice said outside. “Will you run upstairs and get them?”
Jon interjected, “I’ll do it.”
Meera rested her brow against him, letting out her breath. He shut his eyes, if
just for a second.
They heard the snap of the front door falling shut. Meera made to move off to
the side but Bran caught her and spun her back, clasping her face by the side
to catch one final kiss, one which Meera giggled into, simultaneously pushing
away on his chest while kissing him back, trying to get the most of him in the
brief interlude. Then she drew off, took an unbalanced step backwards and
hurried over to her bed. She threw her suitcase onto it, having used it as the
flimsy pretense.
There was a soft knock on the bedroom door. “Bran? Meera? Are you in there?”
“Yeah,” Bran called back as a reflex. He glanced to Meera and she nodded,
setting her hair right. Bran cleared his throat and opened the door.
Jon slouched behind the doorway. “Hey, sorry. Father wants to get a move on.
Says any later and we’ll get stuck in the Kingsroad traffic.”
Bran stepped out into the landing. “Yeah, no, I’m ready.”
“Yup, got all my stuff sorted,” Meera said, unembarrassedly committed to the
farce. She lugged her suitcase past them, smacking Bran’s arms affectionately
as she passed. “Thanks for your help.”
Bran let her get a head start downstairs. Jon put his hand on his shoulder
sympathetically.
Averting his eyes, a muscle tensed in his jaw before he nodded impatiently to
Jon.
 
Howland and Jojen had just finished up their goodbyes. Jojen bent low to play
with Shaggydog. Meera was finishing hers up, hugging Arya who was blurting out
her farewells against Meera’s shoulder.
She had Jon next to say goodbye to. She paused in front of him, shrugging in
her shoulders with a sheepish smile, almost blushing. He dismissed her self-
consciousness with a cheerful, ‘bah!’ and brought her in for a hug, the
standard back-pat. Relieved, she seemed to glow, waving him away fondly when
they pulled apart.
Now she just had to say goodbye to Bran and the three cars would take off.
She faced him. He resigned himself to this little formality.
He thought her expression was one of affection but it was hard to tell with her
sometimes. What was going on behind her eyes could be affection, it could be
guilt. She said, “Have fun at uni.”
For some unknown reason, an urge to say something along the lines of ‘have fun
with your boyfriend’ popped into his head. But, almost certainly for the
better, both his brother and her brother were right there. So he kept the
impulse to himself. He sighed and stepped closer to her, giving her an upper-
back hug. She reciprocated, gave his shoulders only the slightest squeeze.
It was weird, to feel her body pressed against his. His mind stressed the
memory of his platonic relationship with Meera but that wasn’t what his body
recalled.
Her hair felt nice where it touched his face and jaw, springy.
“Bye Bran.”
She let go and he took a step back.
Jon retreated and hopped into the SUV front passenger seat. The holiday was
already over.
“Bye Meera.”
After a pause, she looked away from him, joining her father in the jeep.
Bran saw Jojen hadn’t walked off yet, staring at the ground instead. He glanced
up and found Bran.
“So, I’ll see you next week.”
“Yeah, see you back at school,” Bran said, an uneasy twinge in his chest.
“Okay.” Jojen regarded his father and sister waiting for him. “Later then.”
“Later.” Bran gave him a hasty wave. Jojen returned a nod, then traipsed over
to his dad’s car while Bran chewed the inside of his lip.
“Bran,” Ned prompted from the driver’s seat of the SUV.
Bran hadn’t been paying attention when they split into the different cars. Robb
and Catelyn were taking Sansa and a few of the dogs in the second car. It took
Bran a second, mind elsewhere, to realize he was in the SUV party.
Rickon and Arya seated themselves in the middle row. Normally Bran would have
shunted Rickon into the back row where Ghost was napping. But this time he was
only too happy to give Rickon a pass. Arya slid the seat forward so he could
crawl in the back.
He ruffled Ghost’s shaggy white fur as he sat down. Ghost was either too asleep
or too serene to open his eyes. The other dogs going in this car sniffed at the
back of Bran’s head from behind the back row. Summer licked his ear.
Jon twisted in his seat up front, eying Bran deliberately. Bran meant to stare
back in defiance. But, he decided he’d rather not. He coughed and kept his head
down. 
***** Jojen's Dorm *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera, Gendry – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya –
     20. Bran, Jojen – 19. Rickon – 15.
     Mood: Death in Vegas – Girls
“Bran, what do you think of the name The Whitesmile Stripes?”
“The what now?”
“Pod wants the band’s name to be The Whitesmile Stripes. Sounds a bit
derivative in my opinion. What do you think?”
Bran had been swiveling a pen back and forth over his fingers, tapping it
across his knee. He sat on Jojen’s dormitory bed having decided that, rather
than read any course syllabi, he preferred to space out, privately thinking to
himself, while Jojen went about tidying up his dorm.
It was their first day back at university. Most everyone had arrived last night
and thrown their things back into their old dorms. As had Jojen, and as had his
roommate Donnel.
Donnel had started the year straight away by vowing to Jojen that this year
their room would not be falling back into its usual aura of ‘recently
ransacked,’ which is how Jojen who didn’t pay attention to such things normally
left it.
Bran blinked dully for a second before re-catching the last of what Jojen had
said.
“Derivative of what?”
“Pshh. You don’t know bands.”
Jojen tossed a stray note into the trashcan. He was rifling through the heap of
papers that had eventually come to bury his desk during their first year. Jojen
had the tendency to scribble down creative inspirations as they occurred to
him, thinking he’d comb over them later. Most of the notes regarded the band in
which he played drums, though some pertained to solo ideas. He flipped over
receipts and scraps of paper, scanning over what he’d written so as to choose
whether they would go to the bin or to the pile of keepers.
This was Bran’s first day back with him as well. He was going to tell him about
what happened with Meera, he meant to. He had decided as much during the last
week of summer holiday he’d spent brooding around his parents’ house in King’s
Landing. Before Jon returned to the North, he made an effort to coax Bran into
lightening up and unwinding with the rest of them. But the special attention
had only served to darken his mood.
“Will you stop? I am not sulking. We just spent a week shoulder-to-shoulder,
give me some room.” And, through gritted teeth, “This is not about what
happened at the Fingers. Now will you please get out of my room?”
There was a little truth to that. It wasn’t Meera who weighed prominent on
Bran’s mind right now. He still couldn’t quite put into words how he felt about
that, if he felt anything. Under normal circumstances, one of the stages of
processing the events would have been confiding it to Jojen.
 
When they were 15, Jojen had biked over to Bran’s on the night of their last
day of school. He had been the first between them to kiss someone. He shared
with Bran about how he and their mate Liane had found themselves alone after
graduation, and how the silence in the empty music room had led to a kiss.
“What was it like?”
“Honestly, kind of weird.”
When they were 16, Jojen had asked Bran one night, “Can I tell you something?”
“Yeah.”
“You know that poetry jam thing I went to the other night, the one you didn’t
want to go to? I ran into Lucas Blackwood there.”
He had told the story about how they saw each other there at the café. How they
had decided to leave, walking the way home, making fun of the more hackneyed
attempts from the session. How he’d been caught off guard when, hidden in a
shadow out of reach from the streetlamps, the two of them wound up hastily
making out before Lucas had run off.
For a few months, Bran had been the only person Jojen shared that realization
with.
And when they were 15 at a camp, Bran had had his first kiss. But it had been
with Meera and he told Jojen not a word. They were 19 now and, still, he had
shared nothing and lied when Jojen asked if anything was bothering him.
 
Jojen rattled on, disregarding Bran’s lousy job as a sounding board. “I was
thinking of names. I think we should go with something like Mouse Rat King. But
none of the lads went for it. Preferring sound over substance—surprise
surprise.”
“What does that name
mean?”                                                          
“It’s not about meaning something. It’s about making a statement.”
“…How can it make a statement if it doesn’t mean anything?”
Jojen sighed exasperatedly. Even with those who understood him, chiefly Bran
and Meera, he still had to water down the more visionary of his musings. “The
words don’t mean anything. The words together mean something.”
“Which is…?”
“It’s about repurposing the old texts. It asks how, or if, our inherited
ancient morality constructs are applicable to us, living in this day and age.”
Jojen looked to him, expectant. “You see? So which name do you think is
better?”
“The first one, I’m indifferent to. Yours…I’m also indifferent to.”
Rolling his eyes, Jojen said, “Now that’s some input I’ll be sure to mention
when we’re picking a name. That could be the deciding factor.”
“I think you should let your thesis be your thesis and your band be your band.”
“No. That’s where you’re wrong, mate,” Jojen said, shaking his head as he
leaned back in his desk chair, reading something he’d scribbled on the back of
an envelope. “Music shouldn’t be hollow beat fetishism. It’s about art, about
saying something.”
Not being able to help himself, Bran muttered, “The only statement that is
making is self-indulgent over-analysis of name pretensions.”
Jojen grumbled disapprovingly as he chucked the envelope into the trash.
Bran stared out the dorm window by his side. “Hey, um…”
“Mhmm?”
“…What do you think of the bloke Meera is dating?”
Jojen shrugged. “Seems fine. Nothing special.”
“Good guy?”
With a bit of an impatient bite in his tone, Jojen said slowly, “He’s not an
evil man.” He lifted up a notebook on the desk, spilling the ash tray hidden
underneath it. “Fuck.” He attempted to brush the ash off without sending the
remaining papers flying.
“I mean do you like him?”                        
“What, for me?” 
“No, no. Like, do you two get on?”
“Can’t say. Haven’t really hung out with him. He seems kind of boring. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Hmm?”
It took Bran a second to grasp that Jojen was pressing the question. Turning
from the window he replied back with his own, “Hmm?” 
“Why do you want to know about my relationship
with Meera’s boyfriend?” Jojen spared Bran a glance in between scanning the
papers in his hand.
Alright, here we go. Out with it.
But Bran procrastinated again, not wanting it to seem like he was vetting
Jojen’s reaction. Which he was.
“Oh, well it’s just—” he invented at random, “I heard Arya asking our mum if
she could bring a guy home. And I—I didn’t really have a reaction, I guess.”
“Why would this be a new thing for you?”
“What?”
“Sansa’s already dated tons of guys.”
“Yeah well, I suppose I expected that. Arya though, she’s more a tomboy. I
guess…she’s kind of like Meera in that way…” He trailed off, the comparison
only just occurring to him and making him a bit uncomfortable.
“Bran, is there something you want to tell me?”
“Is there…?”
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Jojen repeated, by all appearances
still paying more attention to the crumpled notes than to Bran’s train wreck of
explanation.
Jojen finished sorting the handful of papers he had been working on, placed
them down, and looked up. He had never been adverse to confrontation, always
straight forward. Unlike most people, Jojen was able to stare someone down
without needing to make a face or look away. Bran, however, moved his eyes onto
his own feet on the bed.
Jojen waited.
Not wanting the moment to keep expanding, Bran managed, “Yeah.”
Jojen’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly as if to say ‘go on.’
“I slept with Meera.”
The sentence had a jarring, gawky ring to it. Bran repressed half of the wince
that popped up across his face at the sound. He made to meet Jojen’s eyes but
glanced away and back again. Maybe staring straight-on would be aggressive
coming from his side.
After a loaded pause, Jojen’s eyes returned to the now less-messy desk in front
of him and resumed making sense of the piles. “I know.”
“Oh…Meera told you?”
“Pfft, no. She never tells me anything.”
“But—”
“It’s a bit obvious, innit? Have you seen the way you two look at each other?
It’s like you’re sucking each other off right there and then.” 
Bran shuddered, “Euh!”
Jojen ignored him. “It happened over holiday, didn’t it?”
“...Yes.”
“Figured.” Jojen leaned back, taking a stack of papers in his hands and began
to inspect piece after piece, occasionally tossing one away. 
“You’re...you’re not mad?”
“Mad at what?” 
“About it, you’re not mad?”
“About you sleeping with someone? No, why would I be mad? About my sister
sleeping with someone? No. Again, why would I be mad?” Bran wanted to consider
the matter finally settled, to feel the relief he had been counting on. But
Jojen was flitting through the papers a little faster than was necessary. He
couldn’t even be really usefully assessing them, swiping through them at that
rate. “That being said,” Jojen added at last, “what I do not appreciate is
being lied to.” 
“I didn’t—”
“Did Arya really ask about bringing a boy home?”
Bran’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, no. But I was just testing the waters. I
wasn’t going to actually keep that up.”
“Testing the waters?”
“I don’t knoww. Some guys get angry—there are rules and stuff—I just wanted a
sense of how you’d react.”
“And if it looked like I’d react badly?”
“I don’t know,” Bran grumbled. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”
Jojen huffed. He let the pile of papers lay against his chest as he started
picking at the threads of his trouser-knees.
“I’ve thought you had a thing for my sister for a while now but—whatever—I
didn’t know if it was just Meera enjoying the attention or what. It’s not my
business. Although I will point out that you’ve told me about the three other
girls you’ve slept with so this omission feels targeted.”
“I’m sorry, alright? I just sort of psyched myself out. I didn’t mean to hide
anything maliciously.”
Jojen clicked his tongue, irritated. “Bran, Meera’s a grown woman. I am not her
keeper. I’m not going to chase after every guy she sets her eyes on down the
street with a spear. You though…” Now it was Jojen’s lack of eye contact which
alarmed Bran. “You’re my best friend and it’s not cool that you’re treating me
like some fragile nutcase you have to handle with care.” 
“No! No, that wasn't it.”
“No? No—you weren’t dancing around, trying to hide what’s going on from me?”
“It wasn’t about you, it was aboutme. I don’t like confrontation. Ifelt
embarrassed. I felt like I kept something from you. I didn’t tell you when your
sister kissed me four years ago at camp because it kind of felt like…like it
was just a joke. And if it wasn’t real, why would I tell anyone? It’s
embarrassing…It’s just highlighting how I’m not good enough for your
sister.” Jojen looked up again, brow furrowed. “She kissed me again a few years
after that but, still, it felt like...”
He had wondered if it was only a laugh to her even then. Like she just wanted
to see if she could rile him up. But when he had slid his hands under her skirt
and felt her, he had found her slick with wet. When her eyes shut, they opened
again blown wide in excitement. Her breathing had grown fast, shallow.
Somehow, he figured he needn’t highlight such details here.
“It still didn’t feel like anything real. And then what happened on holiday
just...sort of happened. All of a sudden. I didn’t plan to keep anything from
you. That’s why I’m telling you. I’m sorry.”
“...Alright…” Then, raising his eyebrows in exasperation at the desk, Jojen
mumbled sarcastically, “No need to get so emotional.”
Bran leaned against the dormitory wall beside Jojen’s bed, cheered. His
features relaxed as, at last, he felt the guilt of inadvertent secret-keeping
begin to ebb away.
An idea for a dig occurred to him. He wondered if they were back to normal
enough for him to try it. With the hint of a smile, he ventured, “So…wanna hear
about it?”
Jojen shut his eyes as he sighed. “Gross, dude.”
***** Greywater *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 24. Theon – 23. Meera – 22. Sansa – 21. Arya, Jojen – 20.
     Bran – 19. Rickon – 15.
     Mood: The National [aka Rains of Castamere band] – Lemonworld;
     Evenings – Friend (Lover)
Greywater
In the small town of Greywater, tucked away in the southern outskirts of the
North, the two Reeds had stepped onto the train platform no more than half an
hour ago. Greywater’s railway stop consisted of little more than the platform
and its adjacent parking lot. Only outdated, local trains stopped here. Not
like the large, sleek stations of Winterfell, King’s Landing, and Oldtown, in
between which bullet trains were constantly speeding back and forth.
It had been over a year since Meera had made the trip to the remote backwater
where her parents had both grown up. But a month after classes resumed came the
four-day weekend surrounding the festival of The Mother. Feeling pressured by
Jyana’s not-so-subtle reminders, this time Meera tagged along with Jojen who
had already agreed to take the train up from King’s Landing.
Despite the holiday not being native to them, the national days off work and
constant advertisements nudged Northerners into mostly honoring the holiday’s
most basic custom and paid homage to their mothers. Except in the northernmost
reaches where life carried on, untouched by Andal culture and where Old Tongue
phrases were heard peppered into the conversations at local pubs, even
Northerners felt compelled to at least give their mothers a phone call.
 
Once deposited in the main house of their grandparents’ farm and shunted along
to the kitchen table, Meera and Jojen could do little but sit, side by side,
waiting for the initial wave of fussing and questioning to subside.
A few of their cousins were in town, The Mother’s Day having inadvertently
turned into a mini-family reunion.
Their grandmother, mother, and Aunt Nell meant to make the most of it. The
three of them wasted no time in getting the mandatory questions about Meera’s
impending graduation and Jojen’s developing thesis out of the way.
Meera set the cup they had wedged into her hands down on the table. “Jojen and
I should really put our things away before tea.”
Jojen made to stand but halted as their mother cut in, “Tsst. Put your things
away in a moment, we haven’t seen you for even five minutes yet.”
Wary, he sank back down again. Jojen liked spending time with his sister. He
liked spending time with his mother. But not together.
They may have appeared very different at first glance. Normally, you would find
Jyana sitting with her legs tucked underneath her, quietly reading, whereas you
would probably find Meera doing something like recklessly testing if she could
indeed outrun a lizard-lion. But at their core, they were too similar to get
along. Their mutual stubbornness only made it that much more of a headache to
witness one of their quarrels.
“Meera,” their grandmother began once they had cleared the preliminaries. “Tell
us about your Lannister boy I’ve been hearing about.”
Meera’s polite expression grew wooden.
Not a great start. Jojen thought that, by now, they might have caught on to the
fact that Meera did not care for being discussed her behind her back.
“Who’s been talking to you about a Lannister boy, Nana?” Meera asked, knowing
full well what the answer would be.
Jyana shrugged matter-of-factly before their nan could answer. “Well, of course
I told them you’re seeing Darly’s son.”
“Darlessa,” their grandmother murmured, sipping her tea. “How Darlessa ended up
with a catch like that Tygett Lannister when you dated him first, I’ll never
know.”
Apparently that detail had not been known to Meera.
“You went out with Tyrek’s father?” she spluttered. “That’s why you wanted to
set us up?”
“Oh, no, no. That was ages ago. We didn’t even date. We went out on a double
date, me and Darly. But we fancied a switch, I preferred his friend and they
were more compatible with each other anyways. Gods, I can’t even remember the
name of his friend anymore.”
“Preston, it was,” Aunt Nell said.
“That’s it. That’s the one. Preston Greenfield. I wonder what he’s up to.”
“Never married from what I’ve heard.”
Jojen chewed the inside of his lip. There was something rehearsed about how
quickly they had switched to the topics of dating and marriage, something which
they had begun to press on Meera during her last year at university and which
always led to an argument.
“Jyana, how old were you again when you got married?”
“I was 22. We waited until graduation, but we got married before either of us
had started to work full-time.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jojen caught Meera shooting him a rather bleak
look. He chuckled under his breath out of sympathy.
She couldn’t help herself. Picking up her tea for a sip, she hummed, “Hmm, and
how did that work out for you?”
“Meera.”
Barely repressing a snarl, she shot back, “What?”
Jojen set to quietly calculating the different directions this could turn as
another round of quibbles came pouring over Meera, already gripping her mug in
a clenched fist.
“You act like your family wanting to know how you are is such an imposition.”
“We only want to check up on you. Is it so wrong that we want to know if you
two get along?”
 “You know, Meera, we rarely see you. You never call.”
“Just tell us, is he kind?”
“Would you say he’s better or worse than Leo?”
“More important, is he handsome?”
Meera said, terse, “Yes, fine. He’s all of those things.”
Jyana sighed loudly. “We only want to check if you’re happy. So sorry.”
“I would be happier if you would stop pestering me.”
                                                                    
Their grandmother clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t talk back to your mother
on The Day of the Mother.”
Having had enough, Meera hopped up. “We don’t even pray to The Mother,” she
snapped. She swung her bag over her shoulder and strode out of the kitchen,
down the hall.
They tutted under their breath, turning their faces now to Jojen.
“Long train ride,” he brushed off. Getting to his feet to excuse himself at
last, he added, “Meera and I should probably stretch our legs out before it
gets dark actually.”
 
It had been ages since either of them had returned to the creek behind their
grandparents’ estate. As kids they had camped in most of the tree houses hidden
within the marshy forest back there. Some of those had even been built by their
late grandfather, most built long before. They probably shouldn’t have used
them at all, at least not without testing the foundations. But they had been
small then and without true appreciation of their own fragility, even with
Jojen’s condition. It wasn’t until seeing the metal braces that had been set
around Bran’s legs they began to give hypothetical adventures’ safety some
consideration before steaming ahead.
Jojen wondered if any of their old maps were still out there.
As they reached the end of the field, the beginning of wet earth around the
creek, Meera kicked off her sandals to step into the clear water. The water
only came up to their calves here but deepened around the bend up ahead.
She patted down her pockets. Twisting around, she asked him, “Did you bring any
fags?” He shook his head no. “Damn.”
“Mum will have some.”
“Sod that.”
Deciding he didn’t feel like getting wet, Jojen began to follow her progress
alongside the bank. Both of them were in shorts, although Jojen paired his
shorts with a hoodie, perpetually cold as he was.
“Do you want to go into town to get some?”
“Nah.”
Meera waded down the creek in the direction they usually wandered. Some of the
bog had changed over the seasons, but many of the boulders and even the
behavior of the current were as familiar as they had ever been.
Grinning, he said, “Maybe we’ll go next time the inquisition starts up again.”
She spun around in the water, facing him as she paced backwards. “Did you hear
them in there?! Honestly.”
“They’re just a bit over excited.”              
“Puh. They’re empty-nesting. They only want me to throw out my entire life so I
can provide them with a diversion.”
“I know,” he said, sincere. “But they’ll calm down.”
“If they don’t, I’ll have to find them a new cat. Or I suppose they could
always get—oh, I don’t know—a hobby?”
“Mee-ra.”
“Do you not think they’re being incredibly selfish with all that baby cravings
nonsense?”
“Baby cravings,” he repeated, laughing lightly at the sound of it.
As they approached the first bend, she grumbled, “The nerve.”
“They don’t mean it intentionally.”
“Is that any better? ‘It’s not selfish because it never even occurred to them
to consider you in the first place?’”
“Noo. I’m not saying that. I’m just saying maybe try to be the bigger person.
Don’t let them get to you.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It is. It is easy for me to say which is why I won’t harp on about it.”
They reached the turn where the creek deepened out on one side, deep enough to
swim in and use the swinging rope someone had fixed to an overhanging branch.
The bank rose higher above the water level here. Jojen found himself a tree
root along the ridge that worked as a less muddy place to sit.
“Can I ask you about him, or will I just be adding to the fire?”
She said, in a voice of mock-gravity as she tried to spot the little fish that
lived here, “You may ask.”
“Are you dating him for them or for you?”
Meera shrugged. “Probably a bit of both. He’s not too bad. And it’s nice
because he’s like me; he doesn’t really want the kind of serious relationship
his parents are pushing on him either.”
Under the water, her feet edged around where the creek floor dipped.
“Should I go under?”
“No.”
Meera plunged in headfirst anyways. Shirt, shorts, and all. He grumbled as he
waited for her to reemerge, her head breaking the surface towards the center of
the pool.
“Ho-ly fuck. It’s freezing.”
“You’d have thought the water around your feet would have told you that, huh?”
“It’s colder over here.” She shook the hair out of her face. “I’m just
kidding,” she said, audibly shivering. “Jump in, the w-water’s fine.”
Jojen swung his legs lazily underneath his perch. “You’re a nut.”
She kicked out, gliding towards his bank.
When she made it back to their side, clothes soaked, hair dripping and
bedraggled, he said, “Mum will be real impressed.”
Her face lit up. “Yeahh. Maybe she’ll realize no man will ever have such a
creature and her hopes will be crushed.”
 
Jojen’s hoodie hung off Meera’s wet shoulders as they made their way back. Even
with the water as cold as it was, they had dawdled longer than was necessary.
By the time they cleared the forest and were heading back across the field
towards the house, the sun was well on its way to setting in a peach sky.
Meera paused in the field to pay the sight a moment’s notice, uncoincidentally
drawing out the time before she had to go back and behave herself. “Can you see
any stars yet?”
Jojen stopped too. “Not yet. Still too bright.”
“On a clear night you can see the brightest stars already. But not with the
clouds and the light.”
He glanced to the side at her before lowering his eyes, jaw tight. She did make
him appreciate little physical details he might have otherwise missed.
He murmured, reciting, “There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I
said to the star, ‘Consume me.’”
“What’s that?”
“It’s from a book.”
She gave him an impressed sort of look before resuming their march back to the
house. The sky had begun to darken.
“Meera.”
She peered over her shoulder to listen, arms crossed over her chest to keep
warm.
“There’s something I want to say.”
“Is it about them?” she asked, jerking her head towards the house.
“No.”
She shifted her feet around to complete the turn, facing him. Then, with a
little smile, she shooed away a chicken that had come over to inspect them.
“I know you’re grown. I know Bran’s grown.”
Her smile faded.
“I don’t think it’s my place to tell you what to do. And I know Bran can make
his own decisions…But he’s my friend, and I don’t want to see him get hurt.”
“I—”
“Wait, just listen.” She nodded, mouth zipping shut. “It’s not that I think
you’d lead him on. It’s just, well, seeing as he’s my best friend, I think I
know him pretty well. Better than you, or most people for that matter…And I
think he really likes you. More than you may realize. And,” he continued, with
the shadow of a fond smile flickering across his face, “he can be a bit of an
idiot. Say he’s fine when he’s clearly not—that sort of thing. He’s got a bit
of tunnel-vision when it comes to you. So it’s possible, no matter how fair you
might think you’re being, or even objectively are being, that what he sees and
what you see aren’t the same. Just thought you should keep that in mind.”
Meera looked off to the side, uncomfortable.
He tacked on, “I don’t mean to pry.”
“Not prying,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “but it feels like a shitty thing to do. I
was just talking about how selfish they are, meanwhile I…I’m sorry.”
Normally, Meera was quick to hotly reject an attempt to reign her in. She said
that what people really meant when they chided ‘act like a lady’ was ‘sit down
and hush up.’
But never with Jojen. He wasn’t like them, and their relationship was singular.
Maybe it was because the two of them alone had swung back and forth in between
their father’s and mother’s homes. Or maybe their parents were just clueless.
For whatever reason, it felt like they had raised each other, more so than by
their parents.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug, his face
rather somber. Even with his footing beneath hers on the field’s slight
incline, her face came up only to his shoulder. He pressed a kiss onto the side
of her head, resigned to the fact that he couldn’t help.
He didn’t know what it was that was bothering her, and Meera didn’t like those
kind of questions. It could be Bran, their family, the way she couldn’t stand
their mother anymore, her boyfriend, or something else. Maybe it was a
combination.
If she wanted to confide in him, she didn’t know how. So instead, she merely
hugged him back, grip perhaps a little tighter than usual.
He waited, giving her the time to turn her thoughts over, her hair dripping on
him.
 
Meera wasn’t someone who cried. The only times he could remember seeing her cry
was if she had been caught off guard, shaken by a sudden adrenaline rush, or if
something went wrong with Jojen that was beyond her help.
She hadn’t cried the night they overheard the hushed argument.
They had listened, unseen, crouched on the stairs. From behind the study’s
closed door, their parents’ familiar voices sounded different. Drained,
wretched.
Eventually, when Meera had heard enough, she grabbed Jojen by his collar and
dragged him back to his room. She had seethed, either at their parents or at
the world, when she realized he was crying.
She had tried to talk him out of it. Convince him everything was fine, shield
him. He wasn’t stupid though. He knew their life would change, probably the
worse for them but, maybe, the better for their parents. Meera had seemed more
burdened by his reaction than by anything else. He didn’t want to cause her
distress. But he knew, also, that the only thing holding it all in would
achieve would be allowing the bitterness to fester.
The day their father moved out, all four of them drove to his new house, Jojen
in Howland’s car and Meera in Jyana’s. Their parents wanted them to know where
Howland was and how to get there, worried that otherwise it might seem like he
had disappeared.
“You two will spend the weekend here,” Jyana said as they stepped outside their
father’s new place having given it a once-over. Movers already had put most of
the furniture into place.
Jojen nodded. Meera said nothing.
Their mother gave them a gentle push. “Say goodbye now.”
Howland hugged each of them in turn. While Meera held onto him tightly, he
rubbed her back, knowing she hated every step of this. “It’s only a fifteen
minute drive. And I’ll be driving you home tomorrow from school, alright?”
Still, she said nothing.
When she stepped back, Jojen extended his hand to her. He led her away, back to
their mother’s car, leaving their parents to figure out their own goodbye.
Jojen knew anything anyone could say right now would just make her angry, so he
stayed silent. Her breathing had sounded choppy beside him, but she wouldn’t
cry. Meera wasn’t a crier.
 
King’s_Landing
It was Sunday, a few hours before Robb would drive Bran out to his campus to
drop him off.
Jon hadn’t bothered coming down from the North this weekend. He never took any
joy in the Day of the Mother or the Day of the Father, the nation-wide reminder
of his parents’ passing leading him to brood. At least now he could take solace
that his girlfriend was a wildling, and her people cared not one fig about the
Andal holidays.
Catelyn had instructed Bran to help Ned and Robb in the backyard where the two
of them were attempting to cut down the dead tree which had fallen to blight.
Really, Catelyn just wanted him to watch so he could learn. But, not feeling
interested, Bran lied, saying he would get to it in a minute, and went upstairs
to lie down in his room. Sometimes he missed his room when at university.
He had closed his eyes for a few minutes, just starting to drift off, when
there was a knock on his door.
“Mum, I told you. I’ll get to it in a minute.”
Completely unexpected to Bran, it was Meera’s voice that replied when the door
opened. “Is that anyway to speak to your mother on this holy day?”
He gaped at her before sitting up on his bed. “Meera. What are you doing here?”
She swiveled around to shut the door behind her. His mind reeled in all manner
of unseemly places, which he mostly disliked more than liked. Mostly.
Facing him again, her mouth broke into a gracious, almost embarrassed smile at
the look he was giving her. “I told your mum I was dropping off Jojen’s
inhaler, so you give it to him at uni for me.” She drew in a deep breath,
taking in the surroundings of his room as she brought up her hands, wringing
them before her chest. Bran sat motionless, still disoriented from her sudden
appearance. “I think I owe you an explanation. It’s possible—possible—that my
behavior towards you might come across as a bit…erratic.”
She studied him for a second, most likely not getting much of a read from his
blank face, before pressing on. “What happened, on holiday…I mean, I feel a bit
bad that I—that I’ve been pretty brash. And my little explanations avoid
explaining anything.”
A new version of the full scenario clicked into place. He swallowed, his gaze
dropping to the floor.
“Meera, it’s fine.”
“What’s fine?”
“If you…I get it.”
“You get what?”
“If you were…” He wasn’t sure how to say this delicately. “If you were working
out some issues or something, like a disagreement you and Tyrek had
or…whatever.”
Meera lowered her hands.
“You think I slept with you as a means to assert myself with someone else?”
He glanced nervously at her. She looked taken aback.
When he didn’t answer, she said, “Well, I’m glad I came to clear the air.
Bran…my behavior towards you only has to do with me and you. No one else.”
The room was quiet.
“I know I flip on and off with you. I suppose I…I don’t think anything should
happen between us,” she said quickly, her voice soft as she finished. They both
had grown quite still. “I just don’t think it would be wise.”
He gave her a nod, chewing that over.
“And I guess, if that’s how I feel, the logical question is why did I start
things with you in the first place.” She made to say something but her voice
caught in her throat and she turned her face down, grumbling, “Nope. Can’t do
it.”
“Do what?”
“I can’t. I can’t say it.” With surprise, he saw that her cheeks had started to
flush. “I thought about writing it out but that’s just too preschool.”
“What is it?”
“Well, in order to give some sort of explanation of why I sort-of-accidentally
kept starting things with you even though I don’t think it’s wise, I’d have to
admit that you’re kind of hot. Which I would never do.”
He felt a smile spread over his lips in spite of himself.
He agreed, “Never.”
“Never.” She peeked at him, cheery and embarrassed. “Bran…I’m sorry if I’ve
been weird.”
“No—”
“I really wouldn’t want things to be weird between us.” Her face was sincere,
something imploring and actually quite worried surfacing. “I would hate myself.
I really like you, in general and as Jojen’s friend. And I like your family. I
wouldn’t want you to feel unwelcome at Jojen’. Or uncomfortable at the holiday
stuff.”
“Meera, I’m fine,” he said, though his voice had gone a little dry. “Stop
worrying. So…so we fooled around? Shit happens. It doesn’t have to be a big
deal.”
“Yeah.” She was watching him, wringing her hands again. “Well, if I cross the
line, if I make things weird, you will tell me?” He nodded again. “Well then…I
best be off. Before your mum asks why it takes this long to hand you an
inhaler.”
“I’ll walk you down.”
“No, no. No need.”
“No, really,” he said, already up. He moved to open the door behind her but she
put her hands on his before he could reach it, stopping him.
Her dark eyes roamed upwards to meet his.
Her lips parted when she breathed. He knew what he wanted to do, and knew she
had just asked him not to.
He closed his mouth. Her eyes flit to his throat and back before, letting out
an exasperated sigh, she took a step back. She shook her head impatiently at
herself.
“I’ll see you.”
“Yeah.” Now his voice really had dried.
Her hands groped behind her and managed to find the doorknob. Before turning
around, she gave him that apologetic smile again. “Bye.”
***** Maiden's Day *****
Chapter Summary
     Robb, Jon – 26. Theon – 25. Meera, Gendry – 24. Sansa – 23. Arya –
     22. Bran, Jojen – 21. Rickon – 17.
     Mood: Gavin James – Nervous (Mark McCabe Remix)
Chapter Notes
     (no projecting going on here of my own issues being raised by a mom
     with a diff. culture than mine who made me bring presents where i
     knew i wasn't supposed to bring presents)
“Stark!”
Bran nearly botched his foot’s next step on the sidewalk. He halted, managing
to keep himself from stumbling.
Tugging the earbud from his ear, he looked about on the street, ahead and
behind him, sure he had heard someone calling him.
“Wolf-boy,” the voice called again, sing-song. “Over here.” The teasing tone
gave him a creeping suspicion of who it might be.
And it was. On the opposite side of Flour Street, he caught sight of Meera
sitting at one of the outdoor tables in front of a café. Unsurprisingly, she
was chuckling, tickled to have caused his momentary confusion.
A dark haired lad was with her. He rested his elbows on the table as he peered
over at Bran, unsmiling. For a fleeting second, Bran marked him as Tyrek. But
then he remembered he had seen Tyrek in a few pictures online. And in any
matter, this boy was brunet, not blond.
He didn’t seem the type Meera usually hung out with. She liked a laugh, and
this boy had an unfriendly look about him. Then again, Meera enjoyed the
company of all kinds of sorts. She enjoyed his company after all.
Meera lifted her hand from the table to wave at him. He supposed, seeing how
they hadn’t seen each other for a few months now, convention dictated that he
needs go over and say hi.
He waited for a car to pass before crossing the street and, strolling over to
them, arrived in front of their table.
“Hello.”
“Hello yourself,” she smiled back, squinting a little from the sun behind him.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m on my way to class.”
“Oh, that’s right. Jojen said you’d moved off campus this year. Very suave.”
He rolled his eyes and gave what might have been half a laugh, half a huff. He
couldn’t help but glance at the quiet companion beside her.
“Whoops, my bad,” Meera said, straightening up to introduce them. “This is my
mate Gendry. Gendry, this is an old friend of mine, Bran.”
He and Bran shook hands, exchanged pleasantries.
The boy Gendry looked between the two of them uncertainly before asking,
“Stark? Meera called you Stark?”
“Yes, that’s my family name.”
Speaking to him, it occurred to Bran that perhaps the boy wasn’t unfriendly but
simply a bit slow, giving his face a permanent look of concern.
Gendry nodded dully, still looking as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to
speak. “Do you know Arya Stark?”
Bran sized him up, not particularly impressed.
He seemed to be of an age with Meera. He seemed to be a bit strapping as well,
given that the plain t-shirt he wore did not hide his thick arms. At least it
could be said that nothing about him hinted at the sort of upper-class boy who
tried to flaunt his muscles for everything they were worth, wearing V-neck
shirts two sizes too small.
“I’ve met her.”
Meera clicked her tongue. “He’s being an ass. She’s his sister.”
Gendry sat up. “Ohhh. You’re one of Arya’s brothers.”
“How do you know Arya?” Ever polite, Bran added, “If I may ask?”
“We did a study abroad thing in Braavos.”
“Oh, right.” Bran recalled that before attending university, Arya had spent a
summer there on scholarship.
Gendry smiled a little as he relaxed. “If you see her, could you tell her I say
hi? I don’t know if she’ll remember me. She’s really cool. We had a lot of fun
in Braavos.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Meera grinned too. She had leaned back in her seat, her elbow resting on the
top of the chair. “You know, Bran and I did something similar. Not study
abroad, but camp. But we had fun too, didn’t we, Bran? I wonder if they had fun
like we had fun.”
His mouth tightened as he turned to her. She winked at him, too fast for Gendry
to notice.
 
Most of the storefronts were plastered with Maiden’s Day advertisements
already. Presents to buy for girlfriends and female friends. Maiden’s Day
presents revolved around beauty in one form or another, whether physical or
spiritual: shoes, makeup, poetry.
Drinking his morning coffee, Bran regarded the shop across from his seat by the
window in Crossroads Café. The glass wall of the shop was covered mainly in an
advert for makeup sets.
     LYSEEN LUSCIOUS™
Maybe it was because he had ran into Meera sitting outside this café two weeks
ago. Whatever the reason, he was thinking about her. He played with the notion
of getting her something for Maiden’s Day. He knew that she and Tyrek had
broken up last month but he harbored no fancies that it meant anything for the
two of them.
He didn’t know why exactly he felt an urge to give her something. Bran fully
expected them to remain nothing more than platonic friends, even if
occasionally one of them might nostalgically reminisce about that once-off
fling. The only concern he had was if Meera would read a Maiden’s Day gift as a
signal that he had hopes for something more.
It didn’t need to mean that though. Boys might not get their sisters or cousins
anything on Maiden’s Day, but it was perfectly normal for a boy to give a gift
to his female friends without any implication. It would not even be the first
time Bran gave Meera something for Maiden’s Day, although he did not like to
remember that time.
 
He had been 11, Meera not quite yet 14.
The Starks had just returned home to Winterfell for the summer. Bran’s legs had
become to regularly manage short intervals on their own and he was happy to
ditch his crutches when leaving for a sleepover at Jojen’s. As he and Ned made
to leave, Catelyn spotted them and ran to block the door.
“Wait! It’s Maiden’s Day.”
Eddard frowned. “I had forgotten.” Apparently his father did not pay any
attention to adverts.
Tapping his foot, Bran grumbled, “So?”
“So, you can’t go to the Reeds empty-handed.”
“…Jojen’s not a maiden?”
“No, but Meera is. It’s rude not to bring anything.”
“Mum, no.”                  
Ned suppressed a smile at their little boy’s sputtering indignation.
“Catelyn, the Reeds are Northern. We don’t celebrate Maiden’s Day.”
She had already disappeared into the next room. “Nonsense. He cannot go without
a token at the very least.”
“But we don’t have time to stop and get something.”
“I’m sure we have something.”
They heard Sansa squawk. “Mum!”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you another one.”  
By the front door, Bran whined impatiently, looking up at the ceiling in
exasperation. “Daddd.”
“Don’t be ungrateful,” Eddard said gently, nudging the back of his shoulders to
make him stand straighter.
Maybe Bran could hide the gift and in his pack and no one would be any the
wiser. Jojen’s sister was practically a woman grown. She didn’t want some
stupid gift from him.
Catelyn came back a moment later, stuffing a headband with an ornamental
butterfly into a gift bag already complete with decorative tissue to cushion
it. “This will do. You just tell them you have something for Meera and then
give her this.”
“Mum, we’re Northern.”
“Nonsense. You cannot go to someone’s house on Maiden’s Day and ignore their
maidens, not even in the North. Trust me. Your mother knows these things, she’s
been around for longer than you. Off you trot.”
 
Bran submitted. There was nothing to stop him from keeping the gift bag inside
his backpack and discarding it safely sometime in the future.
For some reason, Bran hadn’t thought that his father, who was raising six
children, would be any the wiser.
When Eddard parked at the Reeds’, he unfastened his seatbelt. “I’ll just say
hello to Howland and Jyana.”
“…Okay.”
Bran and Jojen stood by awkwardly while their parents made small talk,
prattling on about the daft decisions of the school board or whatever it was
that interested parents. Jyana, sensing the boys’ restlessness, looked down
warmly at them. “I suppose we should let you two run off.”
“Cool. Nice seeing you again, Mr. Stark,” Jojen said as he turned around to
head up the stairs.
Eddard raised his eyebrows at Bran.
Bran stared up at his father, pleading. His father stared back, inclined his
head, not budging.
Bran seemed to shrink. He said, in the little voice he had back then, “Um, I
have something for Meera.”
“Oh!” He couldn’t tell if Howland and Jyana were impressed or if they thought
it was funny. Jyana called up the stairs, “Meera.”
The faint music that had been playing upstairs stopped. “WHAT?” her voice
called back from a distance.
“No ‘what,’ don’t be rude. Eddard and Bran Stark are here.”
After a beat they heard her clomping down the stairs. She wiped off the annoyed
expression on her face once in sight. “Hello, Mr. Stark. How are you?”
“Very well, Meera. Happy Maiden’s Day to you.”
“Oh, thank you.” She stopped in front of them, looking to her parents for some
sort of instruction. They nodded at Bran and Meera glanced down at him.
Squeaking, he said, “Umm, here.” He removed the gift bag from his failed-plan-
of-a-backpack, not looking at anyone. “Happy Maiden’s Day.”
A curious smile crossed her face, charmed or amused, taking the bag he offered
her. “Oh my. Thank you, Bran.” She pulled out the butterfly headband.
Jyana cooed. “How thoughtful is that?”
Meera looked from the headband to Bran. Her smile widened though she tried to
temper it respectfully.
“That’s very nice of you.” After a pause, she leaned forward and gave him a
little kiss on the top of his head.
His head sank lower as the top of his cheeks burned.
Jojen, perhaps sensing his friend’s despair, piped up. “Alright, we’re off
now!” He grabbed Bran by the hand and they ran upstairs as fast as they could,
with Bran’s legs still somewhat stiff-footed.
 
If his sudden fancy to give a little present to Meera was going to drudge up
that episode, it might be another reason why he should just scrap the whole
thing. But, he thought to himself as he finished his coffee and left a silver
stag on the table, it would be nice not to be barred by those childhood
memories. He could give Meera a Maiden’s Day gift as an adult, just like he
could give one to any of his friends. They were no different.
 
Three weeks passed before the chance came. Bran had figured that, small gesture
as it was, it didn’t warrant a special trip to give it to her. He would simply
give it to her if he had the chance, otherwise—no big deal.
Bran and Jojen were crowded around Jojen’s computer at his father’s house,
laughing at the latest nonsense their former schoolmates had sent around. Meera
poked her head into his room, leaning against the doorframe from the outside.
“Jojen—hi, Bran.”
Bran looked up from the computer, thinking to himself that he’d better find a
time to give it to her today before he left.
Unless the idea was weird and he should just forget about it.
Jojen turned to see what she wanted.
“Dad needs you.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. He’s on the phone. Maybe it’s the university…or Dr. Gormon?”
“…Shit.” Jojen bolted out the room. Bran heard him scrambling down the stairs.
His eyes met Meera’s. She gave him a wave. It might have looked sarcastic to
others but Bran knew it as her way of being genial.
“How you been?” she asked.
“Good. School’s been good. You?”
“Not bad. I got a little promotion,” she said, voice dipping into pretend-
importance on the last word.
He could see in her face that behind the joke-pride was actual pride. The
thought warmed him. “Nice.”
“I know, I know. I’m awesome.” She stood up from slumping against the
doorframe.
Before she could turn to leave, Bran called out, “Wait, hang on a second.” He
grabbed the messenger bag on the floor by Jojen’s desk. He had taken to
carrying the thing around with him since he wasn’t sure when or if he would see
her.
He pulled out the ball of protective tissue paper around which he had slapped a
cord of tape.
“I saw this a few weeks ago. It reminded me of you. So…here. Happy early
Maiden’s Day.” He blurted out, “Don’t read anything into it—really. I just
thought it was nice.”
Meera took the ball of tissue tentatively from him, eying him and then the
present in turn. She tried not to let herself smirk at the poor wrapping job.
“Can I open it now?”
“If you want.”
“How ever will I destroy this beautiful wrapping though?”
That made him smile. “Oh, shut up.”
“I’m assuming you got it gift wrapped at the store.”
That made him chuckle. “Shut up.”
She peeled back the layers of tissue. Something thin and silver fell into her
palm.
It was a necklace, nothing ostentatious or grand. The cord was a plain silver
chain. In the middle hung a pendant, silver fastenings around a chartreuse
stone that glowed a little in the light.
With her free hand, she picked up the pendant carefully to turn it over.
Looking at it from every angle, she said, simply, “A firefly.”
“Yeah. Well that’s why it reminded me of you actually.”
He wasn’t exactly being honest. In fact the real story about how he had
procured it was quite the opposite.
An image had formed in his head of what he wanted to give her, and he hadn’t
felt like accepting anything else. When nothing online met his standards, he
decided to take a gamble and reach out to Meera’s mate Gendry. From the little
Arya had fessed up to when he passed on Gendry’s greeting, he knew that
he worked as an apprentice at a smith’s.
Gendry had told him that he knew his way around making jewelry well enough,
even if he neglected to practice that detail-orientated branch of work. But
Gendry had been only too happy for an excuse to repeatedly come by their house
and discuss the project. Bran had thought it could have been just as easily
discussed over the phone, but he refrained from pushing the objection. In this
case, he need rely on Gendry just as much as Gendry was relying on him.
In Meera’s palm lay the silver pendant, which Gendry had molded into the shape
of a bug, achieving a level of design straddling the fine border between
intricate and minimalist-clean. The lightning bug’s body ended in the yellow-
green stone, tucked slightly under the silver extension of its wings and
encased with thin straps of the metal so it would not fall out.
She glanced up at him.
“But…it looks expensive.”
“Oh, it was just from one of those second-hand stores. It’s nothing fancy. The
stone’s a sphene, the lady told me.”
So now there’s ‘a lady.’
He hadn’t planned on actually lying. He had been hoping to merely avoid drawing
much attention to the actual effort that went into it, so that Meera would not
mistake the intention. But now he found himself spontaneously embellishing the
fake story.
“It’s lovely.”
“You think so?”
“I really do. I mean,” she said, wide smile reappearing, “it’s no butterfly
headband, but…”
Bran groaned, turning away.
“What?” she laughed. “I love that headband.”
Laughing a little too in spite of that unfortunate memory, Bran said as he
returned his gaze, “I have never seen you wear a headband.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t love it.”
She beamed at him. He said in an undertone, self-deprecating, “I’ll be sure to
tell my mum.”
She broke out into laughter again, covering her mouth with a hand. Then she
turned her attention back to the necklace and started trying to snap open the
clasp.
“Here, let me,” he said, reaching out and taking it gingerly into his own
hands. “It needed a new chain so the metal’s still a bit stiff.” He pulled back
the tab on the clasp so that it opened, one end slipping out of the other. He
held it up in the air so she could take it back. Instead, she turned her back
to him, gathered her hair onto one side, exposing the nape of her neck.
Oh. Alright.
Stepping behind her, his arms reached around from above as he avoided her
elbow. The top of her head came up to his chin. Her hair smelled of summer, of
wind and grass, and this close it mingled with the faint scent of her skin. He
draped the necklace across her collar to join the two ends behind her neck.
His fingers fumbled with the clasp. It had been easy to open but it was a lot
harder to coordinate the two ends so that the loop would slip into the trap at
the right time. When he realized it was taking him more than a few seconds,
heat flared up in his chest, face, even his hands as they hastened to finish
more quickly. He didn’t want her to think of him as bungling it on purpose; he
didn’t want to come off as creeping.
Meera pretended she didn’t notice that his hands were unsteady. She folded her
hands together in front of her chest patiently.
He succeeded at trapping the loop finally, securing the necklace in place, his
arms diving back down to his sides. “There.”
Meera combed her hair free of where some of it had been trapped when he looped
the chain around her. She peered over her shoulder, then turned in place,
angled her face up to him.
“Thanks.”
Neither of them moved. Bran was starting to become flustered again. What did
she want?
“Really,” he mumbled. “I hope it’s okay I got it for you. I didn’t—I don’t—”
“I know,” she whispered, expression clouded, unreadable apart for the faint
remainder of the smile on her lips.
He hadn’t decided on it. It seemed to happen independent of any of the thoughts
buzzing inside his brain.
Bran leaned down, his hand sliding to cup her jaw so his lips could meet hers,
kissing her softly. As though maybe if it were soft enough it wouldn’t count.
She paused and then opened her mouth to his, kissing him back, though her hands
had remained frozen where they were clasped in front of her chest.
He drew off her, snapping back to his senses.
A lead weight had sunk into his chest. He had sworn and sworn to himself that
it wasn’t a ploy. That, honestly, he only wanted to give her a token of that
fond shared memory. Something by which to remember…
“I’m—”
Her hand moved from her chest to his, closed on the fabric around the buttons
of his collar like she had done in her room so long ago. She tugged him back
down to her, catching his mouth, hooking an arm around his neck.
His eyes had closed when she had pulled him down, familiar with this routine.
His head bent hers back. He slipped an arm around her to dip her beneath him.
Pushing against him, her mouth was insistent, demanding. Her fingers seized in
his hair, eliciting from him a small moan muffled by where they were locked
together.
He hadn’t intended this. Maybe she hadn’t either. This was all building too
fast. Perhaps it had never gone away and they had only been pretending not to
know.
Whenever her mouth left his, his breath was coarse. Hers was hot, and tasted
of juice.
A hand gripped his arm. She arched into his hold, enjoying the weightless
feeling it gave her. As her head was below his, it felt easy, natural, for his
tongue to slip down, push deep into her mouth.
“What the fuck?”
Their faces broke apart, Bran’s head flashed to the side to see Jojen standing
behind the doorway, hands held up in mid-air, nose crinkled in distaste. They
hadn’t heard him.
Bran snapped his arms back, standing up straight, and Meera went crashing
unsupported onto the floor with a small ‘oof.’
“Do you two want me to leave? Because I feel compelled to point out that this
is my room.”
Bran bent to see if Meera was okay but she leapt to her feet, not looking at
him. She pulled her shirt down to fix it, face red, lips pressed tightly
together, bravely meeting her brother’s displeasure. “Alright,” she said
absentmindedly, breathing heavy. “Thanks, Bran.” She tapped Jojen’s arm
casually as she strode past him. “I’m off.”
Bran’s throat bound shut as Jojen turned back to him.
“The fuck, man?”
His heart was still hammering in his chest. He had completely forgotten where
they were.
He opened his mouth, felt his voice rasp and die and so he cleared his throat
before saying, “That was…”
Jojen shook his head. “Fucking hell. You’re alone for one minute. You’d think
you were a mare in heat. ”
“That was—that wasn’t—I didn’t mean for that—”
“Hup-upupup,” Jojen cut in. “I really don’t want to know. Whatever you all do
is your business. I don’t want the details. Especially if they take place in my
room. Which by the way, in case you were wondering—which I suspect you
weren’t—I’m not cool with.”
***** Arya's Birthday (I) *****
Chapter Summary
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Gendry, Meera – 25. Sansa –
     24. Arya – 22/23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon, Desmera Redwyne – 18.
     Mood: Chemical Brothers - Swoon; Win Win - Victim
Chapter Notes
     This fucking chapter. Even after being reduced and split up. Still,
     the nattering. So much nattering. Next chap will be 1/10th the size.
     Bit of Bran the Brat in this chap, one of my favorite Brans.
10:15 PM
Bran regarded his reflection in the mirror.
Too much black. It looks like I’m a Night’s Watch recruit or I’m about to
attend a very casual funeral.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen flashed a message from Sansa.
     On our way. Ten min
Muttering darkly, Bran unbuttoned his shirt. It was the third he’d tried on
that evening. The rest of his brothers and sisters were already together,
driving to pick him up on their way to the club.
For this weekend, Robb and Jon had come down from the North. Rickon had
returned from university. And his sisters, both of whom lived farther away from
Cobbler’s Square, had gone straight to the family’s house after work.
Tomorrow was Arya’s birthday. More family would be pouring in to celebrate.
With the fuss their mother was making (at one point seriously considering
putting together a slideshow), Arya insisted on at least making up for the
imposition with a chaperon-free night on the town. Her siblings and their
assorted mates would ring in her birthday at The Nightfort, where there would
most certainly be no codgers or crones to spoil the fun.
The Nightfort was like any other nightclub in that it was loud, sweaty, dark,
and expensive. It took special pride in being the darkest and by far most
expensive. Bran had only been there once before, never feeling the impulse to
go on his own. But he supposed if one craved the anonymity of the dark, wanted
to go deaf, or felt like being groped by a stranger, there were worse places to
spend the time.
His phone buzzed again.
     We’re downstairs
Bran checked his reflection one last time.
It would have to do. He had traded the black shirt for one a shade of dark
pine. Bran continued to grumble indistinctly as he flipped off the bedroom
light, shutting the door behind him.
Only now did it occur to him that he should have packed a bag. The
understanding was that at the end of the night Jon, who had wound up saddled
with driving duty, would take all of them home, home home. Their mother’s
anticipation over the past few weeks at the prospect of housing all of the
children under their roof again had been distinctly palpable.
Bran plucked up the keys and wallet by the front door and slipped out of his
flat. He’d simply have to borrow clothes from Jon or Rickon tomorrow. Their
style was plainer than Robb’s, and so far plain was the only style Bran felt
comfortable pulling off.
 
The night air was crisp and still as he stepped out of the lobby onto the
sidewalk. They were in the early days of autumn.
The black SUV was idling by the curb in front. The same one he and Meera had
climbed into on holiday. It was the only van that would fit all of them. Sansa
popped open the passenger door and jumped out to let Bran squeeze past. He
landed in the very back with Rickon.
The moment their mother overheard the name ‘Nightfort’ in their plans, she
forbid them from taking Rickon. Robb had posited aloud, casual as could be,
that he agreed and the alternative would be far safer in the long run. The
alternative being that Rickon would end up going his first time alone or even
with someone like their cousin Robin.
Catelyn had jabbed Robb along the side of his ribs, reminding him the ground
rules, when she had, in the end, relented and given the go-ahead.
 
Up behind the wheel, Jon called, “Everyone in? Right.” The van lurched out of
park.
Robb sat with Sansa in the middle row. He and Jon liked to hog the front seats
for themselves. But, as it was her birthday, Arya had taken over the
navigator’s seat by Jon and was busy chatting away over music that could only
have been chosen by her.
Twisting in his seat, Robb greeted him with, “Y’alright, Bran?” 
“Yeah, fine. Where’s Talisa?”
“Still in Volantis with her folks. Last day though, she’s arriving tomorrow.
We’re picking her up at the airport.”
“Aw. I thought she was already here.”
Jon announced to the back, “We’re just gonna pick up Theon. Then we’ll head
over.”
Bran hadn’t known they were picking him up. He figured Theon would probably
just be at the club since he was probably at every club on every night. “Why do
we have to pick him up?”
A hint of superiority creeping into her voice, Sansa told them, “Apparently he
crashed his car into his dad’s porch. His sister’s confiscated it. Locked it up
at her place.”
“Driving plastered, was he?”  
“He won’t say.”
“Probably,” said Robb indifferently. “I’m glad his sister took away his car in
any case.”
Rickon frowned dully. “Well, if he’s got a problem, taking him to the club
won’t help much, will it?”
Bran permitted himself a small smile at Rickon’s words, proud of him. Truth be
told, he didn’t quite like Theon. Theon was insecure. And that made him a show
off. And a man showing off as means to compensate will get along well enough
with blokes like Robb and Jon, whom they wanted to impress. And with girls like
Sansa, for whom Bran suspected Theon harbored a minor crush. But they typically
dismissed and talked down to boys younger than them, which in Theon’s case
almost always meant Bran and Rickon.
Sansa maintained stubbornly that the problem was the combination of the two
activities, not drinking itself.
“Yeah!” Arya piped up when she heard the last snippet. “No problem with
drinking.”
Jon muttered next to her, “Alright, settle down,” even as he continued to
smile, amused.
The van pulled off to the side and parked in front of the Greyjoys’ house.
Maybe it could have been a decent house, nice even, if it weren’t so weathered
and worn. Bran saw the fresh dent in one of the columns that adorned the front
door.
It took Theon a few minutes after Robb’s call to come out. When he did appear,
he came bounding out and down his front yard. Bran took in his jeans and egg-
colored button-up, which was far too baggy. He hadn’t even bothered to button
it properly.
Good.
Bran had felt stupid, ruffling about trying to make himself look good, only to
be immediately confronted by his older brothers who so effortlessly resembled
sunglass models in a magazine. ‘Well,’ Bran thought ruefully, ‘I might not look
like them, but at least I don’t look like him.’
Sansa pulled the door open again and Theon came crowding in.
“You can relax everyone. I’m here now.” Unseen in the back, Bran and Rickon
exchanged a dark look. “How are my favorite Starks? Arya, happy birthday,
darling.” 
Arya replied with a gracious ‘Thank you, Theon.’
Sansa shifted towards the middle and Robb further back. Theon slung his arm
over the back of their row, beaming around at them all as Jon started the
engine. They swayed once more with the back and forth motion of the car.  
“You’re looking positively radiant. Absolutely stunning—might I add,” he
continued to Arya. “Sansa, killing it as well, as to be expected. You two
certainly take after your mother. And your brothers certainly take after
their father—if I may say so—unfortunately for them. Stark boys not bringing it
tonight.”
Gods grant me strength.
“Now, Rickon,” Arya said loudly over the blare of the music. “Just ‘cause we’re
all here doesn’t make this like being at home. There will be no making a twat
of oneself by any member of this party tonight, is that clear?”
“Why are you singling me out?”
“This is your first time at an obnoxious club. And everyone makes a twat of
themselves their first time at an obnoxious club. Don’t do that. Be better than
the example we’ve set for you.”
“Yeah. Learn from our mistakes,” offered Robb.
“Oi! Is tonight little Ricky’s clubbing-cherry? We ought to take a picture. You
know, for the scrapbooks.”
Jon grumbled in an undertone, “It’s not only the first timers who make a twat
of themselves.”
Theon leaned forward so his head could be nearly level with the front row. “If
you’re referring to what is being called ‘the porch incident,’ I’ll have you
know that I am an excellent driver and merely mistook gas for brake—it could
happen to anyone. And I was a perfect gentleman that night. So there was no
twat-ing going on whatsoever.”
Robb shook his head. “Perfect gentleman—that would be a first.” 
Theon flipped back towards him. “Robb, I’ll have you knowthat—” 
Arya cut in, “Alright, alright, we’re about there, yeah? Rickon, behave
yourself. Bran, keep an eye on Rickon.”
Rickon shot his brother a defiant look, quite clearly stating, ‘I don't need a
babysitter.’ Bran shifted his eyes back to the front innocently.
 
10:40 PM
The previous time Bran had come to this club, he had been accompanied by some
of his mates from university after graduation. It had been fine.
Entering with Robb and Jon was a different experience. They seemed to know
quite a few members of staff, including the bouncer who greeted them like an
old friend. Theon might have been familiar with them as well but he looked so
damn pleased with himself, Bran didn’t think it achieved the same aura of
coolness.
Their party had a booth to themselves close to the bar. But before they were to
gather there for birthday shots, the group split up, shouting vague
instructions about when to meet back.
The main floor was swiftly becoming packed as Bran took to wading through the
crowd to see who else was here. He felt someone tap him on the shoulder.
Looking around, Bran’s face lit up.
“Jojen!”
They clasped hands, a familiar gesture, and stood rather close together as the
press of people grew tighter.
Jojen said happily, “Hiya, mate. Had a drink yet?”
“No, I haven’t been to the bar.”
“Here,” came another voice. Gendry appeared next to Jojen, brandishing a beer
at Bran in one hand, already clutching his own in the other. “It took me ages
to wave someone down at the bar. Figured I’d play it safe and get two.”
Bran smiled as he took it, impressed to see it was a Northern brew. Nodding his
thanks, he said loud enough for them to hear, “Cheers.”
 
Whenever Gendry had swung by their house last year to consult on the necklace,
he always moved on from Bran to find Arya. “I’ll just say hello.”
Bran hadn’t seen much of him since. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
Robb and Sansa might not seem to care if the family knew about their affairs.
The rest of them though—the other Starks would eye each other with suspicion,
not wanting to end up the butt of the snooping and teasing that went on with
them.
 
Bran asked, “Have you seen Arya yet?” He intentionally kept his posture
relaxed. It had become bizarrely apparent to Bran early on that Gendry
regularly turned skittish around him. As far as he could tell, other than Arya
the only Starks Gendry had met so far consisted of Sansa, their mother, and
himself. He appeared rather intimidated by them, virtually tiptoeing inside
their house when he came over.
“No,” Gendry replied airily, ears going slightly red all the same. “‘Spect to
run into her though before the night’s over. Does 23 mean a lot to her? She
seemed dead-set on partying tonight.”
“It’s not 23 that means a lot to her, just getting some space from our mum.”
At that moment, a familiar voice called, “There you lot are.”
Bran looked down and saw a vague impression of Meera’s brown curls just as she
collided slightly into him.
She twisted, mid-air, in an effort to extricate her foot out from under the
path of train of girls. With a forceful yank back, she broke free and teetered
unsteadily, foot high in the air. Bran and Jojen caught her on either side and
tipped her forward onto the points of her heels. She swiveled the right way
around, chuckling merrily at the successful landing.
Jojen said in a dry tone, “Very smooth.” Gendry raised his beer in salute.
Bran could have sworn almost all the women gathered there tonight were weaving
in and out among the crowd of people, their bare legs sticking out noticeably
from short dresses or skirts. Almost all of them, it seemed, except for Meera.
Life could never be that easy for him. Meera was in trousers.
Although, he noticed, it could not be said that Meera hadn’t dressed festive
for the occasion. The trousers she’d chosen were of the black leather variety.
Bold, they were, and they flaunted her figure. His eyes darted surreptitiously
downwards to determine, and indeed confirm, that they did nothing to conceal
the swell of her ass. His eyes flashed up to Jojen, and then quickly to his
beer which he hastened to occupy himself with.
Meera was talking to Gendry though Bran completely missed what it was they were
saying. From behind the bottle he chanced another glance. Jojen was plainly
watching him.
Bran inwardly chided himself, more for his own sake than Jojen’s. Jojen had
once called him a mare in heat. He wasn’t, he knew he wasn’t. It was only that
it had been a few months since he’d seen her. And he had never seen Meera in
something like that.
Apart from that blip last year near Maiden’s Day, Bran and Meera had followed
through on the plan. They resumed without further incident their former
platonic relationship. Admittedly, it had been made easier by the fact that
they no longer saw that much of each other. The two families didn’t have time
to take off coordinated holidays anymore, especially with the kids working and
the Reeds already splitting their time between Howland and Jyana. The last real
outing had been that excursion to the Fingers. Almost three years had already
passed by now.
 
Bran had not been paying attention and neglected to swallow as much beer as he
poured. He realized this a split second too late and gagged, a pinch of beer
slopping down his front before he could stop it. He gulped the rest, hurrying
to wipe the splotch on his shirt.
There was a lull as the others stared.
Meera broke the silence, cackling. Thoroughly enjoying herself, she nudged him
with an elbow. “Didn’t you just get here? That’s your first drink.”
“Cut off after the first drink,” Jojen said pityingly.
“Alright, alright.” Bran ignored the impulse to blush, feeble as it had been.
Hollering to make himself heard, Gendry added, “The drinks here are so
expensive.”
“Just tell them you’re with the Starks.” Meera’s eyes were still fixed on Bran
with that charming, evil smile of hers. “Robb’s loaded, and more importantly
he’s very generous. He told me there’s a couple bottles of the good stuff here
just for the Arya party.”
Gendry broke out into a series of fervent ‘no, no’s. Evidently his apprehension
of the Starks themselves extended to imbibing of their alcohol. 
“Do you have a drink?” Bran asked Meera, lifting his own as if to help indicate
what ‘drink’ meant.
“I had one but Theon stole it. Actually, I’ve been meaning to stop by that
table over there, the one with a pitcher.” She pointed to a spot behind Gendry,
taking to resting her arms around Bran’s in part so she could pull him lower.
“My friend Megga’s over there. I haven’t seen her in ages, the ol’ trollop.”
She grinned. “Time for me to get my sponge on. I’ll see you lads later.” She
gave his arm a friendly squeeze and, with that, slipped off into the crowd.
 
11:00 PM
A bloke had recognized Jojen and begun to chat him up. Bran thought he seemed a
haughty sort of fellow, silvery blond hair and an expression on his face that
suggested everywhere he looked fared no better than Flea Bottom. But even so,
Bran couldn’t deny the bloke was fit.
He left them, watching the young Westerosi crowd in front of him as he waited
for the bartender to fetch him another beer.
What looked like recent graduates jostled past, shouting to their companions
who couldn’t hear them. To his side, a blond woman licked salt off her wrist,
her friend already finished and slamming down a shot glass. A large, hulking
fellow clearly had drunk himself into a stupor before coming here.  He hung his
weight around his friend’s shoulders, his face red as he bellowed chat-up lines
to a woman leaning away from him with her arms crossed.
Robb and Jon were in a small circle of people, Sansa and her friends among
them. Jeyne and the others must have pleaded with Sansa to blend their lot in
with them. Jon chatted with the younger girls amicably, ignoring their longing
vibes. Sansa was trying to talk to Robb but Robb, who wasted no time in cutting
loose, was already tipsy. He was staring engaged with her, his face serious,
clearly not listening to a word she was saying as his shoulders rocked markedly
to the hypnotic pulse blaring from the speakers. His over-intense dancing was
tripping up her concentration, undoubtedly his goal.
When she finally gave up and laughed with a roll of her eyes, Bran did too from
where he stood watching them. He wondered where Arya was. Or Theon for that
matter.
He spotted Rickon closer by, standing at their booth and pretending to be
interested in looking around in an effort to seem busy. Bran’s lips pressed
into a fond smile. Rickon was a sweet boy when he wasn’t running wild.
 
“Here.”
Bran thrust a black beer into Rickon’s hands. Another Northern brand, a stout
southerners found too bitter. All the Starks though, even Rickon by the time he
was fifteen, were no strangers to the taste of northern ale. Rickon smiled
appreciatively.
It washed down easy. The bitterness played against the brew’s creaminess,
giving it a lush quality southern wines failed to achieve.
Bran smacked his lips. “So, Nightfort. What do you think?”
“Loud. I kinda like it.”
“Yeah. Clubs can be fun. A change of pace. You just don’t want to stay too
long. It’s fine at the start of the night. By the end though, when everyone’s
drunk, people start acting like dickheads. Messing about, getting into fights
just to show off.”
Rickon looked about at the scene in front of them, squinting at the
disorienting, occasional flashes of disorienting lights. “It’s fine now.”
“Yeah. Cheers to that.”
There were no ceiling lights apart from the multi-colored spotlights that
staggered and switched back and forth. But they were still in the early part of
the evening, meant for people to find their drinks and their mates. Soon the
supporting lights would go and the atmosphere would squeeze in on them.
Rickon swallowed another swig, his eyes fixed ahead in the distance. He
mumbled, “A girl from my year is here.”
Bran almost grinned but stopped himself. The impulse was too similar to that of
Robb and Jon. Their smug glee when they told him they thought he was
‘adorable.’
“Oh? Who?”
“Desmera. Redwyne. She was in my year but we didn’t have many classes together.
I’d see her sometimes in assembly though.”
Bran eventually zoned in on her from Rickon’s instructions. She was in a gaggle
of teenagers Rickon’s age. He recognized some of them as Fossoways, though one
of the boys most definitely a younger Tyrell cousin.
They stood about one of the high tables, close to the demarcated dance floor.
No one in the club, however, seemed to pay much attention to where they stood
talking and where they started dancing about ridiculously.
Desmera turned out to be a slight thing, impossibly skinny in a way that made
it easy to spot she was a teenager. It was obvious from the way she kept
staring down at her hands and drink that she was nervous. But there was
something endearing about the girl. She bore her discomfort amiably, smiling as
she listened to her friends.
Bran found himself almost immediately rooting for the relationship between
Rickon and her he concocted in his head in the space of three minutes. Gods, I
really am turning into Robb and Jon.
The two boys began to quibble, Bran trying to spur Rickon into action and
Rickon peskily shooting down each suggestion.
“And what better time is there?” Bran persisted. “You’re here in a huge group.
That looks cool.”
“With my family? It’s cool that I’m here with my family?”          
“Yes. Because your family is the Starks. And we’re cool. Anyways, you’re here
for your sister’s birthday. Completely legit. Go on.”
Rickon bit the inside of his lip, studying them.
 “Ayyy!”
Theon clapped Bran’s shoulder. He swung around from behind them, toting an
empty glass in one hand.
Dammit.
Rickon had almost been geared up enough to give it a shot. His confidence had
been tenuous at best. It would not surpass Theon’s teasing.
“Tricky Ricky, my man.”
“Hi.”
Rickon was already visibly smaller, pride ebbing.
“Mate, where’s your drink?” Rickon held up his bottle. “Nah, not beer, mate. A
drink.”
“I haven’t gone to the bar. But I’ll probably just drink beer tonight anyways.”
“Like hell you will. That’s no celebration.”
“No, lay off it,” Bran said irritably. “Rickon doesn’t need to go hard tonight.
Let him be.”
Theon stared at Bran as if he had sprouted a second head in front of them.
“Whadya say? Go hard? On alcohol alone? Your old babysitter Nan parties harder
than you. Ricky, what’s your alcohol? Rum? Whiskey? Don’t say something girly
like an appletini or hippocras or that’ll be the last straw.”
“Last straw?”
“Yeahhh,” Theon said, apparently heartily agreeing with himself. “Can you
believe your wet blanket ginger of a brother just shooed me away from the back
rooms? Assuming I was going there to find my dealer. And I didn’t even find
him. It’s been like living in the Maidenvault ever since confined to a car-less
life. Symon, that gobshite, won’t come ‘round to my place. Not even a sniff, on
a Friday? By now, I swear, my nose must feel as neglected as a first wife. All
your heartless brothers.” He waggled his head disapprovingly in Bran’s
direction. “I got it. I know what we need to drink. Barkeep!”
A barmaid who had been crossing in front of them halted, listening.
“A round of gin rickeys for me and these fine lads, in honor of young Ser Ricky
here. On my tab. Top shelf, love.”
She nodded curtly and strode off. Bran wondered if ‘my tab’ meant ‘Robb’s tab.’
Theon started in on Rickon while they waited. Whether or not he had a ‘target
pull’ for the evening. Rickon awkwardly danced around the subject, refusing to
divulge Desmera’s actual name.
Theon switched gears and began informing them of the developing drama. Who was
here. Who they had been rumored to have it off with. This direction seemed a
minor improvement. A little of the unease drained out of Rickon’s shoulders.
Maybe hearing about everyone else’s embarrassments in romance alleviated some
of the pressure when faced with having the ordeal himself.
The barmaid returned, carrying a tray to which they exchanged their old drinks
for new ones. A tall, thin glass for each of them.
“To Arya!” Theon proclaimed raising his glass in the air. “And to young Ricky.
May we all get ourselves shitfaced on this auspicious night.”
Reluctantly Bran cheered, and he grimaced as he swallowed. It tasted far too
sweet, not like anything they would ever drink in their home.
Theon’s unflappable energy had begun to ooze into Rickon. He smiled in spite of
himself as he drank.
“Ahhhh,” Theon exhaled, drink already significantly depleted. “So, Stark. This
girl whose name you can’t seem to remember right now—she here tonight?”
“Leave it,” Bran growled.
Theon waved his glass at Bran, not even bothering to look his way. “You wait
your turn.”
At Rickon’s quiet nod, Theon triumphantly boomed, “Ah ha. Well, what’s the
problem then? It’s not like you’re…Wait a tick. Tonight’s the first time you
been out to a seedy place like this? I’m assuming that’s the last v-card you’re
turning in. Already packed the deed away, or not yet?”
“Hey,” Bran snapped, physically shunting Rickon back a little so he could face
Theon. “Cut that out.”
“Come off it,” Theon said, dragging Rickon back. “We’re all adults here.”
“Rickon’s not an adult yet.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Yeahh. Yes, he is!”
“Back off, Theon. And you back off too, Rickon.”
“See?” Theon said, taking another swig. “Gotta be careful, Ricky. Don’t wanna
end up like ol’ Branny here—all blue-balled and bitter.”
“Yes thanks,” Bran shot back, unfazed. “I’m not sure the role model Rickon
needs is drunk-driving Scabies-McGee.”
Theon scoffed. “Uhh, check your facts there, Stark. It was crabs, not scabies.”
“Oh, well never mind then.”
“Anyways, Ricky, my boy, who would you rather be? Blue-Balled Lonely-Face who
cranks one out every night while crying in a dark room? Or Scabies McGee, which
by the way you only get by having what can only be described as an epic night?”
Rickon blinked. “I don’t—”
“You’re the youngest of the old gang, mate. You deserve more from life than
masturbation and tears.”
“That sounds like your morning ritual, Theon.”
“Okay,” Rickon said, cutting in, spreading his arms apart to push Theon and
Bran away from each other. “I’m gonna go say hi to some folks. See you guys
later.” He left them. He headed off towards Desmera and her friends before
pausing and ultimately changing course to join Robb and Jon standing by the
middle of the bar.
Bran sighed.
 
11:20 PM
Bran only managed to shake Theon when a pretty girl momentarily distracted him,
and he took the opportunity to vanish into the crowd.
He returned the cocktail for another beer, figuring he’d make a cursory attempt
to find Jojen. He turned about and saw he had wound up close to their booth.
His eyes roamed higher, locked onto a cluster of people further on.
Meera was among them, eyes crinkled while she laughed. She put her hand on
Megga’s arm as she had done with him. She was warm like that, Meera was.
When he’d first seen her tonight, he’d been caught off guard by her sudden
entrance. He hadn’t had the chance to take her in. But now, seeing her from a
distance, the change in her appearance sank in for him. In all the long years
of knowing each other, they’d never been together anywhere like this, somewhere
fancy or risqué.
Her eyes looked larger, more noticeable and charming with wisps of grey and
black shining up from her lashes. All of her features stood out, clearer,
playing off each other in harmony.
The straps of her blouse were thin enough, it looked more to him like a
camisole, one of the shirts Sansa and Arya would laze around the house in but
didn’t wear outside. If it were not for the satin-y cloth, he expected it
wouldn’t qualify as an actual top. Its cloth shimmered in the blinking lights,
swimming as she moved.
And the collar. It dove down. The lovely, smooth plane in the middle of her
chest and the flattering shadows that fell around it, visible there in brief
flashes.
Something drew his gaze up again. He realized then where Meera was looking,
which was right at him. Her mouth broke into a smirk. With two fingers, she
pointed deliberately at her eyes.
‘Eyes up here.’
Bran turned to the side, staring very hard at the bar where Robb and Jon were
laughing with each other, apparently in their private gossip.
They looked proper smart. Smarter than him. Robb in a crimson shirt, Jon in
navy. Did they ever study how to dress? How to trim their beards? Or how to
grow their beards for that matter? Or does it just come naturally to them? Why
doesn’t anything practical ever come naturally to me?
Meera’s outline was looming closer in his peripheral vision. She was making her
way over to him.
Did he have something he had planned to talk to her about? He couldn’t
remember.
She cleared the thick of the crowd, approaching in her typical unabashed
fashion. He had been looking forward for a chance to catch up with her,
casually. Their rapport had never seemed to fully revert to the same
familiarity it once had. Although none of the scenarios Bran had pictured in
which they chummed it up again started with her smugly catching him, gawking at
her tits.
“Hiya,” she said cheerfully as she plunked down beside him.
No point in letting a little trip-up muddle the night. Bran couldn’t help but
feel at ease. Not when her smile glowed like that.
“Hello, Meera.”
“I saw Arya. She seems happy.”
“Oh, she is. She means to make it quite the celebration.”
“Ahh, you Starks.” She bumped into him with the side of her waist to loosen him
up. “What about you? How’ve you been?”
 
They chatted. It wasn’t hard, things seemed easy enough. Amiable.
When she started teasing him about his love life, accusing him of philandering,
Bran shuffled his feet. Not that any of the girls he’d dated were a sensitive
subject, but he didn’t quite feel like rehashing all of it now.
“Absolute scoundrel. Crushin’ it, no less?”
“Yeah.” He laughed, and added sarcastically, “Crushing it.”
“Didn’t your year vote you ‘most likely to drown in pussy?’”
He nodded, looking ahead rather than at her as he tried not to smile. “Yes,
that’s true. And it was accurate. I’m quite asphyxiated.” She was chuckling
silently. “I tried contacting the emergency services. But, you know, cut backs.
I’m just another statistic now. Another pussy-related death this year.”
Meera giggled.
She was someone who gave herself over completely to laughter when so struck—as
she was now. She giggled, and then continued to giggle, laughing with flushed
cheeks and closed eyes until she braced her stomach with a hand. So he watched
her, as he’d wanted to.
She was pretty when she laughed. It was her humor that was pretty—her energy.
It was plain on her face, unfettered, genuine, and so extrovertedly tangible
you could feel it flavor the air.
Wiping under an eye, she regained control of herself when something behind Bran
caught hold of her attention. She hooked her arm around his, making him almost
spill the beer.
“What? What is it?”
Meera pointed at the far end of the bar. Bran’s eyes followed, first landing on
Arya. Then he saw that behind her was Gendry, finishing up an order. Beers in
hand, he turned and handed her a glass, which Arya took with a slight blush.
But, he saw, overall she was looking quite pleased.
As the two of them made to cheer, movement along Bran’s side made him glance
away. Down where he and Meera were linked arm-in-arm, Meera was busy using both
of her hands to fiddle his beer out from underneath his fingers.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?”
Meera sipped, unbothered as she ever was, and told Bran loudly, “Gendry’s a
sweet guy. He’s a bit…well, he’s not very smooth. I know he really likes your
sister though.”
“He said that?”
“No, he’s too shy. But after we ran into you that one time, he asked all sorts
of questions. He hadn’t realized I know you guys. Seems rather taken by her.”
Bran felt an impulse to object, insist that Gendry was too old for her. But
even in the split second, the hypocrisy was too blatant. Instead he merely
grunted his acknowledgment.
“Did Arya ever mention him?”
“Not to me.”
“Who would she mention it to, out of curiosity? Sansa?”
“No.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t seem right.”
“Jon probably. But she wouldn’t say she liked him. I mean if she did like him.
She’d just mention him. Probably complain about him.”
That seemed to tickle Meera. Something else caught her attention and she froze.
Bran looked around for what it was this time. He saw as Gendry blanched. Robb
and Jon had come to join the two of them.
Arya made some hasty introductions, hands were shook. Meera watched
anticipatorily, caught up in both second-hand-embarrassment glee and
trepidation.
Jon stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest while Robb seemed to be
prompting Gendry with what Bran assumed they would defensively claim was
‘merely a harmless expression of interest.’ It didn’t help that Gendry seemed
so easily flustered. They couldn’t hear a word of the conversation by the bar,
but it seemed to Bran that Gendry was using entirely too many hand movements.
“That poor boy,” Meera sniggered. “Are they this protective of all their
siblings? Should I be worried?” 
Bran sighed before he spared her a look. The smile was not entirely gone from
his lips but something else was there now, cautionary. He might remind her that
she and he were less of a thing than Gendry and Arya.
She nodded, mollified.
“I shouldn’t tease, I know.”
Gendry was still responding a little too emphatically to everything. He must
have been under the impression that boisterousness conveyed calm. Fortunately,
Robb and Jon seemed to be easing up. Robb’s face even moved from cold to
neutral.
“I can’t help but tease you. I try not to but—rhh—every fuckin’ time.”
Bran shook his head.
By the bar Gendry did one more over pronounced swing of his arm while prattling
on. In the motion the top of the brown ale in his glass slid out, lurched, and
flopped onto Robb’s knees and shoes.
Meera whispered, “Oh my god.” She held in her laugh out of a politeness reflex
even though they couldn’t see them. Robb and Jon stood utterly unmoving,
staring at the flustered southern boy, letting the moment stretch on. “Oh no,
mate,” Meera groaned as Gendry rushed to the counter and tried to come at Robb
with a napkin.
 
11:40 PM
Before the show had ended, Sansa materialized out of nowhere, grabbing Bran
round the shoulders and growling at him that Rickon needed looking after. Meera
had grinned and waved him off, disappearing again.
However in the time it took for Sansa to drag him over, Theon had already
snatched Rickon up, ensnaring him in a conversation with the group of teens
that included Desmera.
“See? This is what happens when you shirk your responsibilities. I think
Theon’s been giving him shots.”
Not that Bran trusted Theon, but he couldn’t find a fault with Rickon’s current
predicament. Undoubtedly he had been bullied along by Theon, but he seemed
happy enough about it now.
“He’s fine.”
Sansa gave him a withering look before she strode away, muttering under her
breath something which sounded like ‘family’ and ‘can’t hold it together.’
Theon had bowed himself out of the conversation. He threw Bran a wink as he
made his way over.
“The boy bitches and moans but we got there in the end. Look at ‘im. Right
stuck in, he is.”
Bran managed a sour smile.
“Oi, hang on,” Theon said, knocking his glass casually against Bran’s chest.
“That reminds me, Meera’s here.” He nodded towards the middle of the dance
floor. Meera popped in and out of sight as one of the roving lights fell on
her, partially obscured by the people in front. Theon gave Bran a side-eye. “So
what’s going on there?” 
“Not a thing,” Bran said, pretending he was somewhere else. “If you’re bored
and looking for gossip, I’d try the Tyrell lot.”
“Come up with something more convincing, why don’t you? Denial only makes the
heart grow curious.” He spoke as if bestowing unto Bran some wise edict.
“Unless you’re into that—having other people notice. Then by all means, mate,
carry on. I’m not one to judge. We’re all into something.” 
Bran gave up hoping that visible disinterest would dissuade him. “Theon. How’s
your night going? Successful pull?”
“Early days, mate, early days,” he grinned back, not skipping a beat. “Can’t
pull too early. Rookie mistake.”  
“I’ll take note.”
“You joke but you could do worse than to take some pointers from your elders.
What? You been working on that one,” he gestured his drink towards Meera, “for
a couple years now? What’s the hold up, why’ve you not got on that? Is it
‘cause she’s Jojen’s sister? Would Reed not approve of you plowing field in his
own backyard?” Bran opened his mouth to object. But he wasn’t exactly sure what
that had just meant and his mouth closed again as he instead continued to watch
Theon through narrowed eyes. “Bugger Jojen. I know sisters are a touchy subject
but come on. You need to just get it over with already. Bite the bullet. Seal
the deal. Take the castle.”
“Alright. Enough.”
“Knock ‘em boots. Make a sacrifice to The Maiden. Ram down the portcullis.”
“Nope, no, no no no,” Bran sputtered. “Shut your mouth. I’ve told you.”
“Well, aren’t we a bit testy tonight? Alright, mate, calm down. You know a
five-year stiffy will do that to you.”
“Stop acting like you know everyone because you don’t.”
“I see. I don’t know you. Is that it?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Mmm, interesting. Well. I know that the more something means to you, the more
weird and quiet you get about it. I know you mentally undress Meera every time
you look at her.”
“I do not,” Bran shot back hotly.
“Or you do the Stark equivalent and picture proposing to her in a field of
rainbows and wolf puppies.  It don’t matter, do it? It’s a go, seeing that
Meera mentally shags youtoo. Can’t for the life of me figure out why. Keep your
pants on—I’m only joking. Point is: she’s up for it.”
Sensing their collected gaze, Meera peered over at them from across the crowd.
Her smile dimmed as she looked them up and down, wondering what they were up
to.
“You see?” Theon said excitedly, putting an arm around Bran’s shoulders to
shake him.
“Get off.”
“Phwoahh.” Theon stepped in front of Bran, turning his back to Meera’s view as
if they weren’t talking about her. “I don’t know what’s stopping you. If
someone carried a torch for me like that I’d be all over it in a second, don’t
you doubt it.”
“I’m not doubting it.”
“Have it your way then. Maybe you can hook up when you’re both divorced and in
your late fifties.” Theon gave a cheer of his drink and took another sip. He
mumbled to himself, “Nasty old sex. Naughty bits flapping about. Ugh, can you
imagine? It must make twice the noise.”
Bran worked his jaw silently. Temper rising, he couldn’t help but spew, “You’ll
never admit that you don’t know everything, will you?”
Theon downed what was left of his drink. He gave a great swallow while he
considered Bran.
“Alright. Do you want it to be real-o’clock?” Theon shunted the empty glass
into the hands of bartender who hadn’t been looking their way, ignoring the
man’s affronted scowl. “Listen. I know you got all shy after your little tour
in the hospital.”
Bran stared. In a million years he wouldn’t have guessed those would be the
next words out of Theon’s mouth, coming out of nowhere like that.
“I ain’t having a go at you. You’re quick to dismiss yourself because you think
being shy is some major detractor of yours. It don’t have to be. Some chicks
dig shy guys. Maybe they think it’s all cute and virginal. People like all
sorts of weird things.”
He shrugged his shoulders and went bouldering on. “Branny boy, sometimes I feel
really sorry for you. You think of yourself here,” Theon put a hand out by
their waists, “and you think of Robb and Jon as here,” he raised the hand over
their heads. “Since you grew up with them, you take them as the ruler for
what’s normal. Mate, believe me. Everybody feels like they’re in the shadow of
those cunts. The boys in their year, in my year. Hell, Rickon’s got it better
than you. He’s young enough that he doesn’t feel the pressure to compare
himself. You though. You’re too young to be one of us. You’re too old not
compare yourself. Shouldn’t let those hang-ups get in the way of something like
Meera though. Meera Reed? I mean, yeah, she’s a pretty girl but so what? Pretty
girls are everywhere. Meera though. She’s a laugh and she’s a wildcat from what
I hear. She’s not even my type, more of a tomboy than my taste. But don’t you
think I wouldn’t jump at the chance if she were to ever throw a nod my way.”
He slapped Bran across the chest.
“Joking again, joking, you muppet. It’s obvious to anyone the little thing you
two got on. I can see it, the two of you. It works, weirdly. Meera’s got a bit
of a lesbian vibe going on but, oddly, I can see that working for you. It’s
weird, innit, ‘cause honestly you’ve got a bit of a gay vibe yourself. You’d
think it’d would clash but it doesn’t?!”
During Theon’s rambling, Bran’s face had frozen, nonplussed, his brow wrinkled
and mouth slightly agape.
“But for reals, mate, Meera’s down. She’s buying,” Theon’s hand made a
condescending little wave at Bran, “…whatever it is that you’re selling. Even
your hero Blind-faced Star-Eyes would be able to see it.”
“Simeon.”
“Whatevs. She’s not made a move so it’ll be up to you. And what’s shy you gonna
do? I’ll tell you: get shit-faced.”
The spell momentarily cast over Bran broke. He rolled his eyes, standing
straighter up. “That’s just your philosophy for life in general.”
“Blokes like you, it’s the only way around the matter. You’ll be an
embarrassing wreck. But hopefully by that point she’ll be a right drunk mess
herself so she won’t notice as much. She’ll still notice. But not as much.
Trust me. It’s ugly but it works. Ideally you’d want to do better than that and
be all suave and shit. But I’m gonna take a conservative bet and say that’s not
going to happen.”
Bran huffed, putting space between him and Theon as he tread backwards, bumping
into people. “Right. Sure. Thanks for the tips.”
“Get yourself another drink, mate,” Theon called after him, still grinning.
“Then you won’t be so uptight you have to pretend I’m not right.”
 
Bran got away from Theon as fast as he could. The club was dark now and people
were pushing past every which way. He hurried over to the bar. As it turned
out, he didwant a drink, maybe several, but only to get the taste of Theon’s
puffed-up rubbish out of his brain.
The rest of his brothers were by the center, Rickon as well, fiddling about
with something. Bran fought his way over to them, relieved to find them.
Don’t let him get to you. Nothing more than a pompous blighter.
Bran grunted, “Alright then,” as he joined the other Stark boys. Jon was
stacking racks of glass cylinders. “What’s all this?”
Rickon was inspecting Jon’s work, patiently curious. Behind them, Robb signed a
bill for the bartender.
“Arya’s birthday shots,” Jon said. He looked up and, pausing and adding, “You
good?”
“Yeah. So are these all for Arya?”
“What?” Robb laughed. “These would kill Arya if she drank them all. Hell,
they’d probably kill me if I drank them all. These are for everyone.” 
“Oh good.” Bran grabbed a tube out of the rack, brought it quickly to his lips
and downed it one go. 
“What the—” 
It seemed bearable. Not really different from the beers besides the bitter
honey taste. It was then Bran decided, since apparently the shots were weak as
water, to grab another one before Jon could stop him and down that as well. 
He vaguely heard Jon sputtering, annoyed, “What—no,” snatching the rack up.
Robb demanded in back, “What in seven hells do you think you're doing?”
For some reason unknown to Bran, the shots seemed to converge and hit him,
delayed, at the same time. Bran tried to maintain an air of being unaffected,
like he didn’t have to recoil and gag. He could manage it. But he did shut his
eyes as the initial punch washed over him.  
“Alright, slow down there, Bran the Drinker,” Robb chided from what seemed like
a distance. “We haven’t even started yet. And Arya told you to
watch Rickon. Rickon, you watch this one.”
Jon took four of the racks gingerly in hand, Robb taking the other three, and
they paced their way back carefully to the booth. Rickon waited for Bran,
watching him. 
Theon, the great pillock. He just needs to act like he’s got everyone figured
out. Got to seem like he knows everything since his father’s always going on
about how he understands nothing.
And I’m fine. There really  is nothing going on anymore. People can flirt.
People flirt all the time. Why can’t we? It’s not some joke to everyone. He
just loves making a bigger deal of things than they actually so he can feel
important.
Bran felt warmth from the alcohol flush into his cheeks. He wondered if it was
visible. Rickon touched his arm.
“You alright, Bran?”
“Yep.”
No one else is even paying attention to us, to me. Like I’m not allowed to come
out for a night out. What, I can’t celebrate my own sister’s birthday without
the nattering budgies? And Meera too. She’s allowed to celebrate. We can hang
out. We’re all adults. That’s right, that’s how everyone else sees it too.
“Your eyes aren’t open.”
Bran blinked his eyes open grumpily.
“Come on. Here come Arya and Sansa now.”  
 
Midnight
There was much commotion as Arya beamed and received everyone’s cheers,
congratulations, hooting. Only she, Jon, and Sansa sat in the actual booth.
Everyone else stood about. Everybody was yelling something. Bran couldn’t
really tell, their voices were mixing in and out with the music.
Jon was pointing to the sugar and salt, giving Arya some advice.  
Sansa was trying to tell Rickon something, something he should be doing or
something about being careful. But, same as Bran, Rickon couldn’t make it out.
He kept yelling back, “WHAT?”
The music has definitely gotten louder.
Theon appeared over Arya’s and Jon’s shoulders from behind the booth’s
backing. Meera was with him, so was Gendry. He was still a bit red-faced.
Someone put one of the glass tubes in Bran’s hand. Jojen.  
“You alright, mate?”
Bran raised the cylinder in salute as an answer and went to chug it. It has
only just reached his lips when Jojen blocked his arm, making some of the shot
slop to the floor. “It’s alright,” he heard Jojen say to the group. “This one's
just a bit excited.”
“Not yet,” Jojen explained to the side. Bran nodded, trying to blink out the
annoying, spazzing lights of the club. Right, right, Arya first. I thought she
went already.  
There was a loud hurray, then clapping. Bran lazily clapped a bit, careful not
to drop the cylinder in his fingers.
“Happy birthday, love.” Jon smiled as he and his little sister embraced. He
planted a gentle peck on the side of her forehead. Sansa followed suite. Arya
was laughing.
“Happy birthday,” Bran mumbled. 
“She’s not over here yet,” Jojen explained again. “How many of these have you
had?”  
“What? Oh, the shots. Right.” Bran quaffed it and handed the empty glass back
to Jojen.
Silently, Jojen looked across the group catching Meera’s eye. He raised his
eyebrows at her, face blank, and Meera, already flushed from dancing, snickered
and took to staring up at the ceiling, pretending to have not seen.
Arya stood in front of Bran now.
“Hey!” he cheered happily and leaned down to reach her better, the shortest
Stark. “Happy birthday, sis,” he said, hugging her. “I love you.”
“Aww. I love you too, Bran.” 
“You’re a good sister.”
“Aww. Thank you.” Over Bran’s shoulders, Arya widened her eyes pointedly at
Jojen.
“Yep. On it,” he assured her.
 
 12:30AM
Bran wanted to shake his head but knew better. His stomach teetered at the edge
of sliding into the sick-drunk stage. He could feel it almost beginning to
roil, but he hadn’t gone that far and could still pull himself back into
‘comfortable drunk.’ He was sitting with Jojen at one of the ugly, dirty little
tables closer to the front doors. The only people clustered over here were
fellow clubbers who were trying to hold their insides in as they waited for the
alcohol to abate, new couples awkwardly trying to hold a decipherable
conversation, or men and women who were too afraid to join in the raucous
laughing, dancing, and grab-assing that was taking place past the bar towards
the DJ.
Jojen had been pushing water at him, which he sipped at dully, holding a beer
to drink once he felt ready.
Bran raised his head to stare at the crowd grumpily. “Do I give off a gay
vibe?”
Jojen pursed his lips. “Is that what’s got a bee in your bonnet? Because I
think not.”
“You think too much.”                      
“Maybe you think too much.”
“Pfft. Yeah.” Bran got up, undrunk bottle forgotten, and headed towards the
direction of the crowd. Jojen watched him go deciding that, after spending more
than a quarter hour listening to Bran’s not entirely coherent grumpy
murmurings, he was sufficiently able enough again to choose if he didn’t
want Jojen babysitting him.  
Bran felt better now. He enjoyed feeling the noise and lights of the club level
out around him, cushioning each moment nicely as his brain slid into sync with
the din and the dark. The water Jojen had given him had helped. He was a good
friend. But he was not who Bran wanted to see right now. And, coasting on the
plateau of the happy stage of drunkenness, Bran sought her out.
***** Arya's Birthday (1.5) *****
Chapter Summary
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera, Gendry – 25. Sansa –
     24. Arya – 23. Bran, Jojen, – 22. Rickon, Desmera Redwyne – 18.
Chapter Notes
     Mood: Artic Monkeys – Do I Wanna Know. Since I love shoving music in
     people's faces, I made a playlist of ficspirations https://
     open.spotify.com/user/patethenovice/playlist/3aOzKHxEBoFDqUFv9W0mPd
     (Spotify)
     I was gonna indiv message commenters with my thanks but then I
     realized messaging isn't a thing. But thank you! Take it from someone
     who has anxiety, you're really, really nice.
     *Update!*:Thank you for the nice comments, nice people! Hope peeps
     can see this reply. The fic is not dead. Super long delay due to: 1)
     a whole bunch of coinciding distractions 2) I've got 2 versions of
     the next chapter and been flip-flopping on which one to go with and
     edit. I just got past the biggest of distractions so hope to post
     soon (✿◠‿◠)
12:50 AM
Bran dipped into the crowd where the throng was thickest. He sank through the
outer layer, clearing past the elbows and hips that bumped into him.
The alcohol in the shots earlier had left a pleasant sourness on the tongue—a
bite, which tingled faintly in the background. The intensity of the music’s
bass was vibrating the floor. It vibrated Bran’s eardrums; its pulse buzzed
over the surface of his skin. It was the sort of music Arya liked: fast,
robotic, decidedly mindless.
When they had been kids still living at home, Bran would growl whenever he had
been trying to concentrate on a reading and the electronic beats would come
pounding through his wall, resenting how typical it was of Arya to go about her
business with no thought to remembering other people were there too. And now
Bran maintained that he disliked club music.
He wouldn’t jump at the chance to admit it but, here in the dark surrounded by
the crowd feeding off each other’s energy, even Bran was allowing himself to be
swept up, enjoying the abandon that kicked in once the music overpowered his
other senses.
The up-and-coming Westerosi were grabbing out for their friends and laughing.
They jumped and moved, dancing, permitting their eyes to close and their brains
shut down. Flashes of red and blue punctuated the otherwise dimly glowing dark,
casting the faces of strangers in and out of view. One of the faces illuminated
for a flash was that of Megga. At least, Bran thought it was Megga. It was hard
to tell with most of her face obscured by a boy, the one she was currently
quite occupied with.
He planted his feet, ignoring the someone who smacked against his back when he
stopped drifting. Bran scanned, eyes roved over the faces and hair being
flipped about blindly.
 
He saw her with a southern boy. One of those southern boys who loved to wear
stupid hats. This one was wearing a stupid hat. She danced with him, her back
to his front, his arms reaching round to hover over her waist.
Who wears a hat indoors? The idiot.
Bran shunted past the remaining people in between them. When he arrived, he put
a calm hand on hat-boy’s upper shoulder to gently part the two. The boy’s head
snapped up and Bran paid him no mind. His attention was on Meera as his hand
moved to her, guiding her backwards from the boy, towards him instead.
Meera twisted her neck to peer at what was going on. Her eyes gave a little pop
of surprise when they landed on him.
Then her face relaxed, a slight curve already forming at the corner of her
smile. Bran liked to think that the gleam in her eyes she was giving him now
was something she reserved for him. Though he had no way of knowing.
“Oi, mate,” hat-boy barked. “You got a problem?”  
“I really don’t,” Bran replied as he slid his arm around Meera’s waist and
reeled her in tight against him. She kept her head twisted to the side, wanting
to prolong eye contact with him for a moment longer, shooting him a glare that
aspired to be affronted although it didn’t quite make it. Not with the
beginnings of her smirk still there.
Meera gave up the scowl and gave in. Her slight smile grew as she wound back
around with a look that combined begrudging tolerance with pleased welcome,
although Bran had the inkling that the tolerance was put on for show. And even
as that thought crossed his mind, her arm slid over his and firmly kept him
there where he held her across her waist.
The boy, disappointed that Meera didn’t seem to be rejecting the change of
events, scoffed and stormed off.
The curls of her hair brushed his jaw and tickled his neck. Her body felt soft
but solid in his arms as the subtle sway of her hips brought him along with
her. The earlier impression of her being clumsy when her foot had been caught
under that train of girls vanished as Bran was reminded that Meera, whether or
not she acted like it, was quite graceful.
He heard her speak, words hard to hear, facing away from him as she was, but he
was pressed close enough to catch her voice through the din. “You’re being
rather cheeky.”
The side of his face buffeted back some of her hair the best he could. In this
position, it would be easier for her to hear him.
He breathed against her ear, “You like cheeky. You’re cheeky.”
She hummed noncommittally. The arm still by her side snaked upwards to reach
behind her and tease the back of his neck, grazing her fingers over his skin
and up to his hair.
Instinctively, Bran’s hold around her waist constricted, pinning her closer,
and her grip on his arm automatically tensed to protect herself. He leaned
further into the crook of her neck anyways, pillowing his cheek on her bouncy
hair.
Even in the hot crush of people, the presence where she shifted against him
warmed his chest. Maybe this had been a mistake. When he had gotten up from
sitting with Jojen, he just wanted to find Meera, maybe to dance with her. He
didn’t want to go the whole night without being a little close to her,
remembering what that was like, without hearing her talk with him the way she
did when they were alone, when there wasn’t a pretense.
What had that night been like, in the van? He had remembered it so many times,
sometimes he wondered if he had saturated the real memory with patched-together
memories, imagined details, blurred details, altered reactions. He remembered
the drawstrings of her shorts. The way her arm hooked around his neck. How he
collapsed on top of her, concealing his face in her hair.
But he was pushing himself much too close. The way her fingers swept lightly
over the back of his neck almost made him hum.
But that would happen to anyone, with anyone, if someone brushed over them as
lightly as that. Bran reminded himself that this was fine as he eased off her a
little. He’d danced plenty of times with girls, other girls—girls wiggling over
his crotch just like this. This was no different. And Theon was wrong about
them; exes were allowed to dance—not that Theon knew they were exes. At a
party, like this. It’s friendly. And they weren’t even really exes.
The music started building into a particularly resounding bass drop. When it
came, Meera bent forward with it, and the curve of her ass pushed even harder
up against him, and Bran almost lost himself. He almost reacted—his hands, both
of them, itching to shoot out and grab the crest of her waist. As if to keep
her bent over and rut into her right there in the dancehall.
What he did was stiffen—his stance, his chest, arms, cock.
Instead of her waist, Bran’s hands gripped Meera by the top of her sides,
physically plunking her a few inches of empty space ahead of ahead of him.
Meera swiveled, leaving her arm around his neck like she was preforming a
ballerina twirl, and now that she was facing him the arm draped behind his
shoulders served as her anchor keeping him to her. She was smirking again but
she did not press closer besides adjusting them into this new position, leaving
the vacant space he’d made between them, for now.
A sheen of sweat glistened hotly on her collarbone and chest. Bran looked past
her, feeling a bit dizzy himself in the clamminess and noise of the club.
“They say opposites attract,” she was saying. “So, I must not like cheeky
people.”
He glanced down to her, considered the evil glimmer her eyes got whenever she
teased him, before he returned his eye level straight ahead of him into the
crowd. “That, or you’re a very, very serious person.”
Even trying not to look at her, he could mark how her grin widened.
Her arm lowered, trailed down his collar and dallied there to play with the
buttons of his shirt. “Prim and proper, am I?”
Her eyes flit up playfully. They hesitated when they locked with his. He was
staring at her, unsmiling. And Meera felt herself grabbed by it too, the heat.
Bran’s arm slid behind the small of her back so she wouldn’t run off.
She blinked, her eyes fluttering lower to fall where her hand had been playing
with his collar. She opened her mouth for a quip to dismiss the moment but
nothing came to her. Bran rummaged about for something to say too, an answer, a
decision, but he couldn’t think of anything. He pulled her close all the same.
At last he managed, voice thick, “Meera…”
She chanced another glance up. His eyes were searching her. Her lips pressed
tight together before parting, waiting for words.
 
1:50 AM
Robb hunched over a nauseated Rickon. Rickon slouched back on the booth, head
flopped backwards, propped up by the booth wall, his eyes shut. His mouth,
smeared pink with the glitter from the girl’s lipstick, hung open as his
breathed in overladen groans.
“Where’s Bran?” Robb asked Jon, who was standing behind him, also studying
Rickon. “He was supposed to watch him.”
Jon looked up, scanning about the club. “When was the last time you saw him?”
he shouted back to be heard over the music.
“What? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since after the shots.”
Jon continued to comb over the clusters of people around them while Robb
snapped his fingers over Rickon’s unresponsive, dozing face.
“Little bro? Can you hear me?”
The dirty blond hair of Jojen popped into sight as Jojen clambered past a group
of people near them. Jon honed in on him immediately and called loudly over to
him. Jojen seemed to have barely heard but he looked up and found them, making
his way over.
“Have you seen,” changing his mind mid-sentence, Jon finished, “…Meera?”
Jojen shook his head. “I think she might have left.”
Something about his shoulders, his jaw—Jojen seemed put off. Jon decided to
venture, “…Have you seen Bran?”
Again, Jojen shook his head, more slowly this time. The look he and Jon
exchanged conveyed all it needed to simply by how blank they both kept their
faces. They recognized in each other a mutual resignation.
“Anyways,” Jojen sighed, and he stalked onwards in the direction he had been
headed.
Jon sighed too, unfolding his arms. “Ah, hell.”
Peering over his shoulder, Robb yelled, “Jon, find Bran, will you? Someone
needs to sit here with Rickon until he’s better.”
Jon didn’t see any way around it. The only other person in listening proximity
was Rickon, wheezing ragged breath after breath. Rickon had more pressing
matters to focus on.
Hollering over the din, Jon confessed, “There’s something I haven’t told you
about Bran.”
For a moment Robb ran those words over again in his head. Straightening up, he
cast his blood brother a look of utmost scrutiny, unsure whether he felt more
intrigued or skeptical. “What’s that?”
“There’s something I haven’t told you. It’s a bit of a secret.”
Robb kept a straight face, save for his eyes, which lit up. “What? A secret? Is
it a good one?” Jon gave a shrug of his shoulders to play it off, not
committing either way. Robb rubbed his hands together, energy recharging fast.
“Go on, spit it out.”
“Alright,” Jon allowed as Robb stood closer, leaning his ear towards Jon. “But
you have to promise not to say anything. Bran made me promise not to tell
anyone. He specifically said, ‘not even Robb.’”
The irony of it brought a grin to Robb’s face. For a brief moment he weighed
respect for Bran’s privacy in his mind. But it was quickly thrown to the
wayside; he was too curious now. “Okay,” he promised.
Jon tipped closer. “Bran slept with Meera.”
“…What?”
Jon gave him a return nod, eyebrows raised knowingly.
“When did this happen?”
“A few years ago. When we went on holiday to the Fingers.”
“What?! How did you—did you…see?”
“No, no. I just sort of…well, I opened up the car one day and found his wallet
there. Right next to a condom wrapper.”
“No. And he confirmed it?”
“Mhmm.”
“Gods be good…Wait, the car? Where did you see this?”
“About where you were sitting tonight.”
“Nooo.” Robb raked his hands over his face. “Our car, our poor car. I swear,
that boy…”
Jon tried not to give in and grin himself. He waved his hand at Robb’s dismay,
wafting it away. “This was years ago. It’s been washed since then.”
“And you’ve known all this time. You didn’t tell me?”
“Well, I don’t think they were sleeping together all this time.”
Robb’s brow furrowed as he tried to put the pieces together in his head. “Why
are you telling me now?”
Jon stepped in again so he could lower his voice. “I think they just left
together.”
“WHAT?” Robb spun his head from side to side as he hunted for a glimpse of
either of them. “They left together from here? Here?? Oh, he is really is
touched in the head. And he didn’t even say anything. He didn’t, did he?”
“Not to me.”
“We could have been worried.”
Jon shook his head to spring his hair out of his face, using a hand to finish
the job, ruffling it back all the way. “I know. He was pretty drunk though.”
“Well, if they have—it’s not like we can keep it a secret, is it?” Jon shrugged
at him. Robb went on, “I mean, I know everyone’s drunk, but I think the others
are bound to count the number of Starks in the car eventually.”
“What, are you talking about Bran?” Sansa had appeared behind Robb, squeezing
in between Robb and the booth to peer closely at the unconscious Rickon.
Jon asked, “You saw?”
Sansa was still focused on Rickon as she brushed his hair out of his face and
tucked it back. “Well, it wasn’t that hidden,” she said, none-too-concerned.
“Gods be good,” Robb grumbled in an undertone. “What’s the point of him trying
to keep it a secret when he’s just going to do that?”
“Well, why did you let him get so drunk?” Sansa asked as she turned to face
them both.
“What? Us?”
“Yes, you. Arya told Bran to look after Rickon. Why weren’t you looking after
Bran? I was trying to but I got distracted with Rickon and then by Jeyne and
the others.”
Robb asked in indignation, gesticulating defensively, “Why does Bran need
looking after?? He’s already a man grown. It’s only Rickon we were supposed to
look after. And look at him.”
All three of them looked down at Rickon, his mouth still sagged open,
occasionally hiccupping or coughing in a way which threatened he might get
sick.
“Yes, well,” Sansa mumbled as she picked up a napkin, wet it with some of the
water, and wiped at the glitter on Rickon’s chin, “That’s everyone’s fault.
Obviously Bran wasn’t going to watch him if he was that far gone himself.”
“That’s Theon’s fault,” Jon corrected. “Theon was the one messing with Rickon.”
“What were Bran and Meera doing exactly?” asked Robb, annoyed.
She shrugged, clearly much less ruffled than the boys. “Just making out.
Nothing horribly disgraceful. A lot less than some of the other stuff going on
here,” Sansa said with a vague gesture at the surroundings. “I take it they’ve
left, though?” Taking Jon’s weary shake of his head as confirmation, she turned
to Robb. “Do you need me to watch after Rickon?”
Robb groaned, “No,” slackening in a resigned stance with his arms crossed.
“We’ll do it. Go have fun.”
Sansa kissed Robb on the cheek, and with a motherly pat under his jaw, she
said, “Everybody gets one.”
She shook her head sympathetically at Jon before disappearing. Robb turned to
Jon. “Does she mean by that that this is Bran’s one mistake or mine?”
“Probably both.”
Robb glanced down to where Rickon was passed out on the booth beneath them.
“What is it about being a younger child that makes them so permanently thick?”
“Ahoy ahoy,” came Theon’s bright voice. They looked up to see him gambol over,
toting a glass with the pale green of liquors from Essos. He was sporting a
broad grin and a spring in each step. “Wait ‘till you hear, wait ‘till you
hear.” He reached them and took a swig before continuing, “Did you see? Did you
see Little B.?”
“Bran?” Robb frowned. “Have you seen him?”
“Ohh. I seen him alright.”
“Where is he?”
“Now? Huh.” Theon flicked his wrist, pretending to study his watch. “Let’s see.
It’s almost 2:00. So I would say he’s probably nose-diving right into that
Meerish swamp.”
Jon gagged. “Bleugh. What is the matter with you?”
Robb’s eyes closed as he moved to massage what looked like a headache from his
brow.
Theon raised his eyebrows, waiting for one of them to join him grinning. “So
you know, right? You know about it?”
“That’s just gross,” Robb said from behind his hand.
Theon slumped his shoulders forward, rolling his eyes. “Ohh, come on. Will you
two maidens grow up? Bran’s been spending all his time at theirs for years.
You’ve had to have known he was fucking one of them Reed kids.”
Robb brandished a finger at Theon, an actual flush spreading up his neck. “You
cut it out.”
“Little bugger owes it to me as well. Did you see him? I told him. I told him
the only way he’d man up to take a crack at her is if he was piss drunk. I
forgot to mention not to go too hard and overdo it, alcohol-wise. Hopefully his
boon won’t end up being his anchor, if you know what I mean…” Theon trailed off
into his glass before he washed down the rest of his drink, “which I know you
two do.”
“Yes, yes,” Jon said grudgingly. “It’s all very exciting. Let’s move on now,
shall we?”
“Move on? Fuck that.” Theon laughed. “This is hilarious. He gets proper worked
up about it. The blushing bride. He’ll go absolutely, er, starkers—shall I
say—when he sees I got me a lil’ snapshot. I already sent it to Pimp’s Landing.
Let me find it again.” Theon pulled out his phone, almost rocking with glee.
Pimp’s Landing was the group chat among the three of them. Oddly enough, it had
been Jon who had given the group its current name, during one of his lighter
moods. There were other group chats Theon could send that picture to, if he
truly did have one. Worse groups.
Jon was stewing, chest inflating. Before he could do anything else, Robb asked,
“You got a picture of them?”
“You bet your Northern ass I did.” Theon was flipping through his phone to find
it.
Jon’s eyes darted from the phone to Robb. Robb threw him a lazy nod to tell him
it was taken care of.
“Comeee off it,” Robb goaded Theon, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve got a
picture of two random people, maybe who vaguely look like them. There’s no way
Bran and Meera would ever hook up, she’s not his type. And he’s not hers,
either.”
“Believe it, mate. Here,” Theon said, presenting the phone’s screen to Robb as
he passed it to him. “Behold. A sweaty, grope-y alliance to make your dad
proud.” As Robb swiped his fingers over the phone, Theon gloated happily, “I
ought to charge the little div a photography fee. Artists need to be paid. And
this is art I’ve made here, people. What should I title it? Perhaps ‘Yikes.’ Or
‘Do Anything for a Friend, Especially If It’s His Sister: The Brandon Stark
Story.’”
“There you go,” Robb said, handing the phone back. “Deleted.”
“Lads, I tell you—” Theon froze, his arm postured in the air like an
instructor. “You what?”
“Don’t take creeper shots of people at the club, you ass.”
“You deleted my art?!” Theon sputtered, eyes wide and then narrow again, livid.
Jon watched cheerfully as Robb and Theon began to get into it. Through the
tumult and their bickering, he heard Rickon groan down below. “How you doing?”
he asked, bending low.
“‘M fine.” Rickon opened and closed his eyes with much effort.
“Can you drink a bit of water?”
“Mgrgh.”
Jon plucked a bottle of water off the table, removed the cap, and placed it in
his brother’s hand. Rickon took a sip. He mumbled a thanks as he closed his
eyes again.
“That’s my phone. You’ve no right to mess with my phone!”
“How about that’s my brother and you’ve no right to mess with him?”
“Where do you get off? It’s only a picture. And besides, I was doing your job.”
“My—my what?”
“You’re his brother, not me. You two just leave him out, high and dry, being
all pathetic. One conversation from his Uncle Theon and the gormless lil’
shit’s already in there an hour later. You think you coulda done that for your
own brother? You ought to be thanking me.”
“Thanking you? You leave Bran alone, and Rickon. Look at Rickon. Look at the
state of him. You knew we wanted to ease him into nightclubbing and you went
ahead and gave him liquor he can’t handle and chucked him in the deep end.”
Theon waggled his head, frustrated he had to explain everything to simpletons.
“You learn to swim by being thrown in the deep end, not by observing the ocean
from the sidelines for your entire life. At least I’m nice enough to give ‘em a
real hand. Without Uncle Theon, Bran’s dick would get about as much use as an
Unsullied’s.”
As much as Jon liked seeing Robb have a go at Theon on the rare occasions Theon
had pissed him off enough, the public scrutiny over Bran’s not-so-secret tryst
felt like a mini-betrayal. He spoke up, “Leave it, everyone. So they left.
Leave it alone.”
“He’s had the horn for her for years and where were you two? Doing jack shit.
And then you delete my art,” Theon muttered. “Uptight fuckers can’t take a
joke.”
Robb had been turning to check on Rickon once more but he whipped back around.
“I’m telling you, lay off of Bran. Don’t tease him about this.”
“How about,” Theon said, starting to giggle, “I lay off Bran if he lays off
Meera? Which means I at least get to have a go at him tonight because he is
going to be,” Theon started smacking at a phantom ass in front of him, “laying
that on all—”
“Alright—” Robb started angrily, taking a step towards Theon. But they all
froze, heads turning down towards Rickon as he lurched forward and retched.
***** Arya's Birthday (II) *****
Chapter Summary
     You might say there was a bit of a delay on this chapter. There are a
     myriad of reasons why (academically known as a ‘shit-ton’). I’ll save
     my whinging for tumblr. I will say though that I had already written
     out most of the first part of the story. Now I'm at the latter half
     which is more randomly scribbled chunks arranged around an outline.
     So most like I’ll adopt a more GRRM-style pace.
     (My tone sounds normal but really I rewrote and rewrote this part,
     changing my mind 6 or 50 times about what I wanted it to be, that
     this chapter took years off my life and I'm posting it just to be
     free from this pain. I want to be a free elf.)
Chapter Notes
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera, Gendry – 25. Sansa –
     24. Arya – 22/23. Bran, Jojen, – 22. Rickon, Desmera Redwyne – 18.
     Mood: Me, pateofthecitadel, embracing death Kevin Garrett – Coloring;
     Seafret – Oceans
1:20_AM
They behaved themselves in the cab.
They had squeezed their way out from the heat and noise of the club to stumble
into cool night air. A few others, tired by now, loitered about the sidewalk
even as more people were steadily arriving and adding themselves to the queue.
 Bran and Meera muddled past the crowd onto the street to the small swarm of
taxis, come to take up the only remaining supply of customers this time of
night.
They climbed into the closest car, made drafty by the cracked driver’s window,
through which the driver was having himself a smoke. Upon listening to Bran’s
directions, he gave a stiff nod and made to finish the cigarette. When the last
of the tobacco had been burned, he flicked the butt out onto the street, fired
up the ignition, and they drove off.
Bran and Meera settled into the backseat, each slumped against their own window
with all the intention of keeping their hands to themselves. Bran took to
gazing out at the buildings as they slipped by.
Once clear of Cobbler’s Square and its rowdy late-night patrons, the noise
level of the city dropped off. Two or three streets passed, and Bran had
already begun to come down from the clubbing’s frenzy. Lulled by the sway of
the taxi, the hush of the surrounding streets, he drifted until movement in the
corner of his vision caught his eye. Hunched by the other window, Meera was
rubbing her arms up and down.
Bran looked to his knees as he made some split-second calculations but shortly
gave it up as a bad job. Calculations concerning Meera could devolve into a
trap. Apart from devotion to her brother, the only thing certain about Meera
was that nothing was certain about her. And Bran had long since given up trying
to figure it out.
He proceeded to inch across the seat. While his attention innocently shifted
from his window to hers, he snuck an inconspicuous arm around her shoulders.
Meera watched him with a private smile in silence. She must have decided she
approved, for then she leaned into his warmth.
They made polite chitchat to while away the ride. As the conversation steered
towards everyone else who had come out for tonight, their forced demeanor of
formality dissolved. Among the two of them, they had a laugh which was only
marginally guilty poking fun at the others. Rickon—worked up. Arya—exulting in
the flood of attention and affection. Jojen, with his unique brand of
dispassionate annoyance. And of course Gendry. Poor Gendry.
The cabbie ignored them. Half of his customers on weekend nights were couples,
leaving some party or another. The polite ones respectfully pretended not to be
mere seconds away from shagging. And the not-so-polite ones got working on a
head start during the ride home.
 
They took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Bran unlocked his door and
held it open for her. Meera sidled up next to him by the doorframe. She leaned
forward to poke her head inside before crossing over the threshold. Her step
was light, as though not wanting to be overheard.
Bran threw his keys onto the table by the entrance Catelyn had set there for
his mail. Meera kicked off her heels and gave an almighty sigh of relief.
They had stepped into Bran’s kitchen. No walls blocked it from the rest of the
main room, its only demarcation being a switch from wooden floor to carpet.
Past the kitchen and the narrow side-hall that led to the closets and bathroom,
the apartment opened up into a space which was comfortable to come home to. The
flat was divided down the center by the slightly worn sofa once belonging to
Jon. Its only other room was his bedroom, behind the closed door on the wall
opposite.
Other highborn Westerosi would have considered his place small, even shabby
perhaps. But he liked it. Anything bigger would be a hassle. And Northerners
did not turn to maid service as readily as their southerner counterparts.
 
He moved on routine, securing the door, shuffling out of his shoes. The
apartment lost the hallway’s florescent light and the only source now came from
the street lamps’ faint glow through the windows, blinds not drawn.
Meera had made her way past the kitchen and, an air of polite caution about
her, began to explore. She stared at anything and everything as though
fascinated by the tiny details of his place, her fingers grazing across
whatever she passed.
The wispy top she had chosen for tonight covered very little of her back. Light
caught on the small planes of her shoulder blades above the top’s scooped
neckline. The blouse ended early as well, leaving the small of her back in
plain view.
Bran recalled that when they had vacationed at The Fingers, her skin was kissed
by sun, dappled with freckles. It wasn’t bright enough now to see if those
freckles were still there.
She murmured in a small voice that nevertheless carried through the quiet, “I
like your place.”
“Thanks.”
With some effort, Bran moved his eyes away from her waist, instead bowing his
head at the ground. He considered his feet in their grey socks, twiddled them
idly as he gave Meera the space to acclimate to this new setting.
He stowed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, hoping vaguely that his face
resembled something of an indifferent expression. He was pretty sure that
somewhere he had heard stoicism was what most people found attractive in men.
Stoicism and confidence.
I have to be as confident as Robb.
The fact that the two of them were alone, not a single sibling lurking behind
the corner, struck Bran as if it had happened in a sudden flash. As if they had
not been traveling here for the past fifteen minutes.
He looked up. Meera was watching him with mild curiosity, her dark eyes
narrowed in a hint of that trademark, brassy grin. The grin spread, and she
seemed unable to stop the blush that came with it, so she grinned at the floor
instead. “This is my first time seeing your place.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
Her grin morphed into something of a benign smile, though Bran did not trust
that either.
“I like it.”
“Thanks.”
Something was amusing her, clearly. “Don’t you think you’re being rather rude?
A poor host?”
“What?”
“This is my first time seeing your place.” As she spoke, she tucked her hands
behind her back, achieving a false demure quality. Her eyes flicked up ever so
slightly to just catch him in her eyeline. “You haven’t offered me a tour.”
“There’s only one other room.”
She tilted her head skeptically. “How can I believe that if I haven’t seen it?”
His bearing of manly stoicism threatened to crack under her teasing. He liked
her teasing.
His heart was pounding a little more insistently within his chest. Bran gave
himself one more moment. One second more to soak in the sight of her, standing
innocently in his flat, bestowing upon him her most angelic and most evil grin.
He pushed off from the wall. Meera’s eyes tracked him and did not stray. As he
passed her, his hand reached out for hers and she gave it to him. He led them
to the far wall, into his room.
He sent Meera unceremoniously forth with a broad sweep of his arm, himself
wheeling about to close the door behind them. He was moving on autopilot, his
body had kept up but his mind had lagged and fallen behind.
I have to be as confident as Robb.But Robb would know what he was doing.
 
He had only turned halfway round when a small shove sent him backwards. His
back thudded up against the door. Bran repressed a startled laugh as Meera
stretched to lean his face down to hers, into her kiss.
She kissed him, already deep and familiar. And he let her, his arms wrapping
around her, holding her against him. Meera had dispensed with bothering to keep
her touch gentle. And as heat rose in him kissing her back, he did the same.
He leaned more, made her bend more. And her hands gripped him—ran up his arms,
pushed up to the nape of his neck into his hair, gripping and releasing.
It was dark in his room. It may have been that they had not found themselves in
such total privacy since that night nearly seven years ago. When, as teenagers,
Meera had turned her eyes on Bran and seen him in a different light. That was
the night of his first kiss.
They were not teenagers now. And for their first time being truly alone
together after all those years, it was not what one might call ‘special.’ There
was a hastiness to their movements, over-sharp. Where the pretense of normalcy
fell away, a hunger built, rapidly growing in shamelessness.
Bran felt a burning in the back of his throat. In his gut, through his fingers.
For Meera. And Meera was everywhere. Mouth hot on his, hands raking over him.
Real and solid, clutching him to her. He cradled her neck, wanting to steady
her, needing easier access to rediscover that funny, sweet mouth of hers.
Bran was inundated with left over shades of smoke and alcohol which clung about
her thick halo of curls. Under that though remained a trace of her shampoo. And
of something else. Something reminiscent of Howland Reed’s house in King’s
Landing. Of grass, and minty chapstick. And something ineffable. Soft and holy.
Unique to Meera’s warmth and to her skin.
Her scent, her taste. How it had been those precious few times he had moved his
face over her neck or down her legs. The way she moved her tongue, her hands.
She flooded his senses, making him dizzy. This was perfect. This was how they
should have been spending all their time. They should never stop.
Meera squirmed free and took a step back. She snatched at his shirt, attempting
to undo the line of buttons, fumbling a little in her impatience. Bran breathed
heavy as the dark green shirt he had deliberated on so diligently was slung
onto the floor. It was difficult to focus; his eyes kept closing of their own
accord, reopening with delay.
She grabbed a fistful of the white t-shirt he still wore and, with more force
than he would have expected from someone her size, pulled. He went. They
stumbled further into the room, inelegant, stopping when Meera backed into the
bedframe.
He’d been through this before with her. This time though he did not need to
look away, and he regained his breath.
After all that came before, the way she closed the space between them now was
markedly slow. His eyes fell shut when her lips brushed under his, gentle,
maybe even shy. Her tongue coaxed him forth, showed him how to seek after her.
Oblivious to everything outside the kiss, they tipped aimlessly, Bran leaning,
Meera falling, and landed on the bed.
The mattress was forgiving and gave way to their movements. Meera maneuvered
higher, Bran followed. Propped mostly on his own elbows, he settled above her.
But even at the controlled weight, she adjusted with a breathy grunt.
Past her chin, past her jaw, he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck.
Meera was salty with sweat from dancing. It was good, and he wanted more of it,
tongue and teeth moving over her. Her legs wrapped around him, squeezing. Her
body grinded against his and the sensation vexed him with want. He bit down,
sucking hard at a point on her neck in a bout of petulance. Nails dug into his
arms as there was a sharp intake of breath underneath him.
Her back arched, chest pushed up. His cock gave a jump inside his jeans,
against her thigh, growing hard fast. Too fast. Her hands were in his hair. It
was becoming more and more blurred where he was and what was happening.
He groaned. Her arm hooked around his neck. They locked together, close.
Her body tensed, as if with a slight convulsion. She expelled a quick noise,
sharper than before. Bran stilled, not sure if he had imagined it. Meera had
stilled as well. Her softness now rigid.
She whispered, “Wait.”
He waited. Neither one of them moved.
Her hands had a grip on his shoulders. Again she said, “Wait, wait.”
Bran leaned onto an arm, the better to see, and breathed, “Okay.”
Her eyes went wide. They caught more light than most everything else in the
unlit room.
She lumbered away to the side and reeled up to sit at the edge of the bed, her
back to him.
Bran did nothing but sit blankly for a few seconds, still dazed and short of
breath. He snapped out of it though when Meera buried her face in her hands. He
remembered where they were, how they had gotten here, and everything that had
led up to this moment all the way back to camp. And how Meera had made a game
of it, kissing him in his cabin, but only when Jojen wouldn’t see.
Oh.
 
He swallowed in an inadvertent attempt to douse the heat which had risen inside
his chest. The air traveled down uncomfortably, chafing his throat.
Voice dry, he broke the silence by saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay, Meera.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her words were muffled by her hands.
He had half-expected this in the back of his brain. Of course it wasn’t going
to happen. Why should it when she had already explained as much? And now that
they were here, Bran forgot exactly what he had been playing at. Meera may have
recently moved to The Reach. It made her no less of the family friend she had
always been, and none of their circumstances had changed.
He wouldn’t have done it, had it not been for Theon. Theon, and all that
nonsense he had been spewing. Insecurities in his head. Assuring Bran that he
could read the situation better.
But it was Bran who had been willing to believe him.
Could he really have been so desperate that he would listen to Theon? Desperate
enough to construe Meera’s play as intent? He wished he had avoided her all
night. He could be back at The Nightfort, in the noise and the damp, drinking
with Rickon.
He wished she’d pull him down on top of her. He could strip her of those
annoying clothes. She’d hold onto him and let him find her again, open her
again. Feel her once more at long last. Hear her quiet moans, feel her welcome
him.
He wished she had left him alone, that she had never plagued him with this. His
first kiss could have been with one of the classmates and he would be
blissfully free of want for her. Not stuck in inadequacy.
“This happens. Don’t worry. Meera, it’s fine. It’s normal.”
She shook her head which made her arms swing side to side. “Not with me. I
don’t know what’s going on with me. I’m more responsible than this.”
“What are you talking about? Responsible?” He watched as she slid her hands
over her hair until clamping a chunk at the back. “Meera, I’m glad you said
something.”
“You are?”
“Yes. You and I are friends. Of course I’d want you to tell me if you’re having
second thoughts. Just like I think you’d want me to tell you. If…If you didn’t
say anything and I…I became a regret of yours—” She closed her eyes with a
sigh. “It’s good you said something. And nothing happened, it’s okay.” He
pressed his lips tight together. He wasn’t sure why, but those words in
particular had stung. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
She smiled grimly and mumbled, “I’m not. I wish that I were.” The forced smile
went away. “But I’m not. I let myself get away with everything.”
Bran stared. “Meera? What is it?” When she stifled an over-noisy breath, he
veered off the bed. He sped over to her, crouching beside her knees.
In a small voice, she whispered, “I don’t like it—how I treat you. I’m flippant
with you.”
“Meera. Changing your mind about sex is not flippant. And it’s got naught to do
with responsibility. You are responsible.”
She made a bleak laugh as she said, “No.” Not looking at him, she went on, “A
responsible person isn’t the type who would drag a fifteen-year old out into
the wilderness, into gods only know what. Just ‘cause they were bored. And a
responsible type certainly wouldn’t try to pull them, have a snog with them,
before he could even know what was happening.”
Blinking, he asked, “Is that what’s bothering you?” he asked, blinking. His jaw
tight, Bran said in a flat tone, “What are you getting at? It’s not that you
just don’t like this,” he gestured vaguely at the space between them. “It’s
that you think it’s irresponsible?” She didn’t answer, only rubbed the back of
her neck. “Meera. If you’re having second thoughts, if you realize you don’t
want to be here, I want you to tell me. I’m glad you told me. But why are you
talking about responsibility?” He chewed his words before finishing, “I don’t
need you to patronize me.”
She opened her mouth to argue. “That’s not—”
“I knew what was happening, Meera. And right now I’m for whatever you want to
do. Go home, go back to the club. You could crash here too, if you want, I
could take the couch. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept on it. But there’s
nothing irresponsible about two teenagers making out some odd years ago. And
there’s nothing irresponsible now, either. I just…” His voice trailed away.
Meera said nothing while she stared at him.
Bran was uncomfortably aware of how his concluding words hung in the air. He
wished she would say something, even a cold goodbye, at least it would fill the
silence.
Tentatively, she asked, “So…what did you think would happen? After tonight?”
Bran ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Meera, I know what you said. I
agree, we shouldn’t complicate things, you know, jeopardize our friendship. I
didn’t mean anything by it, I don’t know why…I didn’t mean to make a move on
you tonight. It just…sort of…”
Back in the club, the club where it was so loud you couldn’t hear your own
thoughts, she had stood close, arm-in-arm. They chatted, she threw her head
back with laughter. His nerves prickled where she touched him, where she bumped
up against him, pushed by the crowd. Face flushed, her body snug and tight in
that leather. The dark and the din making him feel invisible, making him feel
free.
His voice had shrunk into a pathetic sound recalling it—fancies of sexual
prowess. So Bran rose, not wanting Meera to gaze down on him with pity. “The
club was just so—and I was…” His eyes darted to those leather trousers. “And
you wore those stupid trousers—I should’ve left things alone. I’m sorry.”
She nearly grinned when he cursed at her trousers but held back out of
courtesy. He could see her turning his words over in her head. She squinted at
him curiously and asked, “When did you sleep on your couch?”
Expecting something more grave, he made a little sigh of relief.
“Sansa stayed here once. Her building was having the windows redone so she
stayed here. I’m closer to her work than our parents’ house. And she booted me
out of my room.”
Meera turned back to her knees with the shadow of a smile on her face.
Her voice was low as she said, “You didn’t do anything tonight that I didn’t
respond to. I picked my outfit with you in mind.”
Bran forgot to close his mouth. He looked like a confused statue. Her eyes
roved back to his and on automatic response his heart drummed a little faster.
“I told myself I wasn’t going to bother you. That was my commitment to good
behavior. But still, I pictured…I pictured you coming over to me. And when you
did, I…”
There were only one or two steps between Bran and where Meera was sat. She
stood.
Bran shuffled back. His hands shot up to hover weirdly before his belt, as
though in danger of Meera attacking his belt loops.
Shaking her head with a slight shrug, she said quietly, “I was…I had it wrong.
I thought we weren’t on the same page. I don’t—” Whatever that thought was
going to be, she angrily swatted it away and continued, “But anyways…nothing
would change.”
His face flushed with heat. And the heat was outside him, pooling between them.
“Are you saying you—”
“I want to stay. What do you want?”
“What do I—? What I’ve wanted has remained…consistent.” His tore his gaze away
from her mouth back to face her. “I want what you want.”
 
Their brown eyes matched in the dark. She extended a careful arm towards him.
Her hand was below his shoulder. She smoothed it up and down, feeling him near
the collar of his shirt. She must have liked that part of him, her hands always
gravitated there. Her hand traveled up to massage the back of his neck. She
held the moment.
Gradually, his breathing calmed. He might have said her name. But the word came
so quiet that Meera saw more than heard it. Aligning her face with his, she
made the small hint of a nod. Bran was bending, guided. And the kiss she gave
him was so patient and delicate that it pained him.
The bite of rejection that had flared a moment ago melted in her glow. And all
his wounds and woes seemed to melt. At least here, in this hallowed space she
could create where she was all that existed.
This time, Meera made it so that it was Bran who lay down first. He had barely
lowered onto his bed when she was already climbing on top of him, and so he had
to labor to drag them up higher. Straddling his lap, she brought his face back
to hers. Her kisses were sweet, almost apologetic. He reached for her too—his
hands slid up from the small of her back, below the satin, towards the small
lines of her shoulders. Beneath his fingers, her skin was impossibly smooth,
delightfully warm.
Whenever they broke apart, she drew in half a breath before she rushed back. He
heard, as if breathed into his ears again, sudden memories of soft, sweet
noises she made those few years ago. When she bared something of herself to
him, quaked beneath him as they came together in that cramped SUV.
Bran groaned and gripped her by the infuriatingly lovely shape of her ass, that
shape her awful trousers loved to flaunt. He felt weight where she sat astride
him and friction as his cock stiffened harder still. The drag of her trousers
grinding on his length was growing rough, difficult.
She kissed him, hot, hasty, and then again. Her grip—too sharp. Her teeth
grazed over his lips too fast. And he returned the same desperation, the same
clumsiness.
Meera shifted on his lap and he couldn’t help the hiss that escaped him. His
knee jerked as if to buck up but was restrained by the span of her thighs. The
pressure of her position, the unforgiving denim of his jeans, it all pinched.
But he pulled her tighter onto him all the same.
Experimentally, she rocked against him, and he groaned. She did it again,
explicitly carnal, and they both groaned.
Meera was flushed, panting slightly. She paused to gaze at him for a moment,
likewise out of breath. A smirk crept across her face. The light in her eyes
brimmed with unadulterated excitement, which prompted in Bran an uncanny mix of
thrill and anxiety.
He looked down as he realized, with slight delay, Meera was trying to maneuver
his t-shirt up. With a hand he reached behind to his back and seized hold of
it, tugged up, and threw it off haphazardly, earning him an approving kiss from
Meera, still smirking.
She nudged him further back with the merest flash of a wink before she hopped
off the bed. Bran went to follow but she caught him by the shoulder and pushed
him back down. Her hand trailed down from his shoulder all the way to where she
found his belt.
Unseen by Meera (who was paying his upper half not a bit of attention) he
swallowed while she busied herself with unfastening the clasp on his belt, the
buttons of his jeans, the zipper.
He had the simultaneous impressions of his mind racing and of his mind blank.
It was very disorientating.
Meera tugged and his jeans began to reluctantly go with her. He was breathing
quite loudly by now.
She discarded his trousers to the floor, yanked his socks off along with them
with the slightest hint of teasing. He was left with only his boxers, well
tented.
The sight of her delightedly vaulting back over him, brushing her lips on his
hip, over the skin that dipped beneath his boxers’ waistband, her bouncy hair
flopping about—it sunk into his chest with unexpected weight. This was
something affectionate. And deeply personal.
What did you think would happen? After tonight?
I told myself I wasn’t going to bother you.
He had a good idea of what she was doing. It was something he had thought about
sometimes, maybe often, lying in bed waiting for sleep after all other
distractions of the day had been exhausted. And as the night grew darker and he
grew tireder, his defenses fell away. The heavy eyelids of Meera’s would appear
in the dark and empty privacy of his mind. She would lift them up to him, her
mouth grinning, before she’d turn down to take him in with a hungry moan.
His toes curled.
That was a fantasy. Just a random, little nothing-thought that couldn’t be
helped. But this, Bran suddenly decided, was too intimate. If they had
established they were friends, even friends who occasionally fucked each other,
that was all well and fine. But this he would not share with a friend, this he
would only lay bare with a girlfriend.
One of his knees sprung up, startling her. He rolled them over, using his
weight to pin her beneath him. He caught a glimpse of her puzzled face before
he opened her mouth with his own, kissing her deep and insistent. Her momentary
stiffness abated. He could taste it as she began to smile against him.
“Didn’t get to do this in the van, did ya?” she teased with a cheeky grin.
“You are unbelievable.”
He moved down her. His mouth feigned nipping at the side of her neck as she
wriggled pleasantly beneath him, laughing and pushing him away. He kissed her
neck softly then, and her pushing turned to gripping. His lips trailed lower,
to the flat plane down the center of her chest. He could dally there but he had
a more pressing ambitions.
Much like she had, he bound off the bed. He undid the side zipper on those
stupid trousers he couldn’t wait to get rid of. And flattering as they were,
they were a bitch to peel off her. Relinquishing, she angled her hips up to
help and he managed to shimmy the clingy material down and off.
He took one second to admire how slight and smooth the purple lace of her pants
looked across her hips. The mere breeze of a fabric.
Bran seized her around the waist and dragged her towards him until the edge of
the bed, until her legs fell unsupported on either side of him. She made a
surprised peep and grabbed the blanket to steady herself, leaning onto her
elbows to frown reproachfully at him.
Her knee went to cover herself but, already bending, he smoothed it back, and
crouched until kneeling before her.
Her hand wafted about to slow him in the name of modesty. He gave her an
unconcerned look, not delayed at all by the vague flutters of her hand, as he
hooked his fingers around delicate lace. He glided it down from her hips, her
thighs, past the crook of her knees and finally let them fall from her ankles.
She was biting her lip, holding herself up so she could see his face. He gave
her one more affectionate smile.
There was a quick, shy noise from Meera as his arms pushed her thighs apart and
wrapped themselves around her legs. He lowered himself onto her, seeking out
the wetness hidden there.
He made a small involuntary noise of pleasure when his mouth opened to her,
licking and kissing slowly. He traced over her peaks and folds, brushed her
soft flesh with his lips and nose. He heard the initial sharp intake of breath,
and he was aware of whines and whimpers that followed, but it was taste that
blanketed over his brain now.
He had never tasted her like this. And Meera tasted sharp, like wine, with a
slippery richness. He may not be a fan of southern wines, but he was a fan of
this, lapping at her, and he pushed her legs further apart to pull her closer,
nose brushing up against her clit.
Her hand gripped and released his hair. She was breathing out unintelligible
non-words. And his name. When he used the flat of his tongue, she breathed out
his name, in repetition, groaned and let her head fall back.
He had to see, he wanted to see. Bran pulled up, taking in how she looked as he
gulped down much needed air. Her eyes were closed. One of her hands had reached
out to the side to grasp for anything and had settled for grasping the blanket.
He leaned forward to press a gentle kiss on her hip and his hand went below. A
finger pushed into her flush heat, his thumb circled over her clit.
Meera made a small gasp, cursing, and coiled inward. Breathless, she said,
“Wait.”
He looked to her, lips swollen, his hand settling over her thigh. It took her
quite some effort to sit up, splayed and out of breath as she was. She managed
to push herself up on her arms.
“Bran.”
“Yeah?”
Her voice was barely audible. “You. I want you.” Her arm reached out, wanting
him to follow it up on the bed.
He wasn’t sure why, after yearning for this for so long, his chest tightened in
a spasm of trepidation.
She whispered, having never sounded more earnest, “Please. I want you.”
He started a sentence, “I—” for no reason, having no sentence to say.
He glanced at his dresser, where he stored a box of condoms. Bran had a hand on
the bed to steady himself. Meera’s hand fell over it.
“We don’t need it,” she said. “It’s up to you.”
Bran swallowed and nodded, but still he did not rise to stand.
Seeing his expression, she sat up and brought their heads together until her
brow tilted on his. He breathed in deep, and let her soothe his nerves.
“I want you,” she whispered again. “I want you so much.”
Brow still pressed to hers, he nodded, faster, eyes closed. It was with a
feeling of lightheadedness that he got back onto his feet.
In the dim light from outside, he saw Meera retreating further back on the bed.
It would have been better to resist the act of shyness, but in the end it
didn’t matter so much, and he turned his back as with slightly shaking hands he
removed his boxers. There was a rustle behind him as Meera’s blouse went
swishing onto the dresser.
I know you got all shy after your little tour in the hospital...You think being
shy is some major detractor. It don’t have to be.
It’s obvious to anyone the little thing you two got on.
He twisted back around to her, determined.
And there she was, waiting for him. Her dark eyes wide and trusting.
‘We’ve never been naked together,’ he thought dully, climbing onto the bed,
crawling over her as she lay down.
She had a hand on his arm. Her touch was sweet. And he reminded himself that he
was a man grown, and not afraid. He shifted lower and the skin of his chest
pressed against the skin of hers, and he groaned. All of her was there with all
of him. He hadn’t even entered her yet and already he had to suppress an urge
to curse or thank all the gods, whichever made more sense.
He braced himself on the bed and Meera spread her thighs apart to help guide
him to where he needed to be. They shared a quick glance. Bran gave her half a
smile out of commiseration for taking so long. Then he righted himself, edged
his hips just the right way. His cock pressed up against where she was already
ripe and silky warm, and he eased into her.
His heart pounded and he felt his blood rush. Slow, he pushed himself forward,
deeper into her. His eyes fell shut as the heat and pressure of Meera eclipsed
him, every inch of him—body, mind, all.
With the last remaining barrier gone, any fear of being naked, of being over
exposed, faded with it. Meera breathed his name onto the crook of his neck. The
feel of her writhing beneath him, of her hot and warm around him, of her arms
clinging to him frantically, made him groan, dizzy with need, and he thrust
back into her much harder than he meant to, causing her to buck against him
with a pained gasp.
She was panting, a slight tremor in her voice, hands grasping at his back. He
shoved his cock back into her, back and forth in long strokes, losing himself
in it.
Meera threw her head back, bit her lip. Bran opened his eyes to stare,
fascinated. Her lips fell open to gasp out incoherent slurs. Curse, and moan.
Moan his name.
God, I needed this. I missed you.
His head spun, but he couldn’t stop. Bran moved his mouth back to hers. Though
he took her by surprise, she was quick to kiss him back. He could feel—her
mouth, her cunt, all through her body wrapped around his—the way she ached with
want for him. He made a choked sound and dipped his head beside her, bearing
down on her.
She urged him on with words half unsaid, half whispered. He sped up, and fucked
her harder. Her hands dug into his back, her hips and waist in rhythm to his
movements.
“Ah,” she breathed. “Oh god—oh.”
“Meera,” he rasped. “Fuck, Meera, I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever
wanted anymore.”
She clutched him tighter. He loved the way her hands gripped to his back, the
way they tried over and over again to hold him fast. She mumbled vague words of
relief and appeal. He slammed himself back into her.
Meera was going to peak, he could hear it. He pulled up just enough to see her
face. Gasping, chest rising and falling in short shallow breaths. Her eyes were
pinched shut.
Her voice had been building to a crescendo but next second it died away. Even
her breathing ceased. His face hovered just above hers. He wanted to see. When
her breathing returned, it came as a low sigh, barely the shadow of a breath,
and was followed by the sudden squeeze around his cock.
Bran gave a silent hiss as her slick walls contracted. He tried not to groan,
not to close his eyes. He wanted to see.
Each breath from her came fuller than the last until she moaned, clutching
herself to him.
Three seconds passed, maybe five, she had only begun to come down, but Bran
hastened to plant his face beside her among her curls upon the mattress. Now he
didn’t want to be seen.
He shifted his legs to deepen his angle and drove into her, harder, expelling a
moan into bedspread. He lifted the arm which bore the less of his weight and
groped in the vicinity of his bed’s headboard. His hand found it, gripped the
top of the frame, and he sped up.
Next to his ear, Meera made a sharp whine at every down stroke, something
between a grunt and a squeak.
Lost in the sanctuary of her, thoughts bubbled up and took shape. Thoughts he
hadn’t ask for.
I missed you, Meera. I missed you so much—the way you feel. I love the way you
feel. Do you ever miss me? Do you like the way this feels, how I feel inside
you? Did you ever think about it after that night, ever need me, or is this
just you passing time?
You’ll never understand how much I like this. Or know how much I miss you.
He couldn’t say any of that. So, instead, Bran merely said, “Meera,” in the
shred of voice that remained him.
Her cunt was plush and wet as his cock steadily slid into her. He groaned and
groaned and groaned. He wanted to brush his hand to the side of her face or cup
her breast. He wanted to grab a fistful of that thick and bouncy hair he loved
so much. Wanted to press down on her hip and keep her still as he drilled into
her. But his hand did not let go from where it anchored him on the headboard.
Her hands and arms were still gripping onto his shoulders. He loved that—the
way she clung to him.
Something coiled near the pit of his stomach. He was hurtling towards the edge
and he did and didn’t welcome it. He made the barely discernable sound of
‘Meera.’
And he heard his own name whispered back to him.
He pounded into her once more, hand slipping from the headboard. Once more
again. His eyes had closed and lungs frozen, not that he could tell. Control
and consciousness slipped until amid a groan he was at last forced to let go.
He spilled inside her, coming hard and all at once. Gasped for air as white
heat blinded him.
In that moment, he could forget himself. Forget every single thing in the noisy
world but for how this felt.
He had slowed to a stop, and Meera had stilled as well. He gave her all of
himself, completely, until the last drop of him came with a quaking shudder and
he slumped over her.
She made a grunt at the weight but tightened her arms around him all the same.
Powerless, unable even to prop himself up, he drifted, feeling protected in her
embrace. When his eyes fluttered open again, he felt the urge to wrap his arms
around her too, shield her as she shielded him. But he was too exhausted even
for that. So he let his eyes fall closed and submitted to the wave of relief
that washed over him.
After a while, he became aware of her sweet fingers brushing through his hair.
He made to lift himself so as to look at her. She tightened her arms around
him, keeping him where he was, and blurted, “Don’t leave yet.”
Just as quickly, he whispered back, “I won’t.”
As he lay there he moved a hand to rub soft circles across her arm. Meera
tucked her head close to his, nuzzling him. Bran had to squeeze his eyes shut,
pushing down on the involuntary, responding lurch of attachment.
Her hands went to cradle his face, and finally he lifted his head. He gazed
into those earthy brown eyes and blinked, not able or willing to say anything.
She tipped forward as much as she could, which was not much, and softly kissed
the damp skin of his brow.
He could not hold himself up for long. Still quiet, he said, “I’ll…move to your
side.”
“Okay.”
Supporting his weight proper, he coaxed his spent cock out of her and flopped
onto his side as her legs slid together.
She dragged herself to the top of the bed.
Bran lugged himself up with her. He grabbed the pillow on his side, plopped it
on top of hers, and placed them against the headboard so that she could
recline. When she set herself down gingerly, he moved to rest leaning upon her
chest, at which she resumed stroking the back of his tired head.
She was humming peacefully. Bran said, “You’re staying here tonight, right?”
“…Yeah.” Her tone sounded either impatient or a little hurt.
“‘Kay. Good.”
She hummed some more before saying, “What’s it like for you tomorrow?”
Rather than respond, Bran buried his face straight down on her chest and
groaned, making her laugh.
“Why? What’s that about?”
“Eugh. We’re supposed to meet, my siblings and I. Well, we’re supposed to go.
Go to brunch in the morning. Might be a problem since I’m not there.”
Her fingers played with his hair idly, trying to spin them around, only his
hair was too short.
“Will they come get you? Come here? Are your parents coming here?”
“No,” he laughed. Bran rolled the right way round and sat up to lean against
the headboard beside her. “Just us kids.”
“Okay. Good. ‘Cause I was about to book it.”
“Very brave of you.”
“Have you met your mother?” Bran was grinning. Meera continued with emphatic
sincerity, “Do you have any idea how terrifying it was for me? On that holiday.
The morning after, I practically threw myself at the opportunity for a hike
when your brothers suggested it. Anything not to be in that kitchen with you
and your mum together.”
“You? I had to deal with your father looming over me. And your brother, whom by
the way, I had to creep past while he was sleeping to get into bed. And him
being the only person I really talk to. And he was giving me those fucking
pointed stares.”
She chuckled under her breath. “My brother and father are gentle lambs. You’re
mum though…” Bran shook his head. She patted a hand fondly on his leg and asked
in a pensive tone, “How are you and Jojen?”
“We’re fine,” he smiled at her, in placid reassurance, still pleasantly warm in
that post-coital glow.
She smiled back before her face turned serious. “I’m going to ask you
something. And I would like it if you wouldn’t judge me.”
What in seven hells has gone wrong now?
“This is not a kink.” His fears evaporated instantly, now he tried not to
smirk. Was he about to hear a surprisingly strange, dark kink of hers? She
finished in what she probably was hoping was a dignified voice, “Can I borrow
some pants?”
There was a beat in which he frowned at her. Then he laughed. “You want to
borrow my pants?”
“It’s not a sex thing,” she said, back and shoulders straight, maintaining her
pride. “It’s just I don’t want to sleep in a thong.”
He said, still smiling, “Okay. How’s boxers?”
 
With some reluctance, Bran hauled himself out of bed, legs cramping slightly.
His dresser was not far, and he fished out from it a pair of loose-fitting
boxers for himself before turning on the light.
It was a strange idea: Meera is naked on my bed. But there she was.
Meera had flipped to lie on her stomach, covering the most of her. But she had
her head propped up in a hand and her feet playing with each other in the air.
She surveyed him quite unabashedly, looking like a smug mermaid.
Grinning in both the happiness of an orgasm and the ridiculousness of her, he
rummaged in his dresser to find the right pair. He searched for what would be
the least potentially embarrassing boxers he could find. If she saw the pair
patterned with little cartoon wolves, he would never hear the end of it.
He found a clean pair, black with grey lines checkerboarded, and tossed it over
to her. She rolled over on the bed and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand,
slipping it in between her legs before she stood up.
She had her back to him as she drew the boxers on. Bran picked out an old t-
shirt, made soft from too many washes. Meera swung back around to him. He was
wholly exhausted but, of course, Meera was positively bubbly.
He vaguely presented her the t-shirt but failed to announce it, distracted by
staring at her. She looked so much shorter when barefoot.
“Staring at my tits again. Typical.”
“Hmm?” He blinked vacantly at her, not having processed what she said.
Meera snatched the shirt out of his hand and threw it over herself.
“Why are you always so energetic?” he mumbled.
Still inside the shirt, Meera cooed, “Awww.” She emerged with his shirt on
proper, bright eyed and beaming.
There was a moment in which neither of them said anything. Something changed
about her smile but Bran didn’t know what it was. He could never tell what it
was.
“I’m going to jump in your shower. Just a rinse. I smell like the club, or you,
either way it’s awful.”
“Okay.”
She stepped forward and pressed her lithe frame against him, grabbing his hand
by two fingers.
He was almost back in that moment when she nuzzled him with him collapsed,
still inside her.
She leaned up, gave him a soft kiss that did not last long enough.
And then she turned and was off.
 
Bran cleaned himself with a tissue. He could have used a rinse too. But he did
not think he would be awake for much longer. Couples might shower together.
Fuck buddies might even shower together, maybe it led to more fucking. But they
weren’t that either, they were friends. Friends except for the 20-30 minutes
once a year in which they weren’t.
Some of the dehydration that had started at the club came back and pinched at
his head. There was nothing to do but trudge over to the kitchen and fetch a
drink. He couldn’t be bothered with filling a glass, so wasting water bottles
it was. He grabbed one, and then another so that Meera could put her own by her
side.
He slapped them down on the nightstand, his bottle nearly depleted already.
Should he pull on a shirt? His skin was sticky and he didn’t want to, so
instead he collapsed onto the bed, feebler each second he kept his eyes open.
So he closed them.
His mind wandered back to the thoughts which had blossomed in the heat of their
sex. Thoughts about needing Meera, yearning hopelessly that she would need him
back. Calm, he reminded himself that pre-orgasm thoughts could be like that. It
was more than easy for them to spiral into the realm of overwrought melodrama.
He wished he hadn’t admitted what he did though. That he wanted her more than
anyone. But Meera was happy in post-coital glow, he was happy in post-coital
glow, and they could happily pretend he hadn’t said anything.
 
He ended up on his side, under the blanket. It had been a few minutes in which
he drifted.
The bed dipped beside him and he heard Meera’s voice. “Poor guy. All tuckered
out.”
He stayed put for as long as he could before rolling over to face her. She sat
watching him. Brown eyes, brown curls, soft skin that was almost freckled.
Looking upon her, his face had the happy dumb expression of a person perfectly
contented.
She’s even cuter in that sleeping shirt of mine.
She had tried to tug her hair back, although he wasn’t so sure it had worked
out well. Her hair was mostly dry but her skin shone soft from hot water. She
started to smile.
“Ohh. I wanted to prod you in the stomach and tease you. But I can’t even do
it. You look so tired.”
“I am tired,” he said, tiredly.
She brushed his hair back. He made a soft hum of appreciation.
She waited a moment before saying, “I’m sorry if I freaked out before.”
“You didn’t freak out. And you don’t have to apologize.” His words were coming
out slurred as he cared less and less for the effort to enunciate them.
“I just…care. About not ruining things, or our friendship.”
Unfortunately, he had to make himself wake up more.
“It’s not ruined.”
She kneaded her hands together in her lap. “You don’t think we hang out less
now?”
“Well, you live in The Reach.”
“Yeah. I suppose so.”
Meera’s shoulders had sagged a little, and Bran felt like he should tell the
truth. A man grown would tell the truth. He sighed, “But I know what you mean.
I guess before we pretty much just hung with Jojen, all three of us.”
While Jojen had already been miles more tolerant than he needed to be, neither
of them could bring themselves to force their joined company on him no more
than was necessary. Not when he knew, not only about their awkward hook-ups but
also about the subsequent denial, their mummer’s farce.
“That’s a good point actually.” Her face brightened hopefully. “So, it’s not
that…we’re broken or anything? Like we made things weird?”
“‘Course not. Look at tonight. I had a great time talking with you.”
She raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Tonight? You’re using tonight as an example of
how things are the same between us?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t awkward at all between us. We had a nice chat.”
“Yeah. And then we made out and came here.”
Bran stretched and folded his arms behind head. “Honestly, I fail to see
anything in that that is technically unfriendly.”
She begrudged him a laugh.
Pleased with his own humor and sense of ease, he pressed on, “Some friends go
hawking. Others might ski. Some, maybe, occasionally sleep together.”
“Right. So you do this with all your friends?”
He chose to ignore that and only looked away with a smile.
Then, quite suddenly, he decided he had been awake long enough. He flipped over
and shoved his face into the pillow and slid his arms beneath.
“Are you going to sleep already?”
“Mhmm.”
“The light’s still on.”
Muffled, he said, “Fuck the light.”
 
Bran felt a kiss on the back of his head before Meera’s weight left the bed.
There was a click, and the room plummeted back into darkness.
“Budge in.”
He squirmed further back, lightly swatted by her hand as he went.
She slid into bed, wriggled up beside him, and leaned her head upon his arm. He
moved it, wrapped it around her, and pulled her in so she would lean against
his chest instead.
She settled with a sigh, fidgeting about to find what position was most
comfortable.
Meera’s legs, like Myrish silk.
“…I’m glad you stayed.”
“Don’t be such a sap.”
That gave him a small smile. He smiled a lot around her. “Okay.”
Meera turned her eyes up to him from where she lay. She stared for a spell, in
her usual, enigmatic way. He couldn’t tell if the look she gave him was
affectionate or sad.
Finally, she turned her head back down and murmured, “Goodnight.”
They relaxed into the darkness and stillness, Meera nestling beside him,
fingers caressing lightly where they lay. Sleep began to corner in on him. It
would be such a relief to succumb to it, like a drink of much needed water. But
it was with a small pang it dawned on him that sleep would bring on tomorrow,
and the end of tonight. He liked tonight.
Meera would revert to being his family friend, and not the girl breathing deep
in his arms as she fell asleep.
He stroked the sprawled out locks of her hair and, inevitably as he had to,
coasted down and backwards the slope of consciousness, disappearing as she had
into sleep.
***** The Morning After (II) *****
Chapter Summary
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya
     – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Bran
His thoughts were beginning to solidify. Clearer and clearer they grew, until
it was that Bran was aware he was having them.
Had he forgotten to do something? There had been something about Arya, or maybe
it was Jojen. It had been so loud.
And there had been a cab as well—dark and quiet.
He blinked, opening his eyes.
Bran was on his side, lying in his bed. The first thing his eyes focused on
were those curls.
Sometime during the night, he had shifted to lie on his side and Meera had done
the same. She lay there now, curled up in front of him with her head on his
arm. He’d slung the other over her waist, tucking her in close to him.
Meera looked very different when asleep. Very different, when her eyes were
closed and there was no devilish grin to speak of. The slope of her shoulders,
loose in his baby blue t-shirt, rose and fell with each breath. On every
exhale, she made a small, soft huff.
Blue light was illuminating the walls. That must have been what woke him. Last
night he hadn’t bothered to close the blinds. He hadn’t wanted it to be pitch
black. He’d wanted to see.
Aches had settled into his legs over the night, less so in his arms. Bran tried
as gradually as possible to reposition himself. Meera murmured, and for a
second he thought he’d woken her. But she merely stretched her own legs and
readjusted herself further back towards him. If that’s what she wanted, that
was no problem for him. So he tightened his arm around her, pulling her against
him.
She hummed in her sleep. Bran would have smiled, but his eyes had already begun
to close again.
Outside the windows, the world could continue to revolve, silent and slow and
unimportant. Dawn was close but hadn’t truly broken yet. They could still
sleep.
 
Jon
By the pre-dawn light Arya watched as signs of a new day burgeoned across the
sidewalks of King’s Landing. A few subdued shopkeepers had left their homes,
yawning, on their way to unlock storefronts of the city’s bakeries and bodegas.
Not many though. Today was Saturday, and there would be no rush hour starting
at 6:00 and picking up at 8:00. Even so, last night’s hooligans were gone,
replaced by early starters well-rested. A few joggers could even be seen, the
ones too dedicated to know better than to wake this early on the weekend.
Arya watched them from the SUV’s middle passenger row, leaned up against the
window. Rickon covered most of the seat beside her, pitching and rolling in his
sleep with the motion of the van. She kept a firm grip on his shoulder to
steady him best she could. While he continued to use her leg for a pillow, Arya
thought it best he not retch again.
All the same, her eyes stayed glued outside, determined as she was to ignore
pointed looks being thrown back at her from the rear view mirror. Reflected
were dark eyes that flit up to glare at her, back to the road, and up again.
“Seven.”
She feigned deaf as well as.
“Seven people left in this car yesterday. And two are returning.”
“Three.”
Jon drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. “Two and a half,” he conceded
stiffly.
They passed another minute in deliberate silence.
“Had to be The Nightfort. Nightsong—not good enough. Ghaston Grey was a no.
Only Nightfort. Because that is what would turn your mother’s hair the most.”
At last Arya turned from the window with a sigh. She might as well have, for
the distractions outside were dwindling closer to the suburbs.
“Robb and Sansa do not count,” she spoke.
 
The plans, which had been discussed ad nauseum the night before, called for
them to pick up Talisa as a group. Come the morning, the lot of them would
drive the long way out to the airport. And on their way back they would break
their fast at Willow Wood, a swank but remote bistro tucked away in the
sprawling, pristine fields of the outer Crownlands. There they could have
themselves a bit of a breather, just among the kids, and recharge their energy
before the inevitable fuss of the rest of the day.
But it had only been a quarter to 4:00 when Robb pulled out his phone to stare
at a text from Talisa.
By then, most everyone was tired. The club’s crowd had waned, though one was
not like to be able to tell from the noise. The newer wave of people was even
louder and pushier than before.
The two eldest Starklings had found the party less interesting once they were
tasked with babysitting Rickon, left to brood over the prospect of Ned and
Catelyn’s displeasure at how well the two youngest had faired while under their
protection. A barman had hurried over to scrap up the pool of sick once Rickon
heaved it up. He hadn’t told them to leave, strictly speaking, though the look
on his face conveyed quite plainly the staff’s appreciation of their latest
contribution.
Sansa too was less inclined to mingle among the young lords and ladies once
Jeyne and Beth, and even Myranda, had all gone home. Theon had long since
disappeared already, sucked up into a group of seedy looking Ironborn that had
made a brief (and slightly unwelcome) appearance.
Glancing about in a flash of panic, Gendry realized he would be the only non-
Stark remaining in their inner circle. He’d professed his apologies to a
disappointed Arya before bidding some hasty farewells to the rest as well. He
even went to shake hands with Robb once more, apologizing loudly for having
doused him in ale. Robb waved that away with the good-natured laugh of his. In
light of being compared to Bran or Rickon, Gendry had come to acquire a much
more reliable vibe about him.
The Starks remaining had clustered beside the booth, though it was only Sansa
and Rickon who sat. Sansa held him, patting his head like a mother while he
fought to stay awake, and she raised her voice to be heard up above where an
incoherent jumble was being shouted back and forth. Jon watched with his arms
crossed—the only sober one among them.
“Where’s that fellow Gendry? Is he still here?”
“I told you, he left ten minutes ago.”
“Sansa, I want to go home.”
“I know. We’re leaving soon. Come on, guys, pack it in.”
“Wait but where is Bran?”
“We’ve been over this.”
“Did you check though? Did you try calling him? You’re sure he’s not here?”
“I’m not calling him. Yes, he is not here.”
“Ask Jojen.”
“I don’t know where Jojen is.”
“What about Meera?”
“Arya, open your ears. How did you think we figured out he was gone in the
first place?”
“Sansa.”
“I know, sweetling, I know.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“We’re almost leaving.”
“So who are we waiting on?”
“We’re not waiting on anyone! Let’s go.”
“Where’s Theon?”
“Oh, for fuckssake—”
Robb shushed them all, pulling out his phone.
“What? Who is it?” Arya asked. “Is it Bran?”
Robb looked up with an unfocused gaze, unsure who he was speaking to. “It’s
Talisa. She’s here, in Westerosi time. Caught an early flight.” He replied,
speaking in the slow speed of typing, “Don’t…take…a cab. On my way.” Then,
sliding his phone back into his pocket and staring vacantly at the rest of
them, Robb finished, “Right, I’m off. So—alright—goodbye.”
And without so much as a pause, he spun on the spot and strolled away. Sansa
quickly handed Rickon off to Arya to chase after him, calling over her shoulder
about making sure he didn’t forget just where it was he was off to.
“Blind leading the blind,” Jon muttered before he turned back to see what was
left of his flock: Arya, holding a most disgruntled Rickon.
 
“Robb and Sansa do not count, so that’s five, not seven. And no one honestly
expected Theon to stay the whole night. That makes four. Rickon’s technically
here—three. So…we barely lost anyone.”
“Ymm?”
“Just Bran, and he wasn’t even with us at the start of the night. So everyone’s
returning pretty much.”
“Hmm,” Jon continue to hum, unconvinced. “Your parents will have naught to say
on the matter, then?”
Arya huffed and glanced out once more at the gradually lightening sky. As long
as their parents woke to find the car safely stowed in the garage and heard
within the house the vague footfalls of Starklings, no one’s absence need ever
be pointed out. The trouble was that Ned and Catelyn Stark had a habit of
waking infuriatingly early.
 
“Help me with him,” Jon hissed under his breath.
With a hiss of her own, Arya growled, “I’m trying.”
There were still fifteen minutes until 5:00AM and the two of them were doing
their utmost to encourage Rickon along up the stairs. Rickon merely slumped
against the railing.
Jon tried to pull him right and said in a surly undertone, “Rickon, stop being
a prat and cooperate. You’re not a damned baby anymore.”
Rickon couldn’t be bothered to keep his voice low. “Leave me alone.”
“I could, I absolutely could. I’m just too bloody noble.”
With some difficulty, Jon hoisted his little brother up below the shoulder,
pulling the boy’s weight onto himself. Jon stumbled them up to the second
floor, Arya trailing behind in their wake with her arms out should she need to
catch Rickon. His bedroom was on this floor. As was Bran’s. As was their
parents’.
Jon eyed the darkened hallway leading to the master bedroom nervously. “I’m
gonna throw him in the shower before we chuck him in his room. They might catch
his smell otherwise.”
Arya glanced between the bathroom on their left and the hall on their right
when next they heard the front door bang open. Robb’s voice filled the silence,
accompanied soon after by Sansa’s.
Jon barely had time to make a face; Arya was already halfway down the stairs.
The noise seemed to rouse Rickon, who shuffled onto his feet and, moving faster
now, Jon lumbered the two of them into the small bathroom a few feet away.
 
Inside, Jon dangled him off his arm, dropping the boy slowly into the shower
stall.
“Rickon, wake your ass up.” His only response was to slump down the wall until
he found his way onto the tiled floor and sat, breathing hard with his eyes
still shut. “You—”
Water would serve just fine to wake him up; Jon only needed ten minutes of him.
He yanked on the sleeves of Rickon’s shirt, pulling it over his head.
As he crouched down, the bathroom door opened and Robb sidled in. The hour
they’d spent apart appeared to not have sobered him up in the least. “What’s
this??” he asked, sounding almost accusatory, eyes bright and face slightly
red. “Oh. The little dweeb. Oi, Rickon! Up you get.”
“Keep your voice down.”
Robb complied, but it was with a persecuted tone that he said, “Why are you and
Arya all worked up? It’s not as though we’re trespassing.”
“The less your parents know of Arya’s choice little outing, the better. Unless
you’re keen to explain why Bran didn’t come back with us. Then by all means,
wake ‘em up. It’s naught to me.” Complain all he want though, it would remain
true that it did matter to Jon. Loyalty wasn’t something you could just switch
off. “You tell your poor ol’ mum that Bran prefers shacking up with some random
bird over coming home to his parents, he prefers the company of his Night Queen
over hers.”
Robb made a lazy, scoffing sound. “Bah. That’s not what it is.”
“No, but you know that’s how she’ll hear it. She was already upset yesterday
when he wasn’t here. Fretting, going on and on about him living on his own and
not wanting to admit he still needs help.”
Jon was trying to pull apart Rickon’s shoelaces while using the smallest amount
of contact possible. He wasn’t entirely sure that the shoes had been spared
vomit had bespattered the ends of Rickon’s trousers.
“You know, she might have even used the phrase ‘a woman’s touch’—yikes. She
finds out, her heart will turn to stone, it will. She’s not ready.”
Robb chewed his lip, observing Jon’s progress, before he said, “Whatcha mean by
‘some random bird?’”
“What, you want to rat out as well that it was Meera?”
“Wouldn’t that be better, soften the blow? Maybe they’d be pleased…or less
upset. She’s someone they like.”
Jon finally had managed to wrestle free both of Rickon’s shoes, which smelled
horrible. As he placed them outside the shower stall, he took the time to turn
around and stare at Robb dead-on, eyebrows raised. “I suppose.If you want to
commit him to proposing already.” Robb rolled his eyes but took the point.
“I’ll await the announcement of their betrothal any day now.”
“I’ll say he never came out. He’s forsaken this family. Run off to take up
mummery.”
“While you’re at it,” Jon said, contemplating how next to best tackle the
stained jeans, “You can explain why our dearest, youngest Rickon, whom you
swore to keep safe, drank so much he puked on himself right after an unsightly
snog with a Redwyne.”
“Why’s it all got to fall on me?”
“You could just not wake them up.”
Robb was grumbling, and Jon was ignoring him.
“Rickon, you have to wake up. Rinse yourself off and then stow away these rank
clothes of yours.”
“I’ll shower,” Rickon said as he crossed his arms where he lay as if to go to
sleep.
Robb asked from behind Jon’s shoulder, “Do you think he’s alright?”
“I think so. He already threw up twice so…should be fine.”
“Turn the tap on. That’ll wake him up.”
“What, in his jeans? Will you put them in your room?”
“No. I don’t want them fouling up my room. We can put them in Bran’s room.”
“D’you think your mum will check his room?”
“That would be the one room she’d check. Wee Bran. Her sweetest boy.”
Jon grinned, shaking Rickon’s shoulders. “Up now. Strip and take a shower.”
Rickon growled, “Alright,” sounding put-upon, and he stretched out on the
tiles, turned on his side, and tucked his hands beneath his head.
Jon’s mouth opened, too frustrated to speak. Robb picked up the dirty shoes,
giggling quietly, and left, most likely off to stow them in Bran’s room.
“Just my luck,” Jon muttered to himself as he resigned himself to tugging at
the denim, avoiding splotches of sick. Rickon rolled in an attempt to dodge
around Jon and continue sleep uninterrupted. “Expensive night on the town.
Debauchery, intoxication, people pairing off left and right. And the person I
wind up fighting out of their clothes at the end of the night is you.”
 
The start of the night had been pleasant enough. Of course it was touching to
see Arya so happy, so elated. That not-so-secret non-boyfriend of hers seemed
decent enough, even if he struck Jon as an unpolished sort of fellow. Nervous,
but not nearly as bad as someone like his own friend Sam. Frankly, the night
probably served as the best case scenario for introducing him. Somewhere loud,
fraternizing with all the others, trying to keep an eye on their
greenest—somewhere where Robb and Jon wouldn’t be allowed to focus all their
attention solely onto him. Maybe that’s why she insisted on drinks at The
Nightfort in the first place.
The rest of the night though…
Rickon was acting the brat, to be sure. He probably even possessed the ability
somewhere to pull himself together rather than leave his mess to Jon.
Yes, Rickon was being a pain in the ass but it wasn’t really that bad. Not
truly. All of them, himself included, had at one point been the helpless drunk.
So far gone—all that they were capable of was sitting at the bottom of the
shower and working hard to breathe.
They had always helped each other out. Helped each other slip past undetected
by their parents’ (if indeed they were). Now with Rickon, it seemed it had
happened to all of them. All of them, apart from Bran.
Bran had never been so wasted as this. The worst that Jon could think of was
the time he’d come to dinner high, returning from an afternoon at Jojen’s
house. Even then he’d still been well behaved. Almost the same as normal, only
twitchier.
Perhaps last night he had decided he didn’t mind what anyone else knew.
Or perhaps he hadn’t even remembered they existed, tunnel-visioning. Were that
the case, Jon felt certain that Bran would deplore the coming day with every
fiber of his being. And he hoped for Bran’s sake that whatever happened had
been the former.
He remembered the way Bran had shrunk before him those some odd years ago when
he’d revealed to Bran that he knew. Knew about him and Meera. Bran's voice had
grown so small.
Please, don’t tell anyone. Please, Jon.
Jon sighed.
 
He was muttering darkly to himself when the door reopened.
This time he could tell out of the corner of his eye that it was not Robb.
Talisa’s slender figure entered into the cramped bathroom. Inky black hair,
bronze skin, her face went from surprised to amused at the sight which greeted
her.
“Nice to see you, Jon.”
“Hello, Talisa,” he said airily, as though greeting her over coffee. “Glad to
be back with the Starks, I’m sure?”
“I’ve been back in Westeros for only an hour and already I feel like more’s
happened than my entire trip back home.” She bent low, hands on her knees. “How
is he? How many times has he been sick?”
“Twice.”
“Not yellow colored?”
“Nah, just mainly that nasty green liquor.”
Talisa frowned. “That’s absinthe. That’s Volanteen. That’s good!”
“Didn’t look good coming up.”
At last the jeans had been slithered off, though Jon had not been entirely
successful in keeping his hands clean. He wiped them on what clean bit of
trousers there were. “Right, we’ll just leave those where they are,” he said of
the black briefs, all that Rickon was left dozing in quite at peace.
The peace was broken seconds later when Jon flipped on the faucet and unheated
water came splashing down. Rickon woke with a blustering lurch, spraying
droplets at Jon and Talisa as he whipped his hair out of his eyes. His hands
groped for the tap and he shut it off, spluttering.
“What the fuck are you—Hey!Talisa, this is the men’s room.”
“This is our bathroom at home, you tit.”
“How are you feeling?” Talisa asked as she reached over to put a hand to his
brow. He batted her away.
“You can’t be in here. Go away.”
“Don’t be rude,” Jon snapped.
She didn’t seem too bothered though. Her face was still cheerful as she
retrieved her hand, apparently satisfied. “I see much worse in residency, I
assure you.”
Rickon’s arms hovered before his torso, shielding himself for decency. Somewhat
reluctantly, he muttered, “My head feels like a brick. Like a swaying brick.”
“Yes, well, alcohol, throwing up—it’s all very dehydrating. Drink some water
and take a nap. Maybe have a bit of sugar when we break our fast.”
“…I didn’t throw up. Did I?”
“Yes, you did,” Jon said, thin patience running thinner. He tossed a bar of
soap at Rickon, which he managed to catch even in his stupor. “Wash the stink
off before your mum beats it off you.”
“Talisa, out you go,” Rickon said calmly as he began to scrub. She left,
chuckling much like Robb had done. Once she’d gone, Rickon continued, “I see
what this is.” He rubbed the soap over his legs and arms, looking quite absurd
sitting in his briefs on the tile floor.
“Get your hair too. It stinks.”
“You’re all twisted up in a knot since Mum and Dad will blame you lot for my
woes.”
“Don’t press your luck, ‘Tricky Ricky,’ or I’ll snap a pic of you in all your
current glory just for Desmera.”
Rickon’s hand lowered, his eyes slowly grew wide. “…How do you know that name?”
Jon smirked and stood up. “Hurry and wash up. Then go lie down in your room. If
your parents come in, just tell them you’re tired and act like you’re asleep.
Don’t mention Bran.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just keep your mouth shut and get some sleep before breakfast.”
“No.”
“Go on. Wash, and be quick about it,” Jon repeated simply, preparing to exit
and sneak upstairs.
“If you don’t tell me, the first thing I’ll mention is Bran. What’s happening?
You tell me.”
Jon was already sliding through the door. He departed with a last threatening
whisper, “One more word and Desmera’s coming up in front of the parents as
well.”
The door snapped shut just as Jon heard Rickon hiss, “How do you know that
name??”
 
Bran
He awoke all at once with his face smooshed against a feather pillow. And he
could tell from the moment he opened his eyes that it was all too bright. Even
against the plush cotton, white and faded sunlight was flooding in through the
creases. Someone was jabbing a finger at the back of his head.
Bran rolled over, squinting against the light.
Meera was beside him, her face bright and cheerful and her legs dangling off
the bed. He frowned at her, waiting for sleep to leave him and their
whereabouts to come back. Then Bran dug his shoulders into the mattress
stubbornly, sulking as only a brother of Jon Snow would know how to sulk.
It proved to darken Meera’s smile not one bit. She had drawn up all the window
blinds as high as they would go, accounting for why it was far too bright.
She had changed back into her clothes from last night as well. Bran didn’t like
that either. To see her asleep in his cotton shirt, loose and unassuming around
her shoulders, had been so distinctly peaceful. Restorative of some part he
didn’t even know needed restoring. And fleeting. Unfairly fleeting.
Now that she had stopped poking him, Meera studied him looking quite as sunny
as the weather. Her head tilted to one side, reminding him of the way their
wolves looked when puzzling something out. He could see, in her arms and in her
posture, all of the energy she had recharged overnight, even before his eyes
made it all the way up to hers. She smiled when they did.
“Were you planning on sleeping all day?”
“Yes.”
She gave his blanketed legs a bit of a shake. “That won’t serve. Won’t serve at
all. Where’s your Northern work ethic?”
Bran rubbed his eyes, realizing as he did so that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Meera was aware too. Between two fingers, she nipped at the skin of his chest
so that he had to swing his arm back down in defense.
“Nnn. Why are you such a morning person?”
“I’m a day person, Bran. It’s day.”
His eyes were still more closed than open. It’s too early. I preferred it when
it was earlier still. Earlier than early—that’s the perfect time. That’s when
no one expects anything of you. When we can justbe, in peace.
“What time is it?”
“Bit after 9:30. Your phone has been ringing.”
“My phone?”
“You left it in the living room.”
“Who’s calling me?”
“The police.” He blinked at her, still waiting for his brain to load in full.
The more grumpy he looked, the more entertained Meera became. “I don’t know,
Bran. I didn’t look.” She chuckled, unable to stop herself, and said looking
down at her own knees, “You’re adorable.”
“Stop that.” It was too early to be teased.
“Right, you’re right. You’re not adorable. You’re a hard man of winter.
Chopping wood, crossing swords, repressing emotions, fighting beas—”
“Meera, cut it out.”
He made to push her off the bed, but half-way through sitting up he decided
that that would be entirely too much effort. So he slumped back down instead
and was treated to another of her amused, self-satisfied smiles.
His energy was at 4% and hers was at 400. He stared openly at her, going for
‘reproachful.’ But, much to his chagrin, he was losing the battle at remaining
as grumpy as he wanted to be. He was almost smiling.
“I used your toothbrush.”
He quipped at her, “Now that goes too far.”
Meera’s grin turned shy and she looked close to blushing. “Sorry.”
Bran sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He said, suppressing a yawn, “I keep all
the spare toothbrushes from the dentist under the sink.”
“Hmm. I’ll keep that in mind then.”
It took him a moment to register what she said. He peeked out from behind his
hands to look at her. Her expression remained as calm as ever, still water,
unchanging.
Meera reached and pushed her fingers through his hair deep by the roots,
untrapping some heat where the hair had stuck together.
‘Please don’t do that,’ he thought, even as his eyes closed once more, soothed.
“When was that brunch you and your brothers and sisters are heading off to?”
“What? Oh.” He was forced to wake up, and forced to admit, “I don’t know.” Bran
sat up. “Don’t raise your eyebrows at me.”
“They wouldn’t leave you behind, would they?”
“I doubt it.”
“So, they’ll be coming here then?”
He hesitated in answering. When he met her eyes he said with some resignation,
“Yes, most like. I know, I know. I’m getting up.”
“There’s a good lad.”
Bran gave her an annoyed sort of smile as she hopped off the bed. He tried his
best not to show that she was actually succeeding in making him cheerful.
“I’m going to help myself to your kitchen while you collect yourself.”
She left, ignoring Bran’s mutters about food thieves and pulling the door
behind her so that it closed with a click.
 
Once alone, the fog in his head began to dissipate.
His trousers, his shirt, and the t-shirt he’d worn underneath—they were all
strewn about different locations on the floor. Heat crawled up into his face.
What had he done last night? And Meera had gone along with it? And now she was
here, she remembered too?
She was in good spirits at least. But still, as Bran stumbled out of bed and
pulled on the first pair of jeans he could find, he felt uncomfortably aware of
everything about him. His age, his apartment. His family. They’d seen. They
could even burst in at any moment.
He felt clumsy, and the white tee he pulled over his head stank of sweat. It
was the one from the night before. He should have bothered to find a new one.
But he had to rush. Meera would leave soon. She’d already gotten dressed and
futzed about, all while he was sleeping.
She’d been the one to set the rules before. What were they now? Where were
they? Was he setting any rules?
Bran figured to himself that if he needed to ask that question, the answer was
most likely ‘no.’
 
He shut the bedroom door behind him. Less to see in the case he needs suffer
any sudden visitors.
Meera sat on his kitchen counter, munching away at a half-skinned apple. His
cheeks felt warmer still at the wee smirk she gave him even while she chewed.
Glancing away, Bran found his phone on a sidetable by the couch.
     Six missed calls.
He swiped that away, brow furrowed, and clicked text messages instead.
     08:17; Arya
     robb said we’re not to jettison you
     since i’m the kindest, i offered to pick u up
     git
     08:54; Arya
     be ready at 10:00
     09:03; Arya
     can’t help but notice that you HAVENT. REPLIED.
     09:12; Arya
     bran stark all i'm saying is your punk ass better be ready when I get
     there. i’m going out of my way on my birthday to pick you up since
     you 1. go off whenever the hell u want 2. insist on
     remaining transportationally-challenged. least u can do is not make
     me to wait another 30 min
     if you’re not ready when i arrive, i’m leaving
     09:15; Arya
     i know your phone isn’t dead
     09:33; Arya
     istatg i will kick your ass so hard you’ll land in dorne
He could sense Meera’s gaze still on him. “I’ll…be right back,” he said
quietly, and slinked off to the bathroom, not looking at her.
 
Bran held the bathroom door shut behind him, breathing hard. His heart was
beating just a little too fast. Get a hold of yourself. You’re a Stark of
Winterfell. Stop acting like a craven—what, are you frightened of Meera?
He shook his head, trying to clear it, and staggered to the mirror.
His eyes were heavy-lidded from sleep. His hair stuck up in random places and
there was a most unimpressive aura of someone who should have but had not
bathed.
He splashed cold water on his face which at least helped drain some of the
sleep from his eyes. Although now, on top of being unkempt, his hair looked
ratty where he’d gotten it wet. He swiped his hand back and forth it gruffly.
While he hurried in brushing his teeth, Bran stared blankly at the tube of
toothpaste before him.
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Parts of his memory were clicking on bit by bit from last night. Muddled images
streamed past, not yet properly absorbed. He was inside a new memory now,
reminded of where his mouth had been a few hours ago. Shrouded in darkness, her
thighs moving underneath his hands, noises expelled deep from her throat.
Lovely, desperate noises. Grateful noises. And his face buried upon her,
pressed on the glory of her skin, both of them over-hot and trembling. Parting
her legs to reveal that secret refuge he wanted so much. Exploring with the
bridge of his nose, his mouth and his tongue—
Bran spat out the toothpaste and rinsed, too hastily. He was left wiping at the
water that had smattered down his front and found, to his annoyance, his hands
were unsteady.
Normal. I’m normal, we’re normal, this is normal. Don’t make it weird.
 
Meera had just finished her apple. She smacked her hands together to banish the
juice off her fingers. She sucked at a spot still sticky just as she looked up
and found Bran watching her from across the kitchen.
She always looked delighted to see him. Maybe that’s why he always wanted to
see her.
The way she sat on the countertop, Meera dangled her legs off the edge like a
kid playing in a grocery store trolley. When her eyes traveled upwards to the
bedraggled state of his hair, Bran saw a smile in them but for once she worked
to keep the smile out of her face. Subjecting him to only nine of ten japes
might just be Meera’s way of being gentle.
“You’re a beacon of energy, you are.”
There she is.
Bran only made a low hum in acknowledgement from where he stood leaned upon the
fridge.
The whole scene was a bit bizarre. Meera was pillaging his food, in his
kitchen, wiggling her legs off his counter. She wore tight leather and
dangerously loose satin, belonging to the night, but was bathed in the
innocence of yellow sunlight. The longer he stared, the funnier it seemed. That
served to calm his nerves at least.
“Where’s Summer?”
“Summer? Oh, he doesn’t live here. It’s too small; there’s no yard. He’s with
the rest of the pack at my parents’.”
Her head sank between her shoulders in a dejected sort of way. “I was hoping
for some quality time with Summer. I love him, I love all them lot.”
“I know. I know that’s the reason you came.”
She glimpsed him through the curtain of brown curls that hung before her face,
grinning. He’d convinced himself they were doomed for awkwardness. But Meera
was her usual self—merry, light, having fun. If anything she was more herself
now than she’d been with him for a long time.
He figured he ought to just shut up but regardless he heard words escaping from
him. “You look cute, sitting up there like that.”
She shimmied her hands underneath her legs to sit on them, letting her hair
fall further, obscuring her face from view. But that did not stop Bran from
just catching the curve at the corner of her mouth. Meera was so confident, no
stranger to bragging or to compliments. But her boasts were half in jest, and
it would seem there were some compliments from which she shied away.
“Well,” Meera mumbled, locking her feet together in the air. “Not to be mushy,
but morning-mess you is a tad sexy.”
The doubts that had been worrying away at him had been steadily fading into the
background. They were almost gone now and the further they faded, the lighter
he felt. Light enough even to enjoy her compliment. To enjoy watching her as
much as she enjoyed watching him. He pushed off from the fridge.
Meera sat a little straighter as he came towards her. He came to a stop just at
her knees. When he drifted one more step closer, she moved them apart as he
took up the space between them.
Like this, they were aligned in height. This close, her brown eyes looked huge.
But even as they combed back and forth across his features with a heat pooling
inside them, he felt her tighten the knot within her chest as though trying to
reign in everything she’d let go of last night and cram it all back into
wherever it was she stored it.
Bran realized he wasn’t saying anything and caught her eye.
In barely more than a whisper, she said, “I have to go.”
“I know.”
His hands cupped her neck anyways. He moved his mouth to hers. It was
effortless. Perhaps he was too tired for nerves, or maybe he was still high
from last night from touching her, feeling her all over and everywhere.
With another pang he remembered she was about to leave. He pulled her waist
towards him, tighter.
It wasn’t only him. As her mouth opened for him, she leaned into the way his
hands ran from her waist up her back. Besides apple, she tasted like his brand
of peppermint toothpaste, which made him smile, even as he kissed her harder,
their movements sharper.
He made her tilt further back, perhaps rushing a little, so he could find the
crook of her neck as he had done the night before, and he took her there with
his mouth again. He liked to. He liked the way she squirmed and tried not to
squirm when he did. Her hands smoothed up his arms, around to the span of his
shoulders, up the back of his neck and into his hair. Every time she put her
hands in his hair, it was perfect. Perfect the way she pulled him toward her.
There was a sense of routine and a sense of urgency. His breath came hot,
riled, when she pushed him up off her, but she only drove him back enough to
bring his mouth back onto hers. He remembered her, how she moved, how she felt.
And then the air filled with the cartoonish, electronic whistling of his phone.
The noise rattled them both. The dumb, grating noise felt so far from where he
had been that it left his mind reeling, like he’d been wrenched off his bike
just as it was gathering speed.
Bran had pulled himself upright but remained standing in front of her, head
turned away to listen to that bloody phone, grinding his teeth. If it isn’t
Robb, it’s Arya.
He cleared his throat and told Meera as much, that it was Arya who was the one
coming to get him.
Meera took the interruption better than he did. After the second in which they
both froze, she shook her head and let out a sedated chuckle.
“Ah, Arya. Girl after my own heart. Though I don’t particularly want to see
her…today...here.” 
“Yeah.” Bran swallowed, not completely removed from the moment yet, leaving his
head feeling full and confused.
“I’m off to catch the bus.” 
“Do you want—I could call a cab.”
“No, no,” Meera said as she wriggled his shoulders back to give her room to
slide down. Without her heels, she stood much shorter before him in the
confined space. She had stood like this in front of him last night too, when
her hands had flown up and struggled with the buttons on his shirt. “I like the
bus,” she was saying. “I like the walk—looking along at the windows. Could I
maybe borrow a sweatshirt though? This blouse’s a bit tarty.”
He smiled, but he did not kiss her. That had ended. He wouldn’t sulk.
Bran went to the coat closet and snatched up his most comfortable sweatshirt,
grey with the charcoal team name WOLVES emblazoned on it.
Behind him, Meera was dragging on her heels. “Result. New sweatshirt.”
“That’s for borrowing,” he said as she took the bundle and pulled it over
herself, disappearing into it.
“I’ve always wanted a Wolves sweatshirt. And boy sweatshirts are the best.” Her
head and bouncy hair emerged from the hood. She set to fixing the sleeves.
“Borrowing—it’s for borrowing.”
For a second, they stared at each other. Something tugged inside him. She was
leaving. He wanted to kiss her. Not like before. If not kiss her, hold her, or
touch her hand at least. She was leaving.
Meera opened her mouth to speak. Words didn’t come though. She gave a nervous
glance in the direction of his phone, and then she sighed away whatever it was
she’d forgotten how to say.
“I have to go,” she repeated. He nodded.
She flashed him an apologetic face, turned, pulled the front door open.
“Meera—”
She spun halfway back around. That made her hair span out before falling back
again. She was looking at him.
The suddenness of the moment had come so soon. He was so glad last night had
happened. There was no point in saying that. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know.
“Yes?”
“This was...” he said, searching. “This was…fun,” he finished, lamely.
That was appalling. He should have bothered to once or twice accompany Jojen to
poetry jams, to have learned anything about eloquence.
She didn’t make fun. She returned his gaze, and her smile was gentle. “It was.”
“I know you’re going but...Well, it was fun...hanging out with you.”
She made an agreeing sort of laugh. If she was trying to say something with her
eyes, he didn’t know what it was.
They were already sliding back onto platonic terms. He couldn’t kiss her. He
didn’t know how to say goodbye. He was not exactly sure where he was going, but
he stumbled on, “Maybe...maybe some time, when you’re back in town, we
can...hang out again.”
Meera had to glance at the floor for a second to compose herself; she’d lost
control over that ‘little’ smile, far too amused by how thinly veiled his
meaning was.
Still, she almost looked bashful when she said, “Yeah. Maybe. I wouldn’t mind.”
He smiled at her, but he didn’t feel like he could touch her. So he stayed
where he was.
“Bye, Bran.”
“Bye. Meera.”
Chapter End Notes
     In which Bran is Lyanna: "Promise me, Jon...Promise me."
     Hoo boy, these some fucked up times. Smh.
***** The Day After *****
Chapter Summary
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya
     – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.
Chapter Notes
     Filler/No OTP in this chapter as Meera’s ass doesn’t show back up
     again for another 1 or 1.5 chapters ¯\(◕▃◕✿)/¯ If anyone wishes I was
     a faster writer, it's me, writing with all the force of a great
     drought. (admittedly, counterproductive habit of adding more fat to
     the ending rather than just trimming the fat from the middle like I'm
     supposed to)
The door clicked, and she was gone. Before doing anything else, Bran gave
himself that moment, breathing in the apartment’s now-emptiness.
Then he spun round. Any second now, Arya could come bursting in. She’d have the
spare key and not a drop more patience. His sister had a nasty temper when
riled, and he had been ignoring her all morning.
What he dreaded more—more than Arya’s foul mood—was the look she would give
him. A barely concealed sense of superiority; the smug raise of her brow, like
a challenge. ‘Well now. What was that there last night? Not trying to keep that
under wraps, were you?’
It made no matter. Standing around dumb was not like to do him any good. Right
now, he smelled of alcohol, smoke, and sex. And if Arya burst in right now,
he’d be expected to go with her, as is. I won’t.
Though not going would be just as awful. Bran could already feel the
conspicuousness of his absence expanding. It loomed larger with every
additional hour he was missing. The prospect of him actually failing to rejoin
them for their morning plans was too much to bear.
He bolted down the side hall, skittered headlong through the bathroom door, and
kicked it shut behind him. Off went the clothes he’d only just thrown on as he
went clambering into the shower.
Clumsily, sloppily, he worked shampoo into his hair before snatching up the bar
of soap to give himself a good once-over. Running soap up along his arms, Bran
began to think just how good it might feel to truly enjoy the cleansing,
pleasant feeling of dried sweat being sloughed away, if only he had the time to
slow down. But such temptations were rudely interrupted when next second he
spluttered, the combined haste and lack of concentration earning him a faceful
of shampoo.
 
Eyes stinging, Bran tiptoed his way out the shower stall to grab a towel,
banding it about the waist like a skirt.
He whisked back down the hall, one hand combing through his wet hair to knock
loose some of the water, the other pinned tight atop the towel. He halted,
however, upon reentering the living room.
Arya had planted herself in the middle of his flat. From where she stood behind
the sofa, she was glaring intently at her phone, fingers madly tapping away at
some message. She pressed send and turned her face up.
To one side was Arya, phone in hand, sporting a worn pair of high tops and the
blue rose earrings that Jon had given her some several birthdays before. Her
outfit was a jumble of mismatched shapes—a bulky, short jacket, skinny
jeans—that could either look ill-planned or high-fashion, depending on the
wearer’s attitude. On Arya, whom usually bore a ‘try me’ attitude unless she
felt the need to doubt herself, the verdict was high-fashion.
To the other end stood Bran in his towel, water dripping steadily onto his
shoulders.
Bran took notice of the discrepancy as they stared at one another.
“H-heyyy,” he said with a decidedly light tone, not looking at her but rather
at where his feet were treading as he started an awkward crabwalk across the
windows to the apartment’s back wall. “Just running a minute behind schedule.”
Arya observed his awkward march in silence. At university, Arya had picked up
the annoying ability of wiping her face blank like a mask if she wanted to, as
she apparently did now. Somehow, that oft proved a deal more intimidating than
something just as straightforward as a scowl.
“…Out in two minutes,” Bran promised in a mumble as he vanished behind his
bedroom door.
 
 
“So,” Arya began as they drove onto the nearest motorway ramp. The clicking of
her jeep’s indicators nagged mechanically in the background.
She’d agreed to cooperate and leave the apartment (or indeed say anything,
ignoring his stabs at smalltalk) only after Bran finally apologized and thanked
her resignedly for picking him up.
“I saw a girl who looked an awful lot like Meera as I pulled in to your place.”
He didn’t answer. At the moment, Bran had his attention fixed to the jeep’s
progress as they merged onto the highway. Better there than paying mind to
whatever roundabout chicanery it was that Arya was preparing to put him though.
Arya, whom had long grown used to Bran flinching at her and everyone else’s
driving, was not distracted by his habit now. She sped up ahead of the car
beside them, cut in in front, and continued cooly, “In fact, I could have sworn
that she was wearing Meera’s outfit from last night. But, oh no, she wasn’t.
No, this girl also had on a Wolves sweatshirt.”
Now that they were speeding along the highway proper, Bran could relax. He
lifted his eyes from the side-view mirror where they’d been glued tracking the
other cars on the road.
Not that he was anymore willing now than before to join this conversation.
“Huh,” he said simply.
“She waved at me. I waved back.”
“Fascinating.”
Bran picked morosely at the shirt he wore beneath an unbuttoned button-up.
Without the proper time to dry, his skin was still damp, and the material was
still clinging annoyingly so.
For once Arya wasn’t playing obnoxious music.
At last, Bran half-said, half-growled, “Whattttttt do you want?”
“Come on, Branno. It’ll go better for you if you just own up; get it over with
straight away. It’s not like we’ve somehow not noticed. Am I right here, not
noticing? Have I mysteriously managed to not notice I’ve had to come pick you
up?”
“Own up what? I apologized for leaving the party.”
“Mmm, hate to break it to you but you and a certain lady of House Reed got much
to learn in the way of stealth. Because it’s not exactly a secret that you left
your sister’s birthday part—a smashing good time, might I add—to cavort
publicly. And being twitchy about it is only going to make everyone throw it in
your face all the more.”
“There isn’t anything I need to own up to. What do you mean ‘everyone?’”
“I think I mean everyone.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Ohhh. Come on, Bran. We were all there; we were all participant to the less-
than-praved gallivanting.”
“That’s not a word.”
“No, gallivanting most certainly is a word. We were all there as a group, I
remind you. Something you seemed to have forgotten when you ghosted without
saying so much as a word to anyone. We had half-a-mind to show up at your place
just to make sure you were alright.”
Oh, no you all did not.She was just trying to get a rise out of him. He would
not react.
Bran crossed his arms, wishing again as he did so that he were properly dry.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Arya said, clicking her tongue. She had a habit of
doing that when she got impatient, going back all the way to when they were
little and she was clicking her tongue at Bran to hurry up making his portion
of the snowballs, lest Sansa spot them before they’d have time to hide. “If
it’ll make you feel any better, it wasn’t just you. Rickon got right pissed.
Made a pass at some girl before he threw up all over himself.”
That caught him by surprise. “What??”
“Yeah, well,” Arya said breezily, “it was some Redwyne girl. And she fancies
him as well, seems like.”
“Even after the puking?”
“Oh, thankfully Robb had put a stop to their little sesh right before that. He
swooped in and whisked him off with some excuse. Must’ve seen Rickon had a few
too many. I wonder if he and Jon have built up a sixth sense by now to, you
know, figure out just when someone’s gone from having a good time to about-to-
decorate-their-own-shoes-in-their-sick.”
“Oh.” That wasn’t so bad. Not great, but not so bad.
In fact, Bran told himself, it might even have ending up come out for the
better, depending on how well or poorly it went with Desmera, and just how much
sick there was. For his own sake, he hoped it went well and Rickon was
pleased…not mortified. ‘Theon, it all goes back to Theon,’ he reflected darkly
before reminding himself that his behavior last night had nothing whatsoever to
do with Theon nor indeed any Theon-uttered words.
“Theon’s not coming to the brunch, is he?”
“No. But don’t you fret, he’ll be there tonight. I know you’re desperate to see
him,” Arya said, and she managed to flash him a supercilious smile. Bran
sneered back, making Arya snicker before she leaned forward in her seat,
checking the signs for their exit.
“When was all this?” Bran asked
“Mmm, some time about 4:00.”
“4:00?!” He and Meera had already been well asleep, her shower and all…
Arya hit the indicators again and took the next ramp, sighing, “Huhhhh. What
with having to practically carry Rickon up the stairs this morning and having
to pick you up, I don’t know how I manage.”
With a grudging glance to the side, Bran saw the smug look on Arya’s face,
shamefully pleased, approaching gleeful, that awesomely she’d come out last
night well above the gossip fodder. She’d always resented being grouped in with
Bran and Rickon as one of ‘the babies,’ ever vying to be included as one of the
Stark family’s older ‘cool ones.’
“Well, congratulations to Robb, Jon, Sansa, and myself for being the real
heroes of the evening and putting up with you lot. Special mention to Robb and
Jon; they were in full-on babysitting mode. Not that you didn’t manage to give
them the slip.” One hand reaching off the wheel, she made to pinch his cheek.
Bran batted her away dully, thinking to himself.
It was only when he looked up that he realized just how much the surroundings
had changed. Everything was a deal more green here. The roads were thin and
near-empty. And off in the distance, sunbeat farms with miniature stone walls
dappled the hillside below the horizon.
“Here’s the place,” Arya announced before they pulled into a gravel-stone car
park. Beside them stood the bistro, quite in the middle of idyllic ‘nowhere,’
complete with its own sprawling orchards and fields behind it.
Once she’d parked and killed the engine, Bran unbuckled, saying smoothly, “You
left out the part where your pal Gendry threw his beer on Robb.”
He was pleased to catch the way her eyes went wide then.
“What? No,” Arya blustered. And just that quick, her cheeks had already begun
to redden.
“Oh, reallyyy?” Bran asked sly as he squeezed out of the jeep without waiting
for a response.
 
 
His siblings were good about it. They would be.
He tried not to brood too openly at the thought of what looks he might face or
the snide remarks he’d be subjected to. He and Arya walked through the entrance
of the sunlit restaurant, full of polished oak and cream linens.
Bran knew at once that it had been Robb who’d chosen the place, either him or
Sansa, just by how upscale it was. As of yet, it was only Robb and Sansa out of
the Stark children who were successfully transitioning into a newer version of
their parents. The other Starklings were more than comfortable for now to
remain as they were, more at home in a pub than in a country club.
When Bran and Arya made their way to the back wall, joined their siblings at
one of the larger tables, munching happily on fruit and pastries, they were
greeted merely with the standard mass jeers over at their late arrival. They
acknowledged and shrugged off the jeering with grace.
The only trace of snooping came in the form of Sansa, who raised her eyebrows
significantly at Arya as both she and Bran sat down, and the nearly
indiscernible nod Arya gave in return. The boys, all three of whom had been
watching, quickly hid their smirks. Robb and Rickon occupied themselves by
shoveling more food onto their plates, and Jon took a long drink from his glass
of orange juice, staring out the window to the miles of bright orchards.
It was all sufficiently subtle enough to afford Bran the option to pretend he
was not aware. Which he did, busying himself with buttering a slice of toast.
And it was kindly done. He knew he was not past any teasing for a long while.
They would come at him later, individually, for skiving off so publicly, he who
liked to remain so private. And they would joke about it among themselves too.
But, seeing as they’d be aware of his apprehensions to rejoin the gang this
morning, they would not make him face them as a group.
 
He couldn’t even blame them for joking behind his back. He had participated in
the gossip mongering too; they all had. It was fun, like the time the rest of
them (apart from Jon) gathered around Robb as he clued them in on the details
of the latest of one of Jon and Ygritte’s many breakups.
Sansa repeated, rather taken aback, “She threw his plaque? The one he got for
service?”
Robb nodded, basking in the wisdomly glow of their attention. “Chucked it right
at his head. Good thing he ducked too because it took out a chunk of the wall.”
Arya did not like that. “She can’t do that. I ought to sort her out.”
But Robb had dismissed the notion. “Don’t do that. They’re already back
together.”
 
Everyone looked nicely put together Bran noted with a stab of inadequacy. And,
for one brief second, he was reminded of another time his siblings bunched
round, all exhausted from the night before, chowing down on a late morning meal
in some place they’d never before been. That time had also been a bright day
amongst the valleys, but those had been the valleys of the Vale, not the
Crownlands. And that time it had been Meera and Jojen, not Talisa, who joined
them.
Talisa looked a splitting image of the Maiden, young and beautiful, and most
definitely the only one there well rested. Her glossy hair was tied into a
plait that trailed down one side. She sat in between Robb and Rickon snacking
on a peach. When she glanced his way and caught his eye, she threw Bran a
knowing, sympathetic smile.
At least she was here. Bran liked his brother’s girlfriend just as the rest of
them did (and as their mother certainly did not).
“Hey, Talisa. When did you get back?”
Talisa made to finish chewing, waving her fingers hello in the meantime. When
she did speak, her voice was light and cheery. “Hiya. Only been back for a few
hours. Last night I had the chance to switch to an earlier flight so I thought
might as well. And when I got in around 4:00 instead of 9:00, I didn’t expect
Robb to actually respond when I texted him. And I certainly didn’t expect to
have these two to beat me to my luggage,” she added with an emphatic jerk of
the head indicating Robb and Sansa. Robb’s eyebrows rose as if innocently
perplexed, whereas Sansa merely shot Talisa a wink. “By the time I got through
border control and made it all the way to baggage claim, I found these two
passed out over several chairs, Robb resting his feet on the top of my
suitcase.”
“I can recognize Talisa’s luggage because its design is actually nothing but
one big picture of my face,” Robb nodded at Bran, smiling his pearly white
smile. Talisa swatted his side, making him look over. “Isn’t that right, love?
Though I don’t believe you’re correct on the part about me and Sansa being
passed out.”
“At any rate,” Talisa continued, “you both had your energy well high enough
during the way home.”
Robb frowned and said, more quietly, “We weren’t still drunk by that point.
Were we?”
“Yes, you were.”
“Oh, yes, you most certainly were,” Jon cut in, adding his voice to Talisa’s.
The group began to argue amongst themselves, each in turning chiding someone
else for poor behavior with Jon and Arya by far pouncing on Rickon more than
anyone else and Rickon seemingly too hungover to do much but disagree
stubbornly.
Bran smiled to himself watching them. Being back among the familiar dynamic
ebbed away at the feeling of being center stage. Sure, occasional shade was
thrown his way—vague remarks about how somepeople didn’t count as they weren’t
there—but much less so than was being thrown at the rest of them, who were
combing through the receipts of last night, in full or embellished detail, for
Talisa’s amusement.
 
Stark_Manor
For the ride home, Arya tailed behind Jon who drove the SUV, taking with her
the two youngest. Bran in the front seat and Rickon, back seat, bickered with
each other nonstop for nearly the entire ride, quibbling over differing
accounts of last night, until at last Arya managed to get the music’s volume so
high that the boys in the end had to give up their argument, no longer able to
hear.
Once parked back at the house, Rickon leapt down from the jeep to sprint
inside, wanting badly to return to sleep. The others followed, most intending
to nap as well. However when Robb reached the door, he wheeled around and
pointed disapprovingly at Bran. “Oh right, by the way,” he started.
Bran had to stop in his tracks before the front entrance steps, looking up to
where his brother stood telling him off as Arya edged around him.
“Don’t go thinking your absence went unnoticed. We assured mum that you’re not
a slut—” (Bran objected loudly, which was ignored and spoken over) “—merely
that you couldn’t handle your alcohol—”
“Little tummy,” Arya grinned as she slipped inside.
“—and you threw up on Rickon. So Jojen took you home early so you could salvage
what was left of your dignity.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, they didn’t say it quite like that,” Sansa whispered reassuringly
on her way past.
Jon, who had been following after her, stopped, also on the top step with Robb.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you not want use to say that? Well then, let’s go in and we
can straighten things out right now.”
“Heyheyhey, I didn’t say—”
“Exactly,” Jon interrupted. “You didn’t say nothing, ‘cause you weren’t here.
So don’t go grumbling about it now.”
Robb leaned his head past the threshold to check that no one inside the house
was listening. Then he turned back to Bran with a most maddeningly superior
expression and proclaimed mournfully, “To be honest, I didn’t do it for you. I
did it for our poor mother. I just can’t bear to see the look of heartache on
her face—” (Bran tried to plow his way past them but in unison Jon and Robb
shunted him back) “—wondering where she went wrong to know her precious boy,
her sweet babe—” (they shunted him back again, Jon tutting) “—is amounting to
nothing more than a degenerate, a philanderer—”
“An ingrate,” Jon added.
“—caring not for our poor mother’s values. Family, duty, h—”
“Oh, shutup,” Talisa countered from behind Bran, startling him. “Bran will be
thirty and well past this before you let us in this house.”
“You’re free to go in Talisa,” Jon said, flipping into the gracious host before
he narrowed his eyes down to Bran again.
“Mm, thank you. As chance would have it, I’m going in with Bran.”
She hooked her arm around his and tugged him from his spot. Bran frowned at the
mental comparison to Meera and the way she’d hooked her arm round his last
night. Sansa, Meera, Arya to some extent, and now Talisa. They’d all dragged
him off somewhere in the last 24 hours. ‘Why is it that I’m always being
dragged off by an older woman?’ Bran mused quizzically as Talisa dragged him.
He stumbled to keep up. ‘It can’t be coincidence. I’m the only one in this
group this keeps happening to.’
“And now you try to steal my woman??” Robb demanded.
Talisa made a snappish noise as they stalked past them. As they did, Robb
ruffled Bran’s hair and Bran rebuffed him so irritably, the two older boys
laughed.
“Oi, Brannikins,” Robb called after them. “Relax. We’re only taking the
mickey.”
“Ignore them,” Talisa told him. “They’re only jealous, now that you’re the
young one and they’re the old farts.”
Hmpfh. They ’d hate to have to be the younger kids.
Talisa had brought them down the front hall to where the house opened up into
its different common rooms. It seemed Rickon and Arya had sped straight
upstairs to sneak in whatever few hours of sleep they could before the family
party. Sansa hadn’t yet though. She stood speaking with their mother in the
sitting room.
Cat caught sight of them and Bran felt Talisa’s arm discretely disappear.
“Bran,” his mother exclaimed with a look of relief.
‘Sorry, mother,’ he might have said. But the signals were still taking too long
to go from his brain to the rest of him so, instead, all he happened to do was
drop his mouth open into a comical little ‘o.’
“Mother,” he managed finally when she’d made it half-way across the room
towards him. His voice was a little high but at least it was steady.
“How have you been, how are you feeling?” Cat asked, wringing her son’s hands
with hers. Behind them, he could hear Robb and Jon come in, shutting the front
door. Cat’s eyes, Tully-blue, trailed upward. “What’s happened to your hair?”
***** A Prat in Winterfell *****
Chapter Summary
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya
     – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.
     Mood: Bloc Party - Kreuzberg
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Bran
It was afternoon and preparations for the dinner were well underway.
Bran sat crouched over his work at the far end of the dining table—a grand
mahogany thing, old like their family. Per Cat’s instructions, Bran was
arranging the silverware. He bent his head forward, almost kissing the table,
as he folded and re-folded each set into its own cloth napkin.
Setting the rest of the table had been left to Rickon. He made a circle about
the room, dropping plates centered more or less before a seat. The heavy smacks
of porcelain landing on tablecloth, admirably thick but not thick enough for
that, kept puncturing the air, and jerking Bran out of concentration. On the
fourth puncture, Bran scowled up at Rickon with something like a hiss. Before
he could say anything, a whirl of auburn hair and Tully-blue dress told them of
their mother’s reappearance.
“If you ruin your great grandfather’s table—” Cat began.
“Why do we have to do this, mum?” Rickon rubbed at his eyes with the back of a
hand and bit back a yawn. “Can’t Jon or Arya or someone else do this?”
Cat’s thin mouth grew thinner. “Arya? Have you forgotten why we’re having
dinner with the family tonight? And Jon will be picking up your Uncle Benjen.
So you can remember that the next time you feel like speeding.”
She disappeared back to the kitchen, most likely to fetch them more work to do.
“She’s not fooling me,” Rickon whispered conspiratorially. “Tonight is about
her, not Arya.”
Bran said stiffly, not looking up, “Making us spend time with our family is not
about her, Rickon. Best you suck it up.”
Ignoring him, Rickon continued with a hint of pride in his voice, “And I got my
permit back last month. Arya’s been letting me practice with her car. Don’t
tell them though.”
At that Bran did look up from his work, one of his eyebrows raised in
disapproval.
“I’m surprised Arya’s that careless with her car. Maybe she’s under the false
impression mum and dad will replace it after you’ve crashed it.”
Rickon was quite unlike his brother for he had no fear of driving. Even if he
liked the comforts of being chauffeured, Rickon also liked the feel of the wind
in his hair.
He’d liked it too much. On his very first week of driving, he rear-ended
another car when he’d been going too fast to come to a full stop. The parents
had come down hard on him for that but not hard enough. It was only a couple
weeks later Cat opened the mail to find a speeding ticket marked with the
previous day. A ticket Rickon had conveniently forgotten to mention.
All that had been half a year ago by now but the parents’ ban was still on.
 
Catelyn popped back into view and planted herself underneath the arched
doorway, muttering as she counted up seats.
“We’re missing one. Rickon, did you remember to set a plate for Theon?”
Aways to her side, Bran spluttered. “Theon? Why is he coming?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Cat asked vaguely, distracted. Then she flit back into the
kitchen.
“No, you didn’t.” Bran rose, finished with the silverware (by his original
count at least) when Cat reappeared. She had her lips pursed, a plate in hand.
Bran insisted, “You didn’t!”
She tutted and handed the plate across the table to Rickon. “Well, now you
know. Return home when you’re supposed to and maybe you won’t miss out on
what’s going.”
Their mother left the room again, Bran’s voice chasing after her. “Why is Theon
invited? He’s not family. I thought this was a family thing.” All that came
back in response was another tut. “Isn’t tonight about family? It’s Arya’s
birthday.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” a sly voice behind him purred.
Bran whipped round to see Arya reclining against the dining room’s opposing
entrance. She had an evil grin plastered across her face.
“It’ll be nice to see Theon. He’s always got such interesting stories.”
Arya’s eyes were glee, and Bran’s were daggers.
“What’s this?” Catelyn had reentered. The look on her face gave off the
impression that she could smell misdoing.
“Nothing,” Bran and Arya said in unison.
Her eyes narrowed.
“What’s this?” she prompted again, pointing back and forth between them.
“What’s Theon done?”
“Mother, nothing,” Arya said assuringly, and then quickly to divert attention
she asked, “Who else is coming?”
For one horrible moment, Bran pictured his mother saying the Reeds were coming.
The picture arose fully formed. He could see it: Theon’s eyebrows hopping up
and down during dinner as he attempted to edge his chair into the center of
Bran’s view. Meera chewing her food in a diligent sort of way, looking quite at
ease but refusing to glance his way all night. That would be up until the very
moment she stepped out from their front door, from lit entrance to darkened
night, and would send one tawdry wink his way with a smile. And meanwhile,
Jojen would insist on remaining ignorant of it all. He’d probably spend the
night maintaining eye contact with the ceiling.
The word clusterfuck came to mind.
But the Reeds were not coming. Thank the Mother’s mercy.
 
 
Even after night fell and all the family had arrived, dinner still took a while
to get started what with all the loud hubbub of catching up. Though everyone
had taken their seats and started eating, the room still rang with fifteen
people’s simultaneous conversations drowning one another out.
Bran was glad of it, as so was Rickon beside him, to be seated well away from
his Aunt Lysa and cousin Robin. A harassed-looking Robb had grumbled to him,
“Gods, she’s a nightmare,” as he shrugged out from his coat in the entrance
foyer having delivered the two from the train station.
Sometimes Bran felt sorry for his cousin, usually when he was not with him.
When he was, Bran’s patience inevitably ran thin and his voice would change,
becoming infused with snide, superior tones. That was until he’d catch a
glimpse of his cousin, a flash of insecure self-awareness or Robin’s eyes cast
low to the ground. And then his guilt would get the better of him and Bran
would behave once more.
 
The bulk of dinner passed relatively in peace. Bran had found his appetite
returned in full. And listening to his father, Uncle Benjen, and Jon talk about
the Night’s Watch, Bran finally began to enjoy himself. He, Arya, and Rickon
were a good audience, laughing at the rights parts and growing quiet on the
next.
Bran slipped his phone from out his trouser pocket and checked its screen. No
new messages. Popping the phone back, he twirled his fork upon his plate not
really seeing it. He hadn’t been hoping for a message from Meera. He did not
know and did not want to begin to think about what was supposed to be happening
there. But Jojen…He and Jojen rarely passed an entire day without exchanging at
least a text. Bran chewed on the inside of his lip, wishing he knew what he was
meant to do.
Jojen had said he didn’t care, hadn’t he? He’d said he didn’t want to know and
wouldn’t ask. Of course, Bran suspected gloomily, if they left together in
front of him, he didn’t really need to ask.
“So,” came Uncle Brynden’s smokey voice, louder than all the others. “This is
the Talisa Maegyr I’ve been hearing all about.” Uncle Brynden’s brow furrowed
as he contemplated her head-on. “Well damned if you aren’t the most striking
woman I’ve ever seen with mine own two eyes.” He stabbed a capon with his fork
and poked it in the air towards her. “Beats me how you wound up with this ugly
berk,” he said nodding at Robb.
“Umm,” Talisa hesitated with a glance between Brynden, still hunching over the
table at her, and Robb, who had started chuckling.
“Uncle,” Catelyn said, freeing Talisa of the spotlight. “How is Edmure?”
Brynden let out a derisive grunt, not bothering to turn away. “Puh. That oaf?
Don’t ask.”
Both Bran’s mother and his aunt narrowed their eyes though, Bran noted while he
tossed back another swallow of spiced wine, the expressions could not have been
more different.
Uncle Brynden carried on, not to be deterred. “Robb, you listen here.” Robb
obeyed, eyebrows raised in some amusement. “Who knows how you managed to bag
this one but take your blessings where you find ‘em. Not all men are cut out
for an independent life like yours truly. Just look at your Uncle Edmure. Man
grows dumber every year. It’s a rare talent but it will serve you well if you
can recognize when you’ve been dealt a winning hand.”
“I know when luck strikes, uncle,” Robb said speaking softly. His eyes
twinkled, meeting Talisa’s across the table.
Uncle Brynden grunted which seemed to be a sign of some approval. “Jon,” he
said abruptly instead, looking about. “Where are you? There. What about you
then? Where’s that wildling girl of yours? Last I heard, she was quite the
handful. Can’t say I’m surprised with what her folk are like. Nothing wrong
with a bit of hot blood, I suppose, to keep you sharp.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bran saw his mother rubbing her forehead.
Slowly, and not without grace, Jon said aloud to the table, “You may well have
the truth of it. But I’m afraid she and I have split up.”
“For the sixtieth time,” Rickon mumbled though only Bran heard him.
Uncle Brynden swallowed the last of his wine before he said, “Ah, well. The
current flows as it will. You then, Bran.”
Bran’s head snapped up from his plate. Fourteen pairs of eyes turned to land on
him.
Bran had a habit of drifting, becoming lost in his own thoughts, so perhaps
even under normal circumstances he might have made a gentle gasp being caught
off guard. As it were, it was not air sucked down his throat but honeyed
chicken. Bran gagged, coughing, and ducked his head forward. He spat half a
bite onto his plate, helped by a sharp hand on the back from Arya.
Face red from embarrassment as well as choking now, he chanced a glance upward.
His parents and uncles regarded him curiously. Lysa had turned up her nose.
Theon appeared utterly beside himself in the throes of silent laughter. But,
had he not been in a state of mild panic, Bran might have noticed the rest of
the Stark children were staring at him with shades of blossoming apprehension.
“What?? Me?” Bran croaked.
Uncle Brynden came back with a gruff, “Of course you,” sounding a bite
impatient. “Who else?”
There was a dull buzzing blacking out Bran’s mind.
“Brynden,” Eddard said in a quiet voice. “Don’t hassle the kids. They’re at the
age where they want those things left alone.”
“Nonsense. Am I hassling them?” Brynden shook his head, stubborn. “You want
those with sense checking in on them at this age. They go down the wrong path
now, most like they’ll be staying on it. They’ve all grown so much since last I
saw them. I need to check in on my grand-nieces and -nephews while I still can.
Before you know it, it will be one of you hosting a birthday dinner for your
children.” Bran swallowed, blinking quickly past the blow to his mother’s sense
of calm that’d surely been. “And don’t you worry about the nieces,” Brynden
said pointing a brief finger to Sansa and Arya. “I’ll be coming back round to
them in a minute.”
Arya shot a glance down their row to Sansa, both of them looking slightly
bewildered.
Eddard did not object. Merely, he looked away in some indifference.
“Now then, Bran.”
Just answer and he’ll move on to Rickon. Ignore Theon. Go on.
His brain strained to gather steam. What were the words he was going to say?
‘No?’
‘Yes?’
‘None of your business?’
“You were about to tell us. Any girl in your life?”
‘Nope. No girls in my life, just my sisters ha ha—’ What? What the hell is
that? What’s wrong with you?’
What did people say? He remembered Jojen, lying on his back on the floor, his
eyes closed as he sang happily to the ceiling, ‘The dearest lady in my life is
Ma-haaraaayyy Janeee.’
“Nope,” Bran said. The noise of it hung pathetically limp in the air.
“None? Not a girl?”
“No…” Bran’s leg was juggling beneath the table. He forced something of an
apologetic smile. He wished everyone would stop looking at him.
“Or besides a girl?” Benjen supplied helpfully. Theon snickered under his
breath.
“No,” Bran said again, growing quieter with every repetition. He’d wanted to
say ‘still no’ as he thought this inquiry was getting fairly ridiculous now.
How many times could he reiterate no? But he thought better of it.
Brynden considered him. “Hmm.”
“Well,” Talisa chirped in abruptly, speaking up, “I hadn’t started dating at
Bran’s age either. I think that’s the smart thing to do. Better you set your
mind to your career first before you start getting involved in someone else’s
life.”
“That’s a fair point,” Benjen agreed to a general murmur of assent.
When Brynden finally moved next to Rickon, Bran glanced across him and met
Talisa’s eyes. She winked at him.
 
 
After dinner came drinks.
‘I don’t know why we even bother to move from one room to the other,’ Bran
grumbled morosely in his private thoughts as he eyed the excess of traditional
birthday sweets and desserts on a buffet table that had been erected before the
fireplace.
The noise in the sitting room was at a high. Ned and Uncle Benjen were
rehashing old stories for Talisa’s benefit. Robb and Jon had already heard the
stories half a hundred times but that did not stop them from hooting and
giggling, so much so that Ned often had to repeat a detail here and there for
Talisa.
Arya was absorbed in conversation with an old teacher of hers. Syrio Forel’s
classes prevented him from joining them for dinner, but he came round during
drinks well enough, always happy to see one of the finest of his former pupils.
To one side of the room, Sansa and Jeyne were whispering back and forth, unable
to wait much longer to update each other on the sum of last night’s gossip. Not
dissimilarly were Brynden and Catelyn were huddled closer by to where Bran
stood, the two conversing in low voices over their shared objections harbored
at the younger Tullys.
“Thing is, he’s always been like that,” Cat muttered darkly.
“No cure for being a moron.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as—”
“Oh yes you would, if you weren’t so damned respectful.”
“Maybe there is a point to being respectful, uncle.”
“If there is, I can’t see it.”
Bran’s eyes continued to rove across the food as he was supposedly listening to
Rickon’s complaints about their cousin.
The best thing about drinks was that Aunt Lysa had departed before they were
underway and took her son with her.
“I mean,” Rickon was saying. “Mum tells me to suck it up because ‘this is his
only chance for standard socialization with people his own age,’” he said
finishing in an uncanny impression the way Cat’s voice grew stern when she was
angry. “But you know what he’s like. I thought maybe it’d get better as we got
older. But it barely has. He’s insufferable. Why is it always me he’s paired
with, anyhow? He’s between our ages; it should be you half the time, don’t you
think?”
“What? Oh, hmm, yeah.”
Rickon looked up from his dessert to frown at Bran.
“Oi,” Robb called across the room. “You two. Come here. We’re telling stories.
You know the story when dad first met Howland?”
“You go on,” Cat called suddenly to Rickon. Bran turned to see their mother
heading over to them. She waved Rickon onward and put a hand to the others to
hold them off on Bran.
Rickon shuffled away, blithe as ever.
Having not missed the hint of worry in her eyes, Bran demurred her, “Mother…”
“Why aren’t you eating?”
Cat plucked a plate off the table.
“No, no. I’m alright, mum.”
“Don’t you like pigeon pie?”
“Nah,” someone said behind his shoulder, quiet, though not quite quiet enough.
“Bran prefers fish pie.”
Leaning her head to see around him, Cat asked sharply, “What’s that?”
Theon’s eyes bugged wider when he realized Cat was speaking to him, and that
both she and Bran had turned to face him. He hastened to finish chewing his own
slice of the pie. “Oh, nothing. I just…” The prick had enough gall to grin
openly at the icy glare he was receiving from Bran. “Well, I remember Bran
telling me the other day. His favorite is fish pie. Weren’t you, Bran? Always
up for that little joint that just opened around your place? From Essos, if I
remember correctly—what was it, Myrish fish pie?”
“Fish pie’s alright,” Robb piped up, stepping round Cat and Bran to clap a hand
down on Theon’s shoulder and shake him in a friendly manner if a bit rougher
than one would normally shake a friend. “Not as good as crabs though by the way
Theon tells it. And he’d be the expert. Everyone in the Iron Island has crabs.
Isn’t that so?”
Theon opened his mouth but Robb did not wait for a response. He leaned in,
imparting to mother and brother both his characteristic winning smile.
“Mind if I borrow young Greyjoy for a moment? Theon, quick word.” With that,
Robb marched them off, steering Theon by the shoulder.
Cat turned to look inquisitively up at her son. A muscle was still going in his
jaw.
“…A bakery from Myr opened in your neighborhood?”
“Umm, yeah.” Bran accepted the plate still in Cat’s hands and moved to cut a
piece of pigeon pie.
 
After that, Bran felt obligated to do a deal of socializing, earn himself some
credit as well as get rid of the taste of Theon’s presumptuousness. It was only
a good while later that Bran slipped out from the noise of the room. He made
his way out the hall to the entrance foyer, rounded the corner, and headed down
the other hallway offered there to escape at last into the bathroom. When he
turned on the light, he caught his reflection staring back at him in the
mirror.
He could see, although a finger traced below the jawline told him better, that
the patchy fuzz across his cheeks had grown slightly worse throughout the day.
Again, Bran thought of Robb and Jon. Smiling broadly in their dumb beards. Of
Theon ordering him not to think of them.
There was no use denying that the two of them looked nothing short of handsome,
especially so when they laughed. Both in their own way. Doubled over, eyes
crinkled. Their faces seemed fuller than his. Was that what made them so full
of charm as well? Was it a full face that charm came from?
He remembered Meera and the way she swung her legs happily from where she sat
atop his kitchen counter. Remembered the long cab ride to his place. The
electric charge that had been in the air, filling all the open space between
them wherever he wasn’t touching her. And how he had slid across the seat and
put his arm around her. And her warmth, even as she shivered, flooding him.
Bran sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then his brow furrowed as he remembered
another thing, something he had forgotten during the day amongst all the
jabbering. He remembered Meera’s body pressed closed to his as they slept, and
of waking up with those brown curls before him. Pulling her in close.
He studied his reflection with some disappointment. Why did he look so pale
beneath the bathroom vanity light? This morning his reflection had a distinct
look of panic; he had been rushing. So much had happened since, was still
happening.
His reflection looked calmer now. Calmer, and sadder.
 
Stepping back into the hallway, Bran heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘Psst!’
It was Theon. Theon crept towards him from the front door, Bran noted smelling
heavily of cigarettes as his nose wrinkled.
“Look who it is,” Theon said in a low voice so as to not be overheard, smiling
an oily smile. “Man of the hour.”
“Theon,” Bran sighed. “I’m tired.”
“Not surprised.” Theon nudged Bran with the butt of his elbow. Bran’s eyes grew
narrow. “Fine, anyways, as that lot’s in the next room over there. I won’t hold
you up. But just tell me real quick, how was it?”
Bran’s eyes rolled upwards. Maybe if he rolled them far enough, he’d never need
look at Theon’s ridiculous face again. “Go away.”
“Oh, come on. No need to be so stingy, especially to me. Don’t I get a
commission?”
“What?”
“A thank-you. I’m not asking for a blow-by-blow.” Theon grinned. “I’ve just
been really curious ever since we were back at school. Domeric never gave me
and the lads all the details. He left some very important details out.”
Bran repeated himself. “What?”
“Listen, the only reason I’m so curious, apart from you know, this whole mess,”
Theon said with a circle of his hand summarizing Bran, “—is because nobody
really knows that much about Crannogmen, do they? Bit of a mystery, aren’t
they? Kind of First Men, kind of not. I’ve never been with one myself. Seem a
bit too natural, you know? Me, I say the wild’s got its merits and its
detractors. Like a bit of sprucing around the hedges myself. Honestly, I’m
surprised haunted forests are your thing. But I don’t even know—maybe they’re
not even like that. Maybe they accommodate modern upkeep.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m gonna take that as a ‘no.’”
“Take that however you want to take it,” Bran snapped and he wrenched his
shoulder free from the hand Theon had put there.
He was too tired to deal with Theon being Theon. Too tired from a day too long
and too full. He had not been truly alone since the previous day, standing
before the mirror in his bedroom inspecting the reflection, trying to make a go
of it and gauge his own appearance before his siblings picked him up.
He’d stood there a long time wondering in the back of his mind if that night
might be a night he’d be close to Meera again. If he might flirt with her, or
laugh with her. Be around her in the dark, no self-consciousness for once.
Theon let his hand hang in the air, blinking at Bran as though shocked by his
incivility.
“You know, you could be a little more grateful and have a little less of a
giant stick up your ass.”
“Grateful?!”
“Yeah, grateful. Or, lemme guess. Now that you’ve already done the deed with
Miss Reed, you’re gonna act like you pulled all on your own. Because your
strategy of hiding in the corner cowering behind your little brother was
working so well.”
“Fuck off, Theon. You didn’t do anything. And don’t presume about last night.”
“Right,” Theon said, nodding at the floor, scratching the whiskers on his chin.
In an aggrieved tone, he continued sardonically, “It’s true what they say about
boys. The way they treat you post-bust’s not the same as pre-bust. You’ve
changed.”
“Twat. Go to hell.” Bran made to get past him.
Theon watched him go as though affronted, scoffing.
“If that’s how bad you take that question, imagine how’d you blow your top off
if I asked my original question whether Meera’s a moaner or of the screaming
variety.”
Bran snapped around and Theon was sent back a step by a sharp shove to the
shoulders. “Shut your mouth.”
“Oh, come on,” Theon groaned in exasperation. “How can you have a non-virgin
knob but still have a virgin mouth? And don’t put your hands on me like that
again, Whole Grain. If you were aiming for Stark honor, you missed it by a long
shot. Landed right on asshole.”
“I’m the asshole?”
“Well it’s certainly not me. Who’s the ass here? The man who helped you pop
your cherry before it molded completely into virgin ashes or the idiot who
can’t say thank you?”
“‘Thank you??’”
“You’re welcome. Finally.” Theon beamed brassily before he stumbled back a step
from another shove. He returned with a matching push at Bran, pointing a finger
next in his face. “Don’t do that again, I’m warning you.”
“Get your grubby finger out of my face.”
“You’d think when you’d finally consummated your imaginary relationship with
Meera Reed, when something very magical happened and you performed the ultimate
act of love and put your P in a V, you might for once not be the world’s
biggest pissbaby. How about you do everyone a favor and learn to fucking chill?
I’ll forget it, alright? Say you and Meera went home to play cards all night.
Explains why the neighbors kept hearing ‘hit me!’ anyways.”
Choosing to ignore that last part, Bran said hotly, “Don’t tell me to chill.”
“Say those who need to chill the most.”
“Stuff it. Are you even capable of ever closing your mouth?” Bran wished he
sounded cool, authoritative. But his words began to spill over one another, a
blockage of torrid air building inside his lungs. “Don’t come into my house,
piss me off, and then tell me to chill.”
Theon spat his breath back out at him.
“This is not your house. This is your parents’ house. And you’d think that
congratulations from one of your boys, the one responsible, wouldn’t be on the
list of ‘things that piss you off.’ But, I forgot, everything’s on that list.
No wonder Meera’s not interested in letting you get a sniff until alcohol’s
replaced that whingy complex you call a personality.”
“Get fucked,” Bran said, lamenting how his voice sounded shaky. And not even
with anger. It just sounded weak. “Or go home. Just get out of my house.”
Theon raked his eyes over Bran’s face, sizing him up.
“Nah, nah, nah. You know what, Branny boy?” Theon said, sneering. “Forget all I
said last night. It isn’t in comparison to your brothers people aren’t
interested in you. People just aren’t interested in you. They don’t like you
because there’s nothing there to like.”
Bran shook his head, shaking off his words.
All he had to do was remember there was a room full of other people. People who
were not Theon. That he should go back to. He deigned to look upon Theon’s face
one last time and clenched shut his jaw.
Bran turned away again and crammed his eyes shut for a moment, burying all
knowledge of Theon’s presence out of mind. And then he breathed. He took a
step, then another, walking away.
“You know what, maybe you actually managed to bungle it even though you had the
whole thing presented to you with a neat little bow tie on top. Maybe it was
you never even got up in there in the first place and that’s why today you got
a stick up your ass the size of Dorne. Maybe Meera sobered to her senses. Or
maybe you just shot your wad on her thigh.”
Bran had about reached the foyer now. The more desperate and clumsy Theon’s
attempts to get under his skin became, the easier it was to let them roll off
him. Words are wind.
“Or, hell, maybe Meera’s veins run too deep in the wild for you, Branny boy.
What, with your fancy silverware and your mummy tucking in you into bed every
night. Maybe, despite all the Stark talk of blood of the First Men, being ‘hard
men of winter,’ you’re actually just a southern girl. Wet yourself, did you,
when asked for goods you don’t know how to deliver? She like it up the ass or
something?”
Bran’s feet came to a halt.
No one else was in the foyer. He could walk back to Theon. Or, he could return
to the party.
The party. Go back to the party.
He revolved slow on the spot. Bran stared at Theon, a strange silence filling
his head.
And Theon was staring back at him. His beady eyes, faster than one would think
but not as fast as his mouth. That mouth. A fucking catfish mouth. The ghost of
a smile lingering across it.
It took Bran more than a moment or two to speak. When he did, his voice finally
was steady.
“This is my parents’ house,” he said, agreeing. “My parents. Not yours. Why are
you here, Theon?”
“I—”
“You’re here,” Bran pushed onward as he paced slowly back down the hall, voice
slightly raised for his words to steamroll right over Theon’s, “because my
parents took pity on you that year we took you in. They felt sorry for you. And
Robb still does. The year your father lost all rights to guardianship. My
parents—they took you in because they didn’t want you to go the same way as
your brothers.”
Bran stopped in front of him. There remained no threat of being interrupted
now. Theon was listening, his mouth a hard line, no hint of play in his eyes
anymore.
Bran pressed his advantage.
“But they needn’t have worried. You won’t end up like them. You, Theon, will
end up just like your fa—”
The blow that sent him one, two steps sideways knocked his next thought clear
from Bran’s mind. He steadied himself, and his eyes locked onto Theon’s.
Theon’s arm was still raised in the air from where he’d struck him with the
underside of his elbow.
Bran rushed forward and Theon swung his arm back down to meet him. The wall was
right behind them and they went colliding into it.
Both of them cursed under their breath, still trying not to be overheard.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Theon hissed.
Panting, Bran did his best to keep his voice low. “Get out. Get. the. fuck—”
“—the fuck off me.”
“You mangy piece of—”
“Bran?” cut in another voice, clearer, colder.
Bran and Theon froze, arms tangled.
If Bran had thought he couldn’t feel worse than he had just now, he was wrong.
The color drained from his face, only seconds ago flushed bright pink. He
stared up at the figure of his father, made something of a silhouette by the
light of the entrance-way.
He heard his voice falter, “Father…”
Eddard studied the scene before him. His face was vacant, blank as a mask,
apart from his eyes which were soaking up the image of his son.
Theon’s voice squeaked as he jumped back a step from Bran. “Mr. Stark. We were
just—we were—”
“I know what you were just. I heard.”
Theon’s pupils had become so small, transforming him ever more into the
catfish. Bran would have felt sorry for him, had he not been feeling so sorry
for himself. Theon seemed to be making a kind of scratchy noise from high in
his throat, like the mechanism behind his brain had malfunctioned and caught
fire.
“Theon.” He spoke heavily to Theon though his grey eyes never lifted from his
son’s brown ones. Eddard’s voice had the weight of his years behind it, deeper
than either Theon’s or Bran’s. “It’s late. It’s best you get back to your
parents.”
“Yes. Right you are, Ser—Mr. Stark.”
Theon stepped carefully away from them practically sliding against the wall in
an attempt to shrink as far as possible away from Eddard Stark before he darted
into the open space of the foyer, and made to collect his things and wish well
his goodnights.
Bran’s mouth clamped shut so tightly, his jaw began to quiver. A boy of ten
again.
He tried to maintain his father’s gaze but couldn’t, and he cast his eyes
downward to his feet. After what seemed an age, Eddard simply told him, “I will
speak to you, later.”
He turned away, leaving Bran alone to stare at the floor.
 
 
Catelyn
It had been a long day, but the day was not yet done. What could be thrown in
the dishwasher had been. What could not was currently in the sink, waiting for
the children to wash in the morning.
Brynden had retired in the guest room downstairs. It had been Cat’s plan to
give Benjen Robb’s room and have Robb sleep on a cot in the den. However Benjen
had refused flat out and he managed to ultimately get his way, insisting that
he’d rather browse the den’s collection of books as opposed to Robb’s.
Talisa was in Sansa’s room, putting Sansa out and placing her and Arya
begrudgingly together.
It made no matter what loose behavior might take place outside their home.
Within their home, her children were her children. As long as Robb and Talisa
did not have a home of their own (and last she checked, that did not extend to
‘shacking up’), they would not be sleeping as man as wife under her roof. Not
as Eddard and Catelyn did. The one concession they had made was trusting the
children to police themselves.
Cat and Ned had always respected their children’s privacy though their children
might not agree. But their children were not aware just how often she and Ned
abstained.
Come the day they had children of their own, then they would realize. Realize
how naive it had been to honestly believe themselves to have pulled wool over
their parents’ eyes.
Only this morning Ned and Cat had refrained from saying anything when awoken
from their sleep by the ridiculous racket the kids had been making. Once Ned
and Cat realized that the thuds, footfalls clomping up and down the stairs, and
the over-loud shushing were in fact their children and not widely-inept
burglars, all they had decided to do was exchange a small look. Half a smile.
If anything, there were disappointed by their children’s clumsiness more than
their behavior.
Cat knew her children had their secrets. She had had her own as a girl, secrets
kept from her father. Her and Lysa. Kissing games with Peytr. But Cat had
always had enough sense to recognize the difference between foolishness that
was only a laugh and foolishness that was a mistake. True, Lysa hadn’t but none
of the children had come from that vein. She trusted Robb and Sansa, and Jon as
well, to keep the lot of them from going too far off the rails. There was no
reason last night should be any different.
 
Cat massaged her fingers underneath the warm flow from the tap before she shut
it off. She dabbed a finger into the miniature vat of almond oil, spreading it
lightly upon her face. The lines beneath her eyes were not so bad. Not as bad
as Ned’s, to be sure.
His work put too much stress on him. Too much for one person to carry. She made
it her personal mission then to eliminate that of his burdens which she could.
Those that came outside of work. But, her husband being her husband, Ned did
not fail in rooting out still others.
When Cat had suggested that she, or the two of them together, might take on
whatever it was weighing upon him now, he shook his head.
“Just me, Cat. Fathers must needs talk to their sons.”
Cat had not pushed the subject.
She rubbed her hands with lotion Sansa had given her on one Day of the Mother.
It filled the room with the scent of pine needles. A Northern scent. Even down
here in the south, her family was so stubbornly Northern, even their house
smelled of the North as though her husband and children carried the North down
with them in their very blood. The smell brought a smile to her lips.
With a sigh, she strode out through the empty master bedroom, out into the
second floor hall.
 
Light from Bran’s room was spilling out onto the dark landing. He’s left his
door open.
She found him sitting on his bed in his pajamas, his back against the wall. A
book lay across his legs bent before him and Summer lay below his feet. The
wolf-dog noticed her, even if Bran did not. His yellow eyes peaked open to
verify what he had already known as Cat moved behind the wide crack of the door
frame. The small movement was not enough to pull Bran out of his book.
He’d always loved stories. He used to love when his mother read them to him.
He used to run up and grab a handful of my skirts. Around the knees where he
could reach. Beg a story of Ser Duncan or the Kings of Winter.
The problem with children was that they forgot. They forgot the first part of
their lives. In their eyes, they had only ever been who they were now. Wholly
independent. Refined. They squirmed away from her with an imploring ‘mumm’ when
Cat reached out a hand to stroke their face, or to feel and reassure herself
the solidness of their arm.
They remembered one way, and her another.
Bran turned a page in his book, still unaware of his surroundings. Of all her
children, he had grown the most reserved. He spent much of his time within
worlds created inside his head. Sitting blankly, masking it all to the world
around him.
“Bran?” Cat called lightly from behind his door.
 
 
Bran
“May I come in?”
Bran’s family was not as flexible as other families might have been. Their way
was the old way, and his mother did not need his permission to enter his room.
But she asked anyways as a sign of respect.
Not that the gesture didn’t have other reasons as well. Ever since the incident
several years back, when Cat had gone barging into Jon’s room unannounced,
intending to tell him off for some now-forgotten reason, his mother had made it
a point to knock and knock again before opening one of their doors.
Bran nodded, shutting his book and sitting with his back little higher against
the wall.
Cat glided soft-footed across his small room to stand close beside his
nightstand. She brushed at his hair idly with hand. Almost as if to feel his
temperature. Perhaps just as a way to touch him at all.
He wished his mother didn’t look so worried. That he didn’t worry her.
“Your father wants to speak with you.”
“Oh.” It was not as though he thought he should feign surprise. “Okay.”
I don ’t think she knows. She’d be more upset if she knew.
Especially as it ’s Meera. She knows Meera. She can picture her.
Cat looked as though internally she were fighting over what to say. Eventually
she decided on asking him gently, “Are you alright?”
“Yes, mum. I’m fine.” He felt a weight upon his chest as though each minute
brought a new wave of a million things to feel. And fewer and fewer of them
were fine. Summer let out a great and tired sigh by his feet.
Seeing his mother’s face, Bran said, voice stronger, fuller, “Really, mum.
Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” He was her son he reminded himself. Her son.
He could be brave.
 
The door to his parents’ bedroom closed as his mother slipped behind it. Bran
was left back near his own door.
He made his slow way towards his father’s solar. Apart from shades of moonlight
seeping in through the windows, the only light now was an orange glow peeking
out beneath the solar’s closed door. Bran took a long breath and opened it to
step inside.
His father’s solar worked pretty much the same as the den downstairs. Only the
children were less welcome here. This was a place for Eddard to brood
undisturbed. He must have been brooding now though Bran could not see his face.
Bran could only see the crackling fire, which spat red hot embers about the
hearth, and two large blocks of shadows, the wingchairs made of leather that
presided before it.
He closed the door and stole his way noiselessly across the room. The solar
could not have been wider than his own small bedroom but with the bookshelves
framed in darkness and no one else’s presence apart from the two of theirs, the
room seemed to have extended several more feet Bran needed to cross to arrive
at the far end.
He edged around the chairs, absorbed wave of warmth from the fire, and sat down
in the watchful gaze of his father.
Seven hells. Seven bloody hells.He shouldn’t be calling out to the new gods. It
was the old gods his father knew. ‘Old gods,’ Bran thought dismally. ‘Spare me.
Teach my father how to ease up.’
Eddard handed him a fat, crystal tumbler which Bran took, a splash of amber
liquid waiting upon the bottom.
He must have retreated here shortly after dinner Bran realized. He had not
changed. Father and son sat in the sparse light of the fire, Eddard in pleated
trousers of tailored, worsted wool, and Bran in his cotton pajama bottoms.
Bran wore a t-shirt as well. Well-worn and stamped with the print of an old
Winterfell sports team mascot. It had belonged to Robb, not Bran. Robb had
given Bran the shirt when he’d grown out of it.
Holding the glass atop his knee, Bran felt a bit of a fool. Fine crystal
resting jammies…“What is this?” he asked mildly.
“House Massey Whisky.” Eddard contemplated his own glass before he drank of it.
“Bottled in Stonedance, single-malt. One of the finer brands, though who’s to
say which one is best?”
Bran took a self-conscious sip. It went down his throat noisily when it
triggered a bit of a cough. He fought to suppress it and was mostly successful.
Where the liquid had gone, however, so too went fire. It prickled at his nose
like pepper.
Giving no indication that he had noticed, Eddard finished, “As it so happens,
this bottle is just a little older than you.”
“Dad—” Bran started tremulously.
His father turned to him and Bran was quelled merely by the weight of his gaze.
Eddard didn’t look angry. He didn’t look anything. He merely gazed with those
stoic, grey eyes of his. That was probably worse.
Without his father projecting his emotions onto Bran, it was Bran’s own
feelings that took shape. A big frothy mix it was though he could not quite say
which feelings exactly it was composed of. Embarrassment took up a large
portion it seemed, as well as trepidation. The bubbling fear of the spotlight.
And also perhaps something else, something…protective. Private. Some fluid
feeling, a bit too raw at the moment for all the nosy hands making a nab at it.
At long last his father sighed. “Bran. I owe you an apology.”
Bran nearly dropped the glass. He was immensely relieved that he didn’t.
“I’ve not done right by you, or your brother Rickon. I have been neglecting
these duties too long. You’re already a man grown. But I,” Edward opened his
eyes again and gazed upon his son, “…turned my eyes from it.”
Oh god.
Was this what it was going to be? Was his father going to give him the talk?
This could not have been a more humiliating following night to the one before.
If Meera knew…If anyone knew…He was twenty-two years old. He had graduated
university; he had a job. And his father was giving him the talk.
“You haven’t neglected any duties,” Bran mumbled. “You—you talked to me
already. About growing up.”
“No. Not in truth.”
 
His father had given him atalk. Eddard had sat Bran down in this very solar at
a time the boy could not have been much older than twelve.
All his father had done was glare angrily at him for a few moments while Bran
sat in utter bewilderment, racking his brain for what he could have done. Then
his dad gave an irritable grunt and began speaking in a foreboding, brusque
manner.
“The girls in your class will start changing. Don’t make fun of them for it.
Better yet, don’t mention it at all. You will start changing too.”
Twelve or twenty-two, Bran’s reaction had not varied by much.
Oh goddd.
Eddard had not elaborated much more beyond that. He’d only told Bran to resist
any and all urges until he really knew what he was doing, though he had failed
to mention an estimate of when that might be.
Then he’d gone on to stumble onto the topic of pregnancy at which point Bran
finally sunk so low, he gave in and simply pressed his face onto his knees.
Their talk had ended shortly after that. Though not until after Bran agreed to
sit back up and pledge his father good behavior. His face had blushed so red,
he was nearly purple, reciting sentences he felt ridiculous to say at twelve
years old.
 
Eddard sighed. “I spoke to your brother Robb, in full, when he came of age. And
then to Jon. Sometime later, your mother told me she had had a long talk with
Sansa. Next it was Arya. It seemed you’d get younger and younger; we’d start
earlier and earlier each year.” He looked at Bran with a weary sadness, and
then shook his head. “You weren’t getting younger. You were the same age as
your brothers when I spoke with them. Really spoke to them. I figured…your
brothers would speak to you.”
“They did.”
His older brothers had spoken to him together and it had felt ridiculous all
over again. But it had mercifully only been them. They were only brothers among
the three of them. And neither of them made sex into a subject so grave a deal
as their father.
Ned nodded.
“That’s good, in the least. And Rickon? They spoke with him?”
“I expect so…” Bran thought on it a moment before admitting, “I don’t know.”
Why as that? Had Bran been a bad brother? He was already older by now than Robb
and Jon had been when they gave him the talk. Not that he felt it. A little
brother may live to be a hundred, but he will always be a little brother.
Pressing onward, Ned said, “Even so, they are not your father. Your brothers
can offer you support. But your father must needs give you guidance. And in
this, I have been neglecting. Up to this point, I have been doing you a
disservice, Bran.” Bran was starting to see what Jojen meant when he joked that
the Starks could be too dire on themselves. “But the real failure would be
continuing to do so. So. There are some things I need to discuss with you.”
“Dad, if this is about what Theon said…”
Eddard waited but it appeared Bran had forgotten what came next in the
sentence.
“Well…it’s Theon. He exaggerates. He’s…” Bran wanted to say ‘prat’ but even
something so relatively harmless seemed incautiously vulgar at the present.
“He’s an idiot. You can’t take what he says seriously.”
“Are you saying then that you have not slept with Meera Reed?”
Bran’s mouth fell open. To tell his father would be something of a betrayal to
Meera. If he said otherwise, he’d be telling his father a downright lie.
Accepting Bran’s silence for an answer, Ned said patiently, “I am aware that
Theon does not speak for you, that you may wish to speak for yourself, and that
you have a right to privacy even from me. But, Bran, I will caution you on
mindfulness. It would be wise for you to hear me. Not only have you slept with
Meera, but Theon knows about it. Were I to assume you and Meera had intended
Theon to be aware?”
Without pausing, Bran blurted, “No…”
“Then I might ask why are your private affairs not private? Is Theon like to
respect your privacy? Is he like to respect Meera’s? All it takes is one person
to whom you do not matter.”
Eddard place his glass down on the corner-table between them.
“It may be you do not consider whom you…engage in a romantic relationship—”
(Old gods, help me or kill me. Do one at least.) “—a matter that warrants
privacy. Though I don’t particularly believe that is the case here. I expect
from you,” his father began, adding emphasis by punctuating every word, “as a
Stark and as a man grown, that on matters which concern not only yourself, you
will always heed and protect the integrity and privacy of another person.”
Bran closed his mouth, somewhat of a loss as what to say. It was like he were
being painted as having done something wrong. He hadn’t…
“I do not pretend in believing you or your brothers and sisters are of a mind
with your mother and me on dating. We are well aware you think us old
fashioned. And that these days all of you and your classmates prefer to share
things with each other instantaneously.” Ned shifted in his seat, turning a
inch or two to stare more directly at his son. “But it is not without reason we
teach you discretion. There are some things that are private. There are some
things that, when shared, were only ever meant to be shared in that time and
with that person. Not made to spread beyond that, not by anyone else. You may
not realize it, but breaking that trust, sharing intimate, private knowledge of
someone to other people—”
“I haven’t! I would n—”
“—intentionally or unintentionally,” Eddard continued as though not
interrupted, “can truly hurt someone. Even if you would not have thought it
like to.”
 
A scene began to take shape in Bran’s imagination. What if Meera told somebody
what he had said to her?
“Meera…Fuck, Meera. I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.”
At the flash of memory full in his ears, heat prickled up the back of Bran’s
neck and filled his face. His heart drummed faster.
And the way he said it too…Thank the gods no one but Meera could know just how
he sounded. His had been voice thick, choked on longing. Short, hot breaths.
“Meera.”
The scene continued to play out; Meera and Theon gossiping at a bar, giggling
into their drinks. Theon whispering to Robb. Robb glancing towards him, Bran,
before closing his eyes in disgrace.
 
Bran bit back shame and bile. He tore himself out from his imagination, back to
in front of the fire where his father sat watching him.
“Father, I know. I’m not cavalier about these things. I’m not. Theon, what
he—I…”
“I am not saying that you have done anything wrong. Far be it from me to take
anything Theon Greyjoy says seriously or to assume knowledge of affairs I know
not about. What I am saying, Bran, is that you’ve act brashly.”
Bran frowned at what was left of his drink. Had he? Or had everyone pounced on
him to make one big fuss?
“Apart from Greyjoy’s involvement, I will remind you that Meera Reed is not
only your friend, she’s also the friend of your brothers, of your sisters. Of
your mother and of me. Whatever friendships or relationships come and go in
your life, Meera will likely remain a figure in it. I’d hope you consider that
making choices as you will.”
He had; so had Meera. They heeded it too much, far more than it deserved. When
trying to find the sum of decisions in your head, you could not add up years
and years of hypothetical choices. The calculations would fall apart. That path
was folly…All you could do was be mindful in the present. And they had been,
for the most part. Perhaps not so much at the club. But how mindful could you
be four or five shots in?
 
 
For a day that had already been too long more than twice over, Bran should have
been glad to put an end to it. But, hovering by the door of his bedroom, oddly
enough he decided to postpone. Bran snatched his phone from off the nightstand
and headed downstairs. Summer went trailing after him.
His bare feet stepped softly onto the cold tile of the kitchen, the hem of his
pajamas grazing over the floor. Bran squinted when, with a flick of the light
switch, the more-than-ample supply of overhead lights flooded the kitchen in
white glow. He set about fetching the pitcher of water from the fridge.
Summer stayed back where hallway dissolved into kitchen. He sat down on his
tail, studying his person with mild bemusement.
Bran didn’t want to be there in the house. He didn’t want to be in the home
that had a sibling or parent in every room. He just wanted to be alone. But he
wasn’t sure if he wanted to be in his flat either.
It might have been possible that what Bran really wanted was to return to last
night. Step back into last night, to his flat, instead of his childhood bedroom
that waited for him upstairs. He’d see Meera sitting up in his bed already
under the blankets. See her extend her arms out, welcoming. Beckoning him to
lie down and collapse in them as she held him close before poking fun at his
weariness, earning from him a begrudging chuckle.
How had her day gone? Easier, he’d think. It was nearly 1:00 in the morning.
Had she already gone to sleep? Had she thought about him before drifting off?
Or was she still awake? Could it be that she was thinking about him now the
same moment he was thinking of her?
Bran grabbed a glass, filled it up with water. He sat atop one of the barstools
by the kitchen’s high counters. He took a drink and found it, gratefully,
refreshing after the whisky. He rubbed a hand in his hair.
Is Theon like to respect your privacy? Is he like to respect Meera ’s?
Bran guessed no.
Theon was someone who ridiculed people; he’d always been, as though he needed
to. He ridiculed older boys for being older than him, younger boys for being
younger than him. He ridiculed women for not having sex with him. Theon wanted
to feel important and, what was worse, was constantly afraid that he wasn’t. So
he made a lot of noise.
And because Bran had been so sensitive about Meera…and because he’s said what
he had said…
Bran had gone for what he knew twisted at Theon most of all. So would Theon
then go for Meera? Maybe he could post something—Bran didn’t know what—as some
ploy of public shame. Take a go at Meera as a way of getting at Bran out of
spite.
Theon often went out of his way to be an asshole.
That was not the only version of Theon. Bran had known others. He knew a
version of Theon even that could be nice. He had probably even witnessed some
of that last night, but the subject Theon had been poking at was too sore for
Bran to do anything but snap. And once he snapped, Theon grew sour.
 
There was the time when Bran had been eleven.
Bran was stood outside of Cerwyn Medical Facilities, swinging to and fro,
pushing on and off his crutches while he waited to be picked up after two hours
of physical therapy.
Robb’s car came tearing up the street to lurch to a halt alongside him. Jon’s
head leaning out the passenger window lined up perfectly with Bran.
“Hiya, Bran,” said Jon serenely, taking some amusement at Bran’s startled face.
“Sorry!” came Robb’s beleaguered voice as he jumped out from the driver’s seat.
He sprinted around the parked car. “We got held up. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Bran said, watching Robb hoist his backpack off the ground onto a
shoulder. “I’ve only been out here for a minute.”
Bran brought himself to the car door, which Robb opened for him. Theon was sat
there, sipping on a take-out drink. He blinked up at the sunlight spilling down
on his face from the open door.
Robb punched him in the arm. “Get back in there, idiot.”
“Oi, oi. There are nicer ways to ask.”
“Move it. Okay, Bran, in you get.”
“How was P.T.?” Jon asked once Bran was settled and Robb climbing back behind
the wheel.
“It was alright.”
“Bran,” Theon began in a philosophical tone staring off into the distance, “you
ever have a really hot nurse or something who needs to, like, stretch your
thighs?” Theon grappled at his thigh as way of demonstration.
Up in the front Jon said coolly, “He’s eleven.”
“What? Eleven year-olds don’t have dicks now? When you’d grow yours, Jon? Last
month?”
“Shut it,” Robb and Jon said together, not looking back.
What would have been another car ride home took a turn when Jon sat up, his
eyes fixed on a point up ahead as the car made its way down a residential lane.
“What?” Robb asked, trying not to take his eyes off the road. “What is it?”
“…It’s those fucking pricks from Blackmont.”
Theon roused from where he’d been reclining, craning his neck to scan off in
the direction Jon was glowering. “Oh yeah? So, what are we doing?”
Robb’s eyes flit back and forth from the road to Jon. He asked Jon seriously,
“Are we doing this, then?”
“Yeah,” Jon said. “We’re doing this.”
Robb steered the car alongside the sidewalk one block up.
“Doing what??” Bran asked who had no idea what was going on.
Robb threw the car into park. “Bran, you stay here.” Jon was already climbing
out. “Jon,” Robb snapped sounding irritated, “don’t rush in without anyone
behind you.”
“What’s happening??” Bran asked again.
“You stay here and keep your head down.”
“Robb, what’s going on? What are you doing?”
“Stay.”
Already up on the sidewalk, Theon crouched down to poke his head back into the
window. “We’ll be back in a sec’, Branny boy. Hang tight.” He winked
encouragingly at him and ran off after Robb, who himself had already jogged off
after Jon.
 
What Bran was able to glean from Robb’s muttering, Jon’s groaned comments, and
Theon’s boasting cheers, the four lads they had just jumped had been something
of bullies to Jon growing up. Bad blood existed between their family with Jon’s
mother and, knowing that, they had been quick to take it out on Jon at school,
ridiculing his mother and circumstances of her passing as a means to provoke
Jon so they’d have a nice, clean excuse for beating him up.
Three against four were not good odds, but the boys had done alright. Theon had
been in fact rather gallant, kicking one of the blokes off Robb before taking
on the largest one—if kicking someone could be called gallant, which in this
case seemed fair enough.
Even while he pressed one of the take-out napkins to his nose, soaking it in
red, Theon giggled grinning broadly with a mouth slightly red with blood as
well.
“That freak one—did you see the size of ‘em? Bet he didn’t think a little bloke
like me could give him a run for his money. Piece of shit.”
Jon had a hand over his eye and did not move it.
Robb was murmuring, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Bran, still processing what had just happened, was merely staring around at the
commotion taking place, wide-eyed.
“What’s up with you?” Theon asked to Robb. “Most people panic before a fight.”
“We can’t go home like this. Where’s supposed to drop off Bran. We can’t—Look
at us.”
“I’m okay,” Bran said. They did not need to baby him.
“Go round to mine,” Theon offered.
“Isn’t your dad home?”
“He won’t care. We can clean up there.” Theon lobbed the bloody napkin out his
window, plucked up a new one, and stretched back in his seat again. His voice
in a bit of a sing-song, he continued playfully, “We can buy makeup. Throw on
some concealer. Your parents will be none the wiser. And our pores will have
never looked better.”
 
That had been the only time Bran could remember he had been inside Theon’s
house.
He was glad of it; Theon’s house sucked.
The windows of the Greyjoy house were so dusty, even the air was grey. Bran
made the mistake of lingering by the living area as the older boys headed down
the narrow hall to a bathroom at the end of it. Upon their arrival, Balon
Greyjoy began muttering under his breath about delinquents being more trouble
than their worth, not getting up from the craggy old chair he sat like a
throne. Then he turned his stale eyes on Bran. “You. Why are you so clean?
Stayed out of it? Left your friends to fight on their own?”
Propped up on crutches, Bran stared blankly down at Balon in his chair. “…I’m
eleven.”
“Did I ask your age?”
“Bran,” Robb called, coming back down to the living room to retrieve him. “Help
me clean Jon’s cut.”
Bran scuttled to make for the refuge of the hallway.
“Just wanted to get you away from that grimy old codger,” Robb told Bran in a
low whisper. “We’ll be out of here in a sec’, just hang back here,” and he
squeezed back into the over-crowded bathroom. Jon was wincing with a wet towel
over his eye and when he took it off, Robb made a falling whistle to tell him
it was bad.
“Why don’t ya soak your head mate?” Theon asked unhelpfully.
Their woes had not been over. There was no hiding Jon’s black eye or the cut on
Robb’s bottom lip. Catelyn gave them both a sharp clout on the ear at the sight
of them and when Eddard returned home, they were treated to more than a stern
lecturing for over an hour. It was Cat who picked Bran up next from his
subsequent P.T. sessions. Robb still had to earn back his parents’ trust for
his car.
But later that same night, Robb and Jon stopped by Bran’s room before going to
bed.
“Quick word,” Robb told him.
Bran had promised them earnestly, “I won’t tell mum or dad even if they ask me.
I swear.”
“No, no,” Jon said. He remained standing while Robb sat down at the end of
Bran’s bed. “It’s not that.”
They had wanted to explain themselves. And explain, “fighting is not cool,
Bran. It’s not something that should be anywhere near the top of your list for
how to resolve things.”
“Nor the middle, even.”
“It’s not something you should be proud of.”
Theon had seemed proud enough, almost giddy over his bloody nose and bruises.
But Bran wondered, now that he thought back on it, maybe he had just been happy
to be a part of something.
 
There was the time when Bran was seven.
He’d rode the bus from the private elementary school out to the suburbs of
Winterfell to their station from which schoolchildren either walked home or
were picked up.
His mother and older siblings were gone, left the North for Riverrun to attend
her father’s funeral. Bran had been left behind. For another time in his life,
he and Rickon were left behind.
As Rickon was still too young to go to school, Bran had rode the bus alone. It
was his first time of ever doing so.
He had thought he knew the way home. It was something he walked nearly every
day, Robb and Jon leading the way for him and Sansa and Arya. But when he
jumped down from the bus and peered about in a circle, blinking out the rain
that had begun to fall, splattering down on top of his head, Bran realized with
a sinking feeling that he did not know. He wasn’t sure.
He got himself out of the street walking over to the curb, sat down, hide his
head in his arms and begun to cry. It lacked much in the way of strategy. All
he thought of were his brothers and sisters who weren’t there, their faces
swimming inside his head.
Then Theon had seen him. Everyone else was running to get out of the rain.
Theon strolled over unconcerned and plopped himself down on the curb beside
Bran. While he waited, he tapped his hands upon his knees to a song that only
he could hear.
It still took a while for Bran to finish crying. When he did, wiping his eyes,
he looked curiously at Theon sitting next to him.
Theon turned with a good-natured smile and asked Bran casually, “You ready?”
Bran nodded. Theon popped up and the two of them set out on the way to the
Starks’ house, Theon swinging his backpack between shoulder to shoulder,
knowing the way. He had walked him up to the Stark gate.
“See ya tomorrow, man.”
“You don’t want to come up? My father will give you a ride home.”
“Nah,” Theon shrugged. “Your father kinda scares me. I’m good. Can’t get any
wetter anyways. That’s what she said, am I right?” Theon waited for a response
that did not come. “Right. Know your audience. Anyways. Later, little man.”
 
Bran stared down his glass of water. Did he feel bad about what he said to
Theon?
‘Post-bust.’ ‘Got up in there.’ ‘Like it up the ass.’
Bran gripped the edge of the counter as though wishing he could knead it like
dough. What was wrong with Theon? Why did he need so badly to wind him up? Why,
because Bran wasn’t painting Theon as being the center of his world? Why did he
talk about sex the way he did? Whenever he talked about it, everything felt
dirty. The women especially.
It never comes off that way when I hear Robb or Jon talk about it. Why does
Theon go out of his way to put stink on it? Nothing ’s making him. Why can’t he
just be normal?
When they’d said their goodbyes this morning, when Bran had suggested the idea
it could happen again—her hand on the doorknob while she turned back towards
him, her brown curls wafting in the movement. She lowered her eyes to the
floor; the smile she made had been been shy.
Bran’s face crumpled and he buried it in his hands. Theon was only playing. And
so what if he weren’t? Words are wind. No one cared, surely Meera least of all.
Bran rubbed at his forehead as though to smooth it out. Too many thoughts in
too little space. Too many contingencies. If he could only think clearer, then
maybe he could think at all.
All those prying eyes pecking. And no word from Jojen.
He wished he could have turned the corner and found himself in the Reed’s
house. He’d sneak into Meera’s room where she’d still be up, and she would be
surprised and delighted to see him. Everything’s okay, she’d remind him. She
could remind him, nodding happily, cupping his neck, that she didn’t give two
figs about Theon or anything Theon ever had to say. Remind him she knew what
she was doing, and lean in to open his mouth with a kiss.
Would it be like that when next they saw each other? Would she even be happy to
see him?
Bran’s hands were applying pressure to either side of his head as he tried to
slow his breathing.
“Bran?”
Bran looked up.
“Oh,” he said, somewhat plainly. “Hi, Talisa.”
Chapter End Notes
     after 4 days straight of ridiculous setbacks (including a dog
     hijacking sleep from 'writing day' when she woke me up just to remind
     me loudly that she likes food despite having been fed by a not-yet-
     sleeping me 4 hours prior), my trackpad started getting all janky as
     i was getting ready to post. it's all good. checking into a hospital
     for insanity.
     the bit after this is actually decently zesty, not as mopey.
***** House Reed Party (I) *****
Chapter Summary
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya
     – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.
Chapter Notes
     I didn't want to split it up into two parts but increased hours at
     work means I'll have time to edit when I'm in hell ( •⌓•)
They, the young wolves, could make what jokes they liked. At present there
lacked no shortage of source material.
In the grand scheme of things it was Robb and Jon who’d suffered the brunt of
it. For when their oldest had begun creeping towards the early reaches of
puberty, the younger Starklings jumped at the chance to have themselves some
fun at their expense. For a spell there was nary a time where Robb or Jon, or
even Sansa, could do so much as a receive a phone call from a co-ed without
inviting an onslaught of snooping and intruding from the others, complete with
‘ooo’-ing noises and all.
It was only fitting therefore that when inevitably they themselves, the younger
Starklings, followed down the same path, they fell target to their own brand of
hell. On the whole that turned out to be baby-ing, cheek pinching, and all the
sort of things which Robb dubbed sanctimoniously as ‘ego checking.’ And none
had it so worse as Bran.
Arya was hard to cow. Even if she hadn’t been, what could the boys mock of her?
She seldom sought to be a lady, and a fierceness forged in her from a
lifetime’s underestimation meant that Arya ofttimes beat her brothers in their
own pursuits. So in place of teasing, her brothers resorted to excluding
her—save for Jon, the more sympathetic of the lot.
Indeed it had been that when kids all over the seven kingdoms were glued to
their parents’ televisions playing the racing game Daario Wagon, Arya won
champion so frequently at Daario, Robb had made a password for the console just
to lock her out. When he persuaded the others not to tell her, she came up with
the solution of chucking it entirely out an upper story window. And after that,
they were not as fast to make a point of excluding her.
On the other hand, it might have been natural only for Rickon to have it
hardest as the actual baby of the group. On occasion he took something
personally, and he’d throw a fit of resentment in the form of a tantrum. But on
the whole Rickon took the label of ‘baby’ and chose to wear it like armor, both
depriving his siblings the joy of getting to him and (more importantly to
Rickon) giving him leave to shrug responsibilities off and to guiltlessly pile
privileges on.
Bran however did not embrace the baby label. The way he saw it, he was closer
to the side of Robb and Jon than he was to Rickon. And if not with them, then
with his sisters. It was only because of a very boring, very drawn-out joke
that everyone grouped him and Rickon as the little pups. So it came as no
surprise that Bran’s siblings’ favorite matters to tease him with were: his
age, and his insecurities about his age.
But lo and behold, one night their own babyiest of baby brothers disappeared
with, of all people, the dark and enigmatic miss Meera Reed. None apart from
Jon had seen it coming. And none knew what to make of it.
Sure, out of all the siblings it was Bran who knew Meera best. But that was
only natural; he’d spent half their teenage years at Jojen’s house and the
other half Jojen had spent at theirs. That was when the other Starks saw Meera
most while growing up besides the occasional double-family holiday. Meera
knocking on their door, chewing gum and flashing a grin to greet them, come to
take Jojen home.
Meera—hiding in plain sight all this time?
Even if Bran did have a crush on her, he struck not a one of them as Meera’s
type. Not in the slightest.
When Meera had started her second year at prep, she’d had a bit of a fling with
one of the boys in senior year. Robb, Jon, and Sansa would see the two of them,
back in the days when Cat still drove them to and fro. They’d see Meera hopping
onto the back of his motorbike after school seconds before they’d go blasting
past in a roar of engine and obnoxious music. By the time Meera joined Robb in
passing the drivers’ test, the Starks, now four, would see Meera speeding off
in her own jeep blasting her own music, and the five teenagers would wave to
one another as they made their way to Robb’s car. Indeed the Starklings had
always been fond of Meera.
And for that matter they loved their brother deeply and truly, collectively
never speaking of the time they came grimly close to losing him. For all their
japes, they did not think their brother a craven or a fool. Surely, anyone to
be graced by catching Bran’s fancy would be of highest caliber and should count
themselves lucky.
It was merely that, well, whenever they pictured this girl of highest caliber,
she’d always happened to be a sort of…female version of Bran.
Meera and Bran together. What were they to make of that? If anything.
 
Sunday
On the Sunday before all the Stark children were to return to their respective
homes-away-from-home (with many a faithful promise to Cat they would return
more often), Rickon came waltzing into Bran’s room uninvited. Bran had not made
to object or ask Rickon what he was doing. All that happened when his door
burst in was that Bran’s eyes had snapped up and, from where they peeked out
just over the top of his novel, followed Rickon’s progress as he plopped
himself down at the far end of the bed to lazily inspect this room which was
much tidier than his.
“So,” Rickon began, not bothering with a ‘hello.’ “Are you and Meera together
now?”
Bran pursed his lips. He returned his attention to The Hedge Knight before he
quipped a terse, short, “No.”
Rickon bobbed his head, acknowledging the answer, still thinking to himself.
“You botch it up?”
“Rickon,” Bran growled. His eyes did not move off the page this time, but
neither did they continue reading onward. “Don’t you go sticking your nose in
my affairs.”
“You’re the one sticking ‘em under my nose.”
“I don’t recall conducting my affairs anywhere near you or your nose.”
Insincerely Rickon allowed, “Alright then,” in barely less than a sneer. He
looked to the side, sizing his brother up with mild curiosity. “What do you
recall?”
Bran brought his book down on his lap so as to look Rickon in the face in full.
“More than you. And what I do recall is minding my own business.”
“Hmpfh. If that’s the way you wanna be.”
“It is.”
“Fine then.”
“Good.”
Rickon continued to survey Bran, his expression unchanged apart from slightly
narrowed eyes. Then, deciding to give Bran up as a bad job, he asked flatly,
“You gonna help me move some of my stuff down to uni next weekend still,
right?”
“Mhmm,” Bran hummed, already reading again.
Poorly concealing a smirk Rickon added after a beat, “Maybe I’ll ask Meera
myself next time I see her.”
But if there was one sibling Bran was sure he could take, it was Rickon.
“You do that,” he said coolly. “Oh, by the way, dad wants to have a long talk
with you about you having sex.”
“What??” Rickon sprang off the bed. “Why! What did you do?!” With that he
sprang out of Bran’s room back into his own, leaving Bran at last in peace.
 
 
     15:28; Bran
     Hey man. Wanna go to Jasper’s for lunch on Tuesday?
     16:04; Jojen
     Cool. 2:00 tho I gotta work through noon
Bran and Jojen had lunch quite frequently, two or three times a week, given
that they both worked in the downtown area of Coppersmith's Wynd.
Upon reading Jojen’s response Bran’s face broke into a smile and, perhaps the
first time since Meera left his apartment over 24 hours ago, he felt more
relieved than on edge. On Tuesday he and Jojen could go back to normal. Monday,
however, he had something else he needed to do.
 
 
Monday
Bran left work early, hopping on the tram only to get off at a station he’d
almost certainly never visited before.
The Greyjoys had once controlled the commercial seas of Westeros. Years of
mismanagement however had cut away branch after branch, fleet after fleet until
it was they ranked only as a fairly minor competitor in the maritime services
market.
Theon’s sister Yara had taken over as managing director for Pyke Petro and
Theon had been expecting to join her after university. Instead, he’d been
shunted into a mid-management position within their smallest subdivision. When
the job first came to him via directive of the board, Theon had complained
bitterly to Robb and Jon.
“Inventories Manager?? It’s insulting. Emasculating, really. My father’s doing
it because he can’t stand the thought of me surpassing him as man of the
family. As if he’s much of a man at all. The asswipe.”
“Hmm,” Jon mused thoughtfully. “Don’t you need a number of licensees to have
Yara’s job? I seem to recall you failing to qualify due to a two-year ban from
failing the drug test.”
“Bollocks, that it. They sprung that test on me, and without so much as a
warning!”
Robb, who up until that point had decided to remain quiet, seemingly could no
longer help but to comment, “Think a warning invalidates the point of a drug
test, mate.”
Theon continued as though Robb had not said anything. “My father was behind it
too, I’ll bet you anything. I didn’t actually fail. Just some bloody
technicality. So sod off.”
“Right,” Jon said, but still in that snidely smug tone he got whenever speaking
truth to Theon. “You wouldn’t want the full story to ‘emasculate’ you.”
Robb had changed the subject pointedly.
 
Along the main pier of Fishmonger’s Square not far from the tram dwelled the
patched-together office of SaltCliffe Fisheries. A remaining dreg of the
Greyjoys’ former glory. One of the last vestiges of an empire gone to seed.
Bran was glad he arrived to the docks with time to spare. He’d only just begun
to debate whether or not to buy an oyster or cockle off one of the fishmongers’
milling about when Theon emerged from the small office building. And quite a
bit before 5:00. The only employee who’d left before him was a tired looking
old woman who’d gone hobbling down the steps as fast as her stiff joints would
go, off to catch the next passing tram.
Theon popped forth from the doors, bobbed down the short set of stairs with pep
renewed.
The button-up he wore had short-sleeves and the leather of his briefcase
clearly was uncared for, but the mere change of Theon’s dress from casual to
professional no matter how lacking the effort, made him appear to Bran with
slightly more of an upright tone than he usually saw. Theon had taken only a
few steps onto the pier when Bran called over.
Stopping, he looked about. He spotted Bran with the exact opposite of
enthusiasm. Bran saw Theon push his tongue in between his two rows of teeth,
looking annoyed but also resigned. So Bran carried on, crossing the docks over
to him, and asked, “A word?”
Theon slouched all at once. “Alright then,” he said not hiding the shadow of a
grimace. He resettled his feet on the planks of wood that made the dock area
floor. Bran got the hint. They were to have this conversation here and would
not be bothering with the to-do of entering one of the nearby cafés.
Bran heard it as the small pause became an ugly pause. He screwed up his
concentration, trying to remember how this conversation had gone exactly when
he practiced it in his head the way over here. In perhaps not the greatest
example in eloquence, he led off with, “Uhh…”
Theon arched a brow.
“I wanted to say…” and Bran forced himself to look at Theon rather than at his
own feet, “I shouldn’t have put my hands on you the other night.” Even though
you put your hands on me.
Some of the tightness went out from Theon’s jaw, though he still held himself
rather farther away than would be considered ‘normal.’ And his head was leaned
backwards in a way which looked less than comfortable, as if Theon were
determined to in no way needs look up at Bran although they were almost of a
height with Bran leading by one inch or two.
“And for that I apologize…But obviously I didn’t come all the way out here just
to tell you that pushing you was wrong.” Theon huffed loudly, clearly telling
him to get on with it. “Listen. I don’t care what gossip you say about me.
Really, I don’t. But I won’t have you using me as an excuse to spread rumors
about Meera.”
“Gossip. Rumors,” Theon mumbled barely opening his mouth. “You say that like
I’m inventing stuff.”
“Well…you are. As I will remind you, you and I were not together for the whole
night. And we were not together for the later part, which is what you’ve been
harping on about.”
Theon rolled his eyes. Then he aimed them downwards, fixating on the wooden
planks below with eyes as wide as they would go, as though fighting the urge to
say what he really wanted to say.
Hesitantly, Bran continued, “I need to know—”
“Yes, yes, yessssssss,” Theon cut in irritably. “I know, I know, I know. You
two are dreadfully ashamed of your sinful—and yet still somehow—dorky behavior.
I got it. Mum’s the word. Anyhow, your two twat brothers already threatened me
quite enough about it. Your life’s not that interesting, Brannikins. And your
geeky escapades have given me quite enough bother already.”
“So—”
“SO neither your name nor Meera’s name shan’t ever cross my lips again,” Theon
swore making a dramatic crisscross over his heart. “Nor shall they be texted on
my phone. Nor shall I imply, or point out, or as much breathe in the direction
of mentioning said alleged dorky coupling. On my honor as Ironborn.” Bran did
not think that was honor to bet on but wisely he kept that to himself.
It was the best that he could hope for. Better even, since Theon was much more
like to listen to Robb and Jon than to himself.
“Well…thank you.”
Theon threw him a nod, still cross.
Bran turned to leave. He stopped, chewing the inside of his lip.
“…I don’t like the way you talk,” he started slowly. Bran had not practiced
this, but here found himself saying it all the same. “I don’t like the way you
talk about other people. Especially women. And I don’t like the way you always
go out of your way to have a go at me. But…”
And to Bran’s slight surprise, Theon seemed to be waiting. With what looked
like his least annoyed expression so far.
“I know you were kind of looking out for me. In your own way. And I don’t want
you to do it, but, well…Thanks.”
Theon’s eyes ran Bran up and down. Finally he sighed. “Yeahhh. Sure. You know,
I ought to not give you any more useful advice considering the way you
overreact. But anyways, here I go—not learning. Do us all a favor, mate, and
get yourself laid more often. Then when it happens again—if it happens again—it
won’t be such a cataclysmic event for all of us. Eh?”
Bran produced a nod. He felt the cool relief of confrontation-over sweeping
nicely through his veins, making him feel oddly shaky. “Mm. Noted.”
Theon batted the side of Bran’s arm with his empty-feeling suitcase and moved
past him, making his on way to the station. Bran watched him go, quite willing
to wait for the next tram so he could ride alone.
Theon turned back for a second, walking backwards as he called out with his
shit-eating-grin back in full.
“Oi. Say hi to your sisters for me, won’t you?”
Theon turned to walk the right way round again, knowing that Bran would choose
not to reply.
 
Tuesday
“I told Maynard that if he wants me to stay late he has to pay me overtime,”
Jojen was finishing saying as Bran placed down his tray at their table and
joined him. Jasper’s, the best of the little pot shops in Coppersmith's Wynd,
was full-to-bursting with the noise and shuffling of the workday lunch rush in
its cramped, under-sized space. But when Jojen arrived he’d found them a table,
and when Bran arrived he’d found Jojen.
“Just charge overtime without his leave then. You’re only following protocol.”
“I know if I do he’s just gonna breathe fire down my neck.” Jojen sipped from
his bowl of brown. He put on a high, whiny voice like a mouse.
“WhatdidItellyouaboutputtingovertimehoursonyourtimesheet?
Youknowwe’renotallowedblahblahblah.”
Bran hummed in thought as he unwrapped a sandwich over his tray. “Put a
laxative in his tea maybe.”
First, Jojen cracked a wee smile. It persisted until it had Jojen positively
cackling at the surface of his soup, enjoying the scenario he’d conjured in his
head no doubt.
After laughing the image out and taking another sip, he asked casually, “How’s
your family?”
“They’re good. Mum’s a bit stressed.”
“I heard Talisa stayed over.”
“Yeah.”
Bran thought on it. He realized he didn’t know if that was the first time
something of the sort had ever happened. It didn’t feel like much, what with
her being given Sansa’s room and the fact that she and Robb practically were
living together nowadays back in the North.
He shrugged. “She’ll probably get used to it eventually, to Robb and Talisa.”
Jojen looked doubtful. “Hmm. We’ll see. Your mum can be stubborn so much, you’d
think she was born Stark.”
“Oh, Tullys can be stubborn.”
Bran snuck a furtive glance to Jojen still hunched over his soup, unhurriedly
drinking spoonfuls.
“So,” Bran began in a cool enough voice although his ears felt hot. “Are we all
good, from—uh—the weekend?”
Jojen’s half-smile deflated to a frown. He straightened up.
It occurred to Bran he was not someone who ought to take on playing and winning
games through bluffing.
Jojen pushed the subject away with a deliberate hand. “I told you. Whatever’s
between y’all is between y’all. I don’t want to know. I’m not gonna tell you
what to do but I want to hear n-o-n-e of it. A line has been drawn in the sand,
a line that shall not be crossed.”
“You’re sure?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure. Nonnegotiable. Because once you start explaining one little
thing here or a quick little question about something over there, I know your
side. And next I’m hearing Meera’s side. And now I know stuff from your side
that she doesn’t know. And I know stuff from her side, you don’t know. And then
maybe I’ll just clear this one thing up. And now all of a sudden I’m a spy; I’m
screwing over my sister or my friend or both and I will. not. have. it.”
‘Calm down,’ Bran might have said. Instead, he said, “No one’s calling you a
spy, Jojen.”
Jojen tapped a forefinger on his nose. “Exactly.”
Fair enough. “So…we’re cool?”
“We’re abso-fucking-lutely peachy keen. Lest you keep yammering.”
“Cool,” Bran said, and he tried to sound it. But he could not restrain the
smile of total, eclipsing sweet relief, so he bit into his sandwich and found
that it had become a touch too dry.
 
 
The_Hunter ’s_Moon
Bran and Meera had left things with an understanding that what happened on the
night of Arya’s birthday might happen again, should the moment present itself.
The moment being one in which both of them were in the same city, unattached,
and (perhaps) feeling a smidge bored.
As far as Bran knew, such an occasion might take another couple of years to
come around again, if indeed at all. After all it was entirely possible that
tomorrow Meera would discover her next Tyrek. But only this time round it would
stick. And he, Bran, would never find Meera bored and unattached again.
But as fate would have it, such pessimism turned out to be unwarranted.
 
When the kids had all been young, the Reed family hosted parties each year
around the time of the Hunter’s Moon. Traditionally First Men celebrated the
Harvest Moon, usually with a bit of a cook-out. Crannogmen were different
however. Relying less on harvests than on hunting, it was the Hunter’s Moon
they celebrated. And being of two of the large and prominent Crannog families,
the Reeds’ celebration served to unite a lot more than a good chunk of the
Neck.
When Howland and Jyana split the parties had stopped, what with all the
‘adjustings’ going on. But that was seven years ago. This year was the year,
both parents decided, to reinstate the old parties and gather friends and
family once more.
It went without saying (though it was said) that the Stark family had a
standing open invitation as always. More specifically Ned and Bran were not
only invited, but expected. Bran’s face reddened when his father reminded him
this when he and his sisters came home for dinner. And it reddened worse when
Bran realized it would be him, his father, and his mother representing for the
Starks at the party as a group.
Three days on, his phone buzzed upon the nightstand. Bran was changing for the
third, and final, time that day finally pulling on the cool comfort of pajamas.
Picking the phone up, he found it to be one of the rare texts he ever receives
from Meera.
     23:10; Meera
     Just so you know, there’s a dress code for hunters moon thing
     23:13; Meera
     It’s naked
Bran pressed his lips together to force a frown.
     23:18; Bran
     Be gone, woman
     23:25; Meera
     I will of course be checking you dressed to code      
It was not as though he could deny the definable upswing in his mood that
month.
But neither could Bran say that he was fully looking forward to the Reed’s
party. He did want more time with Meera but the kind he hand in mind was not
the sort they were like to get.
Bran wanted time with Meera that was time with her and her alone.
 
On the day he didn’t arrive with his parents but rather a few hours ahead.
Because Jojen had asked for Bran’s help in setting up, he set out from the
nearest bus stop well before the afternoon when the party would actually kick
off.
It was Jyana who opened the door for him when Bran arrived. Beaming, she
greeted him with a warm enthusiasm, a little reminiscent of Meera’s to be
honest.
Jyana almost had the same springy locks as Meera. But unlike her daughter’s,
Jyana’s hair grew tamer under its own weight when she let it grow. It fell in
lazy ringlets, settled over her shoulders in large rounded waves.
Seeing their mum again after a good few years caught Bran a little by surprise.
She looked quite the same as when he’d seen her last (of course she did…she was
the same person) if only a bit trimmer and aged somewhat around the eyes. The
familiarity of the image, unwittingly forgotten, startled Bran for half a
second.
He faltered before snapping out of it and returning the hug he’d been swept
into.
“Hiii. Nice to see you again, Mrsss…” Bran began before he trailed off in a
sort of dumb panic. The only way Jojen ever referred to Jyana was ‘my mum.’
Jyana was quite thoroughly defined in Bran’s head as ‘Jojen and Meera’s mum.’
Did he even know her house name?
Jyana waved it off still cheerful and uncomfortably it came to Bran again to
recognize glimpses of Meera within her mother. “‘Jyana’s fine, dear.” Bran
donned an agreeable, tentative sort of smile as Jyana took her time inspecting
him. “You and Jojen,” she concluded, shaking her head. “You’ve grown at least a
foot taller since I saw you last. He’s up in his room. Is that why you came
by?”
“Yeah. He asked me to help him with—well, I don’t know what exactly.”
Jyana stepped back to beckon him in, still smiling with a happy sort of
nostalgia. “Always the same, you two, aren’t you? Go on, upstairs you go.”
 
 
Bran found Jojen’s door slightly ajar. Behind it, Jojen could be glimpsed
sitting on the floor before his bed, his back against its frame while he
concentrated on folding something on his lap. Bran edged through the door’s
open gap and uttered a soft ‘hey, man.’
Jojen peered up from his work. He shot Bran back a responding nod. “Hey.”
At present Jojen’s room was in a height of messiness. Four or five trays were
strewn above and around the low-rise table in the center of the room, and in
each of them was nestled a dozen or so bundles of leaves bound in twine.
In the Crannog celebration, children ‘hunted’ rice dumplings that had been
pocketed inside leaves of reed and hidden. The origins of the tradition stemmed
far back, almost to the Age of Heroes, to a tale of Crannogmen and how, using
only the light by the hunter’s moon, they survived a harvest-less autumn. With
the strange reflections of moon on water, the gods had led them to a cave where
they discovered cache after cache a never-ending supply of fish eggs.
In practice, however, children proved less found of caviar than their hungry
ancestors. So today it was dumplings filled instead with rice they hunted.
Taking in the pile of moss-colored leaves by Jojen’s one hand and an
earthenware pot of stick rice by his other, Bran supposed it was this Jojen had
called for him to help.
Sliding into the room, Bran spotted Meera sitting on Jojen’s desk chair,
balancing it precariously on its hind legs. She had a leaf in hand as well but
unlike Jojen’s, which he had now taken to folding carefully over a glob of rice
in its center, Meera’s was empty and flat, and it was shredded. She sat staring
off into space, tearing from the leaf long strips, crumpling them between two
fingers, only to lob the tiny leaf-balls at the dustbin across the room.
“Oh,” Bran let out automatically. “Hi, Meera.”
“Helloo,” she chimed back. Her tone was light enough, amiable, though her eyes
had not budged from where they were glued, in an unfocused sort of way, a
couple inches above her target.
On the floor Jojen pursed his lips, as if the dumpling he was working on at the
moment was rather rude. Securing its knot, he muttered under his breath, “I
hope you two aren’t about to start sucking face in my room. Again.”
“Is that where your mind’s at?” Meera asked, her eyes coming back into focus.
She brandished her tattered leaf at him. “How many times must I tell you? Stop
trying to live vicariously through me.”
Bran almost laughed. Fortunately he succeeded in hastily suppressing it to a
cough. Pretending not to notice Jojen staring daggers, Bran asked lightly, “So,
shall I just…?” as he sat down and grabbed a leaf off the stack.
Meera let her chair fall onto all fours. She jumped up announcing, “Okay.”
Absentmindedly, she patted at the outsides of her shorts pockets. Bran had
noticed those shorts when he came in.
The shorts Meera was wearing were of Dondarrion make, the overpriced sport
brand which had become something of a trend in recent years. Sansa had workout
clothes from them, Bran knew, and he felt vaguely aware that Robb and Rickon
both had one or two things of theirs—shoes or shorts or whatnot. The brand was
easy to recognize because Dondarrion clothes, or ‘Dondons’ as they were
insipidly referred to, almost always consisted of a variation of a strikingly
white white and an obnoxiously purple purple.
Bran didn’t like them. How could clothes so ugly be so expensive? He’d failed
to be persuaded when Sansa even went out of her way to explain to her dim
brother the ins and outs of fashion. No matter what Sansa said about ‘ironic
self-awareness,’ the fact remained: ugly clothes were ugly clothes.
But whatever unfortunate zorse-stripped pattern Meera’s shorts had, Bran could
not say he did not like their shape.
“Time to get ready,” Meera said, sounding tired, apparently to the room at
large. She stepped lightly over one of the trays, over Bran’s legs one by one,
snaking her way to reach the bookcase along the wall. “Jojen, I’m gonna help
myself to some of your stash.”
Meera plucked up an older wooden box, woven with hemp inlay, Jojen’s weed box,
and placed it a shelf higher up closer to her hands.
She opened it to inspect the insides, apparently to Jojen’s displeasure. He
barked, “Hey!” watching dismayed from the floor.
Meera weighed her options before she reached in and retrieved from the box’s
slotted grooves a joint, one of those that Jojen had pre-rolled.
“What are you doing?” he demanded still.
Meera complained in a bored voice, “It’s one joint, don’t be stingy.” She
skimmed her fingers across the paper re-smoothening it.
“Are you serious?”
“No one’s even here yet, Joj.”
“You’re going to get high. Now.”
“I’m not getting high—it’s one joint.”
Balancing the joint between her lips, Meera flipped open Jojen’s lighter,
hatching from it a tiny but determined little flame that she tipped to the end
of the cigarette.
On the floor, Jojen made a controlled kind of yell.
“Ahhhhhh—fuck you think you’re doing?”
“What?” At such ill-treatment, her eyes grew even more round as she turned to
face them. Her voice had grown husky as well in the smoke, so Meera blew the
rest out to speak in her normal register. “I’m supposed to face that lot
sober?”
“What, don’t you like your family?” Bran found himself interjecting. The two
Reeds turned to look at him, quite as though they had forgotten he was there.
It was Meera who answered.
“I love my family. ‘Like’ though…that’s a strong word.” She took another drag
before raising the cigarette in his direction. “Would you like to partake?”
Bran hastened to turn down the offer, shaking his hand and his head and
returning promptly to the bundle of rice and leaves he was managing to mangle.
He regretted speaking in the first place, wanting to remove himself from any
Jojen versus Meera equation.
Jojen asked in a voice made lofty with disapproval, “Can’t you give mum and dad
a break for once? Just this once?”
“Oh, for fuckssake.”
The mood in Meera’s tone snapped down like a whip. Bran did not look. If
anything, he fixed his stare to the reed leaf in his lap harder.
“Fuck it,” she snapped. “Fuck me, right, for being such a brat that I wanna
have a buzz before this whole entire day of a ridiculous stupid party? Not like
dad or mum, or the rest of those fuckers from the Neck, aren’t gonna be
drinking obnoxiously the whole time and be well unbearable by this afternoon?
No—it’s me. I’m the one who’s a bitch.”
Bran pulled himself out of the way veering in as Meera stalked past. Joint bit
between her lips, she charged out past the door. They heard her door shut
across the hall.
Bran did not say anything. His eyes, wide, only moved slowly. Slowly and
steadily, up from the floor to check on Jojen.
Jojen had still been staring at the empty doorframe to his room, his eyes
heated. They shifted that second and met Bran’s.
Bran offered, “Umm…”
But whatever wisdom might have come after, Jojen did not want to hear it. He
shook his head.
He began work on the next dumpling. Scooping up the helping of rice and
plunking it into the center of a leaf, he sighed wearily and said, “She always
gets like this.”
“…She does?”
Jojen glanced at Bran. Then at the misshaped ball, more mangled, Bran was
trying to ‘fix’ by applying rows and rows of twine.
He handed Bran the scissors. “Here. Finish that one up. Tying up every inch of
its surface won’t improve it any.”
Bran took the scissors and the string away from the mother-strand and murmured,
“Thanks.”
It wasn’t until Jojen had finished his dumpling and moved on to start another
that he elaborated any further.
“Meera hates obligated time with family. She’s bad around mum in particular and
when the two of them are together, mum and dad, she’s worse.”
“Oh.”
Wrapping and plopping down this last bundle of his, Jojen leaned back with a
sigh to rub at his forehead with a rice-sticky hand.
Bran considered his latest attempt. It was still woefully bad compared to
Jojen’s, though not as bad as his first. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he
reminded himself. Jojen himself agrees with me.
Still though. Watching Jojen sat across from him, contemplating his own knees,
Bran didn’t feel exactly good. Not that he was guilty. But he did wish Jojen
could talk to him.
Logic may tell him otherwise but still. Still something inside his chest—in the
deep spaces thought couldn’t reach—something there felt selfish.
“Hey, man, if you wanna talk—”
Jojen fluttered out of his own private thoughts, quite alert quite fast.
“Bran. Thanks, mate. But I’m good.”
“I know. I was just—”
“Bro? Line. in. the sand.”
And so Bran was quick to nod, not arguing.
 
After that they’d had to hurry. What cousins the Reeds had close to King’s
Landing arrived first. Jojen’s parents set them to assisting both him and Bran
with the task of hiding all the dozens of bound-dumplings throughout the
grounds.
“This can’t be very hygienic,” Bran mumbled skeptically as he placed one of the
wrapped bundles at the foot of a tree.
But Jojen only claimed, “Survival is not hygienic,” as though that made any
sense.
He and his Crannog cousins insisted on including three or four trick dumplings
hidden amongst the lot, wrapped just like the others but containing within
their globs of rice some secret caviar. And again Jojen would hear none of
Bran’s objections, maintaining stubbornly, “If you can’t smell the difference
between smelly fish roe and rice then you haven’t truly hunted, have you?”
A trickle of guests had started by the time they were nearly done. Within an
hour, the trickle became a flood unti at last the party cruised well into full
swing.
When his parents arrived, Bran was shepherded over and made to shake hands with
Howland and re-hug Jyana as though it were his parents were introducing him.
Howland and Jyana enjoyed themselves in fanning over how much Bran and Jojen
had grown, the way parents loved to do, largely for Ned and Cat’s benefit. Bran
waited it out patiently, staring intentionally at either Howland or Jyana to
avoid interpreting anything that may or may not be there in the gaze of his
father.
Of course, Meera happened to parade by and was summarily summoned to come join
them.
As he figured she would though, Meera carried herself perfectly naturally. She
greeted the Starks and exchanged fond pleasantries, chatting warmly with his
folks. Nevertheless he felt a secret cringe when Meera moved from hugging his
mother hello to hugging his father, and Bran was glad he had not told her about
the spot of bother with Theon then.
 
 
It took longer for Bran to be dismissed than it did for Meera, for Meera had
other cousins and old friends she needed to catch up with.
When he finally was released, Bran trailed out back into the yard that opened
up to the expanse of the Reeds’ grounds. The land was slightly sloped,
bespeckled with random shrubs and the sparse beginnings of a wood. It was there
that Jojen was leading the vast swarms of children in the hunt or in their
play.
Bran participated by ways of generally lingering about. He hung back, leaning
against a tree to ‘observe’ (also known as party speak for stand around having
nothing to do), enjoying himself a beer that had been made nicely crisp by
bucket of ice it came from, refreshing to drink in the late autumn heat.
Besides the bottle of beer, he worked as well on a packet of crisps, taking it
turns to switch from one to the other.
Bran had considered the array of foods he’d found spread across three tables,
crammed in the back corner of the Reeds’ kitchen. All distinctly Crannog foods.
Roasted mushrooms, nuts, duck eggs—boiled or salted, duck wings, frog legs, red
bean paste, and propped up on a plate cushioned with reeds for tradition: a
healthy amount of sticky rice and caviar. Bran had surveyed the spread from a
bit of a distance, his lack of an appetite solidifying all the more. But below
the table he’d spied a pile of snacks more familiar to the rest of the Seven
Kingdoms and snatched from it the wee packet of crisps.
“Hunt your own dumplings,” Jojen was calling. “No stealing someone else’s once
they’ve found it.”
A younger girl shouted in return, “That’s not fair, then someone can just claim
‘em all with their eyes and not do a bit of work.” She was perched at the very
the foot of a tree, yanking her brother’s leg in an attempt to pull him down
while he was trying his best to kick her off.
Jojen muttered, “Eh, whatever,” though not loud enough for anyone to hear.
It was then Bran felt a quick poke on the shoulder. He turned to look, but the
blur which jabbed him had already dodged out around to his other side. “Oh,” he
said simply, greeted by her familiar happy grin. “Hello, Meera.”
It took no more than a second to see that, here in the outdoors and far from
her parents, Meera’s mood had lightened up and up to the point where it was
now. The clear and crystal sky of blue up above, dazzling as it maybe, paled
plain as day to the bright that Bran could see in the way Meera was smiling
now.
She eyed the plastic packet in his hands.
“Ah. I see you’re really branching out there with the food.”
“What? Oh, yeah.” He regarded the opened little bag of Golden Tooth Classic
Potato Crisps. Quite as generic as The Seven themselves. “I know. Blowing
everyone’s minds.”
Meera shrugged her shoulders together in an affable sort of way. A way which
struck Bran as rather—dare he say it?—cute. (He dare not, at least not to her,
as he didn’t think she much cared for that word.) “Enjoying the party?”
Without thinking he replied, “Yeah.” Then, perhaps to make up for the audible
lack of enthusiasm in his voice, he added in a smaller voice, “Good do.”
There was something about the twinkle in her eyes that suggested Meera had
followed every bit of that. Visited with him every station along the way his
train of thought.
She bounced a little on the balls of her feet, surveying the wide grounds with
less interest. Sardonic, she proposed, “Could probably use more guests though?”
When all Bran did was nod and eat another crisp, she nudged at him with the tip
of her shoulder. “Too small a crowd for you? Hate to slag it off, but alas it’s
no Nightfort?”
“To be honest,” Bran started in reply as he tried to step out of her shoulder’s
range, though she was making that difficult what with stepping on his foot to
root him to the spot. “Since Arya’s birthday, any party that doesn’t have
everyone’s entire family in attendance will inevitably be a let down. Do you
not have a few more cousins that could squeeze in? I’d hate to talk with you
without at least four family members present, it seems improper.”
Meera chuckled noiselessly.
The mention of Arya’s party jerked the more nervous side of Bran awake; only
belatedly did he realize the undertone to his joke. ‘How witty,’ he
congratulated himself wryly.
As though by obligation, his thoughts raced through at least one lap of all the
places he most did not want to go. Not right now at least. Places like the way
his body remembered what it was to feel Meera’s legs part and spread beneath
him. The satisfying pinch they made pressing on his sides. How lips and tongue,
mouth and chin found Meera’s secret sweet spot awash with wet. Undeniable
proof, real evidence.
Fuck off!
Inwardly Bran ordered that part of him, the part which seemed married to the
idea of self-sabotage, to sod off.
His eyes did another circuit of the party.
Meera was gracious enough to notice he was suddenly floundering and move him
past it. She joked lightly, “I’ll make sure that we get everyone here next
time.” And Bran nodded, grateful, almost lightheaded.
He continued to nod intently at his packet of crisps. Meera did her best not to
grin too hard. The humor welling behind her eyes was not unkind, though still
teasing of course.
“You know, it’s not sobad to get to know people you don’t know. We don’t bite.
Us from the Neck.”
Bran wrinkled his nose, disbelieving.
“Well, not all of us bite,” she conceded. “Only the best of us do.”
“That’s great.” Bran wiggled his foot out from under where she’d pinned him.
“Alright, maybe I’ll mingle. By the way, are your grandparents here? ‘Cause if
I can’t spend the rest of the afternoon getting a cross-examination from them,
then why have I even come?”
“It’s not that bad,” Meera insisted, voice full of laughter.
When Meera laughed, her face lit up. Both charmed and charming.
Should he allowed himself, he could have forgotten the rest of the party right
there. For at a smile indulgent as the one she’d given him just now, Bran could
easily occupy ten minutes to sit down and unpack everything he liked about it.
He could have forgotten about them, the others. Could have, but did not. The
surrounding noise of party goers filtered back into his ears.
He straightened up. However the more he tried to correct course, the more Meera
enjoyed steering them back astray, it would seem.
She wasn’t touching him anymore at least. Although it were as if she’d found a
way to make even that worse. He felt the space between them prickling at his
nerves. Maybe she was leaned in too close.
“To be honest Bran, I wouldn’t let my nan within three hundred yards of you.
She’s far too much a flirt. A right ol’ tart. I don’t need the competition.”
Bran was fairly confident there was absolutely nothing he could say to that. So
he went with, “Okay…” And when he realized all they were doing was smiling at
each other, he returned his attention to the sad little packet of crisps.
Her eyes must have followed his. Meera reached as though to take a crisp but
her hand waited, hovering for his permission. Bran gestured the bag onward and
so she helped herself, popping a crisp into her mouth and mumbling a crunchy
thanks.
“So what about you?” Bran asked after clearing his throat. She gave him her ear
while discretely licking at salty fingers on her lips. “It’s your holiday,
isn’t it? Having a good Hunter’s Moon?”
“Mm, having a right good time. It’s a banger, this one.”
“Hunted many a dumplings?”
Stealing another crisp, she said haughtily, “It’s been a fair few years since I
was too old for the hunt, Bran.”
“But I suppose you were the best?”
Meera mostly ignored that, instead looking Bran up and down. “I moved on to
finer game.”
“Come on, Meera.”
“Come on what?” Meera made a face. “That could be better phrased, I’ll grant
you.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“I’m doing what?” she insisted chuckling. “I’m not doing anything.”
“So that’s why you came over here, then?” Bran continued, undeterred. “To
nettle me?”
Meera paused, something sweet and far off about the sad smile that crossed her
face. “I’m not nettling,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you. I haven’t seen
you since your sister’s party.”
The calm in her voice could almost sound to some condescending though it
wasn’t; it was too soft.
‘I know,’ Bran thought. What he said was, “Yeah.” I haven’t seen you either. I
wanted to.
How ’s it been for you? I’ve been wondering…Just wondering, all the time.
Bran gave a sudden start when two screaming children ran past them.
Catching his flash of confused panic, Meera swallowed her grin, aiming it
towards the ground as ways of to be polite. Her eyes dwelled on Bran’s
forgotten beer by their feet. She snatched it up, drinking and surveying the
surrounding goings-on of the party.
From the corner of his eye, Bran watched her as she finished the little that
was left of his beer.
It was strange to catch the brown of Meera’s eyes in the afternoon sun. They
glowed. Beaming when struck by sunlight, shining like some earthy amber gem.
“You know, Bran,” Meera began after another sip. “You don’t have to follow
Jojen around the whole time.”
“I’m not.” He wasn’t. “There’s just…” Bran shrugged, not finding anything else
to do when he peered about the grounds. “I’m not big into the chore of keeping
up small talk with people you are only going to know for thirty minutes
anyways.”
“Howww sociable.”
He looked at her, chiding. And Meera looked at him, rejecting said chiding.
“Anyways, I wasn’t saying you have to do the whole ‘Hi, what’s your name?’
kinda thing.”
“What were you saying then?”
“I was saying if you’re bored, there’s other stuff to do.”
“Like what?”
Reclining against the tree, Meera stared up at him pointedly.
Stop that.“…Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You can’t mean…”
“Oh, can’t I?”
“Cut it out. You’re not—”
“Oh, aren’t I?”
Meera snickered. Even Bran, vexed as he was, gave in to just a small laugh,
getting to see Meera completely enjoying her own humor.
She glanced about them from side to side. “It’s not a bad idea though. This
party is going to drag on for ages. Yes, more for me than for you, but still
very long for you. You know, your parents are going to want to be one of the
last who leave.”
“…So?? However long the party may last does not change the fact that it’s a
party—one that is familial and—”
“That didn’t seem to stop you last time.”
“—and…Well, yes, but—”
“What’s good for the gander is good for the goose.” Meera nudged him now with
the butt of the beer bottle. The cool, wet glass upset the nerves of his skin,
over-warm. “And I might be thinking the goose wants her lay.”
“I…” How did they get there? “I feel like you’re throwing nursery rhymes at me.
Nursery rhymes that are potentially raunchy.”
“Well?” she asked grinning. “What do you say?”
“What do I say to what?”
“Wanna come upstairs with me?”
What?? “What?”
“What?”
“What are you talking about?” Bran grumbled in utter frustration, trying to
keep his voice low while he checked no one was standing too near them.
“What’s with all the innocence?” Meera asked sounding nonplussed. “I’m fairly
sure you’ve been in my room before, Bran. Some memories stick out more than
others.”
“Yeah but not while your family was here.”
“Ohhh. Was that the time it was my room but someone else’s family?”
Bran’s shoulders slumped forward which only made Meera cackle again.
“Is this what gets you off?” he muttered in a defeated sort of way. “Torturing
me?”
Meera crossed her arms, tucking the bottle below them. “I thought you knew what
gets me off.”
Those words in her voice by themselves would have made Bran go hot. But hearing
them while she stared him down, stared him down for true…
His heart and lungs failed their next beat. Then they spluttered back into
motion with a minor cough.
Bran spun his head from side to side, craning his neck, wanting to assure
himself no children were nearby. Nor anybody else, for that matter.
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Meera.” She raised her eyebrows at him, demure and coy all at once. “Meera,
come on…that’s not funny.”
“Maybe I’m not joking.”
“…I’m fairly sure you are.”
Her eyes narrowed as she breathed in, quite like she was losing her patience.
“I’m fairly certain I’m not.”
His throat felt hot. It was already too hot in the afternoon sun. Bran glanced
irritably to the side again and dropped his voice to a notch below a whisper,
barely discern able. “What was all that about keeping on the low? Not wanting
other people to come poking their nose round?”
Meera’s voice dropped down just as low to meet his, almost to a hiss. “I’m not
saying you mount me here on the hill.” He twisted to the side again and Meera
swung her hand out to wrench him back. “Could you look more conspicuous??” she
said, this time in a hiss for true.
“I’m not the one who’s conspicuous, you’re the one—”
“I’m not waving a flag of ‘hey-I-wanna-shag’ for everyone to see, Bran.”
“Where even—”
“My room, you lunk.”
“What, what—” Bran spluttered. Finally getting the words out, he asked quietly
and quickly, “What was all that about not wanting to mess things up or invite
other people in on what goes on—”
“Who is inviting anyone else into my bedroom? I’m talking about you and me
disappearing for thirty minutes.”
They stared at one another, each waiting pointedly for the other to see the
light.
“Meera—”
Bran gave a small yell when he felt a tug on the back of his trousers.
He spun round to find a little boy with eyes gone wide. The boy had tried to
ask, “Excuse me, mister?” loud enough to be heard but had been taken quite
unawares by the tall stranger’s rough reaction.
Behind Bran’s shoulder, Meera covered her face with a hand groaning low in
frustration.
“Um—uh—what?” Bran asked rather breathlessly.
But Meera cut ahead of him to crouch down to the boy’s height. “What is it,
Tobby?”
 
Meera saw to helping her cousin’s son retrieve a dumpling hidden too far off
the ground, tucked into a tree knot.
Bran used the time to catch his breath. Gain his bearings.
Turning, he caught it as Jojen distinctly looked away. Standing quite a ways
down the hill, guiding the littlest of the kids to where they might find a
dumpling if they hadn’t found one by now.
Bran swallowed.
And she had returned.
Scratching lightly at her chin, Meera mumbled, “How is it that I am so
attracted to you?” in a tone aiming at disbelief.
I don’t know.
She frowned, and sighed. “And you were right by the way. I was just teasing
you. Sorry.”
That gave Bran pause.
She continued, “Not a good joke. Well you know, it is. But not one of my better
ones.”
If there were anything that would make Bran think Meera had meant it, it would
be her saying that she hadn’t.
“Meera…” he tried tentatively. “Were you serious just now?”
“No.” When Bran looked unconvinced, Meera blinked and glanced away, turning to
tuck back one of the curly locks that framed her face. “I mean…if you were up
for it—but—it’s not—Really, I was just…”
She was actually being sincere? Hadn’t Meera thought his apartment a fifteen
minute cab ride away from a party had been too obvious? Now, she talking a room
a one minute walk away from a party? Not even—a room technically within the
party bounds. Here? Of all places?
“Meera, obviously it’s not like I don’t want to,” Bran said. “But I
mean…anytime would be better than now. Even if I—even if I had to do something
like sneak back here or—Or maybe you could sneak to my place? Do you want to
come to my place tonight?” The possibility dawned in his mind suddenly. Him and
Meera—cuddled together, wearing PJs, perhaps watching some funny video online
while they snuggled, winding down after a good long night of fucking.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Bran blurted out hopefully. The idea seemed amazing to him now. But
Meera only furrowed her brow.
“It’s the night of the hunter’s moon; I’m with my family tonight. We have to
watch the moon.”
“…You actually watch the moon?”
Meera’s hand flew up from behind her back to give Bran a clout behind the ear.
“Just for when it’s highest in the sky—”
“Ow.”
“Not the whole night, you idiot.”
“Me, idiot? I’m not the one watching the moon.”
She fidgeted, repositioning her feet, saying, “But you had the truth of it. It
was stupid.” Meera shook her head, hair flopping in the movement.
She made to leave so Bran’s hand flashed out to grab an arm. “Wait.” Don’t go.
With his hold on her, nearly pinning her arm to her chest, they—Bran and
Meera—had gotten closer. The space between them, thinner. They stood almost
face aligned with face.
He wanted to pull her closer. His fingers only loosened, so slow they almost
caressed her.
Meera made a sigh behind lips pressed tight together. “Really, I better get
back to socializing. Otherwise my mum will get more on my case. And she’s
already on my case.”
“No, forget what I said. Who listens to me??”
She smiled at him.
He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders. “I just spout off worries. It’s
not even real, they’re just a habit; Meera, I—”
Above all the separate murmurs of all the separate of conversations happening
in the Reeds’ backyards, a woman’s voice called out, “Meer-ra?”
Meera’s eyes darted past him, back towards the house, to where her mother stood
with one foot out the back doors. “Oh, fuck.” She muttered in an undertone, “I
gotta go,” her arm sliding beneath his outstretched hand.
 
It was probably for the best.
Maybe they would have decided to go. And Meera’s mum would have found and
summoned her all the same. Maybe Bran wouldn’t even know, if they’d moved
separately. And he would be left alone in her room, quite hot and bothered,
waiting.
‘Yeah, well,’ Bran thought bitterly, ‘it’s not like much’s improved now
anyways.’
Thankfully no one would be able to notice with his jeans but just as the
thought of being with Meera again, blooming unexpectedly, had him stiffened
half-hard already inside his trousers.
He kicked at the dirt below his feet. He’d just had to say something, had to
make a fuss…
Nice one, Bran.
 
 
“Over there. Over there.”
“Where, Morya?”
“Right here. Can’t you see it? You can’t see from up there.”
“You’re right.”
Jojen crouched down with his bare feet flat on the grassy undergrowth. His
cousin Morya, a girl of four or five with the same dirty blond hair, was
pointing at the space below a clump of bushes. Jojen squinted and found the
rice dumpling he’d placed there a couple of hours ago.
He reached through the branches and pulled it out, exclaiming in a loud voice,
“You found it!”
After his ‘catch-up’ with Meera, Bran hadn’t felt like making forced small talk
with the Crannog cousins. Which meant he stuck around whatever it was Jojen was
doing. Feigning nonchalance, Bran had moseyed over to where the guests and
children were more clustered. He watched Jojen conducting the children’s
festivities again, helping out when Jojen pointed at him to help out. That
meant playing with the younger children, but he was mostly successful in
avoiding actually doing too much of that as he was in a less than stellar mood.
Though Morya was sweet enough.
Jojen didn’t appear to be overflowing with enthusiasm at having Bran’s
unproductive presence back. But luckily his dark mood lifted, though only after
it was Jojen spontaneously nailed Bran in the back of his head with a misshapen
dumpling as Bran was turned away, opening a soda bottle for one of the little
girls, coincidentally sending the girls diving for cover screaming and
giggling.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jojen quipped innocently while Bran ran a hand
through his hair, dislodging sticky rice. “It’s a hunt. What’s a hunt without a
bit of sport?”
Very conveniently in Bran’s opinion, Jojen hastily found it very important to
the children’s safety that everyone avoid the onset of a full-on rice-ball
fight. But he had stopped frowning at least so Bran decided to let it go,
however disgruntled.
And it served to free Bran up nicely from feeling obligated to continue
pretending to be of use. He laid out on one of the flatter stretches of grass,
reclining back on his arms, his eyes closed as he let the sunshine wash over
him. Little Morya must have thought he had the right idea, for she came to join
him.
Bran had long past given up trying to keep his feet or trousers clean. Whatever
earth that had been damp enough to cling him clung to him and a mild sheen of
sweat caught here and there on his back and arms. It was a nice day to be sure,
most likely to be one of last truly warm days in the southern autumn, and Bran
liked how the air was warm without the oppressive heat of summer. He did not
miss the misery of true summer sweat either.
Most of the other kids stopped searching after scarfing down two or three of
the dumplings they found, occasionally one crying out in disgust if they
happened to do so without detecting theirs was a trick one. Little Morya hadn’t
eaten any however, only intent on hunting down the most.
“How many dumplings have you found?” Bran asked of her.
“Almost all of them.”
“All of them?” And when she nodded, he praised, “That is a lot,” which seemed
to please her.
“I haven’t found any bog fairies though.”
“Bog fairies?” Bran peeked one eye open, squinting at her through the sunshine.
“What are bog fairies?”
The little girl stared at Bran as if he’d started speaking in Valyrian. Next
she hollered out for Jojen. “Jojennn.”
Jojen jumped down from a nearby tree having just retrieved what was left of a
dumpling. One of his young cousins had found it and another had promptly stolen
it and sent it hurtling away high into the air, out of spite in some argument
between the two.
“What?” he hollered back as he handed the remains to the teary boy beside him,
still refusing to be consoled.
“Why doesn’t Bran know about bog fairies?” Morya asked.
“I don’t know.” Jojen smacked his hands free of tree bark as he walked over to
them. Bran noted he was panting and slightly out of breath. “Why don’t you know
about bog fairies, Bran?”
Bog fairies must have been a folk legend of the Neck, akin to snarks or to
grumpkins. Not being from the Neck, Bran had never gone searching for bog
fairies. He did though, as a child, go exploring with his siblings, clinging
onto Sansa’s hand for protection, scouring the woods behind their house high
and low, searching for a sign of the children of the forest.
Bran switched his squinting eye from one to the other, now trained on Jojen.
“Meera wouldn’t be happy to know you’ve been climbing up and leaping off
trees.”
“I am not Meera’s keeper,” Jojen told him, not for the first time. “And Meera
is not my keeper.”
Bran decided not to argue, for what seemed the seventeenth time that day. But
Jojen being Jojen, he picked up on Bran’s unconvinced-ness anyways. He sat down
on Morya’s other side looking miffed, muttering something under his breath.
Whatever he was saying was going more unsaid than said but Bran thought he
heard an ‘exactly’ and ‘my ass’ in there somewhere.
Between them Morya was humming to herself. She snuck in a secretive glance at
Bran before stretching over to whisper something into Jojen’s ear, shielding
the exchange with her hand. Jojen bent to listen. And listeing, he fixed Bran
with a look which suggested he might have just bitten into one of the trick
dumplings.
Jojen said in a whisper made plainly audible, “Handsome? Morya, are your eyes
working okay? Do you need to go to the doctor?”
Little Morya shook her head and put her hand up again, continuing to whisper.
Bran watched them patiently, squinting in the direct line of sunlight as Jojen
continued to make a face.
“Are you sure?” he whispered loudly. “Are you sure Bran doesn’t have a horse
face?”
“Nope,” she declared quite confidently, forgetting to whisper.
“Morya,” Bran asked and the girl shot her attention over to him. “Do you think
your cousin has a frog face?”
“No,” she repeated just as confident. “Jojen’s handsome too. He’s not like
Addison.”
“Yeah!” Jojen agreed, jumping at the chance to mock his cousin Addison, who was
only older than Jojen by a year though he liked to act as though it were ten.
“Addison’s not like us. Fu-uuahhh—mmn.”
Bran sat up and said dryly, “Nice save.”
Jojen gave Bran a sarcastic smile. Next, seemingly deciding Morya had grown too
quiet, he sprang forward without warning to grab her about the stomach with
fingers tickling.
With all the determination of a panicked squirrel Morya squirmed free and ran
off, shrieking. And Jojen tore after her, leaving Bran smiling to himself in
the sun.
The smile disappeared when he peered down at his trouser pocket, which had
started buzzing.
     13:14; Meera
     You look like you’re having fun
Bran swiveled from side to side. All he found were distinctly non-Meera guests.
     13:15; Meera
     Not a very good hunter tho
     Can’t find nothing
To one side of the Reed’s grounds, Jojen was still chasing a squealing Morya,
mostly letting her outstrip him, sometimes being outstripped for real as she
went weaving in and out the clusters of chatting adults. A group of teenagers
stood around a tub of drinks to the other side, drinking sodas and conversing
self-consciously.
Bran craned his neck inspecting the far corners or obscured patches in his view
but the only brown curls he found belonged to men and women who were still not
Meera.
     13:15; Bran
     What are you doing? Stop being weird.
     13:16; Meera
     Those who can’t hunt soon become the prey
He rose to stand.
Bran stared about the yard with a growing wild determination. That was, until
he noticed a few of the teens close by watching him out of the corner of their
eye. Pff. Teenagers.
     13:16; Meera
     Hehehhe
     Adorable
     Like a pup who can’t catch a laser beam
Reading that, he almost growled.
     13:17; Meera
     Up, dummy
So Bran’s eyes roamed up. Combing over the second floor of the house, he
finally found Meera standing behind one of the closed windows.
She waved. And, from where Bran still stood down below, his eyes narrowed.
Is that her room? Her room is there?  Bran supposed he’d only been in her room
once or twice…somehow he’d been too distracted to enjoy the view.
     13:18; Bran
     I will remind you I am a guest.
     13:18; Meera
     Yeah right
     You’re no guest
Jojen made little roars, sending Morya into great hysterics, making her run
faster both terrified and giggling.
     13:19; Bran
     You slipped away then?
     13:19; Meera
     No I’m downstairs still making the rounds
     Of course I slipped away what do you think?
     Are you coming up or not?
‘Didn’t you promise your father you’d heed discretion not just a few weeks
ago?’ a voice inside Bran’s head posited sounding oddly like Sansa, or perhaps
Talisa.
Shut up, you.
‘Great,’ Bran thought. ‘Argue with yourself like a crazy person. Solid decision
making.’ What would Robb do? What would Summer do?
He didn’t need to think about what his father would do—that point was moot. His
father never did anything. Anything he wasn’t obligated to do for that matter.
‘Constant vigilance, constant discretion.’ That was just another way to say sit
still and be brooding.
Bran chewed the inside of his lip.
‘It is not without reason we teach you discretion. There are some things that
are private,’ his father had told him.
His father had also told him the only time a man could be brave was when he was
afraid. And right now he felt afraid. But more—excited. His heart was drumming
faster as though revving up on a runway. He musn’t get too excited, lest his
heart burst inside his chest and spoil the fun before any fun was even had.
He glanced up once more. Meera was watching him, her head propped up by her
arms resting on the windowsill. She yawned pointedly.
I must be brave, like Robb.
That wasn’t exactly Talisa’s advice when she had spoke with him. When she and
Bran had had their small but soft heart-to-heart.
But I am not Talisa. Robb, Summer, Theon, everyone—sod them. What would I do?
     13:21; Bran
     Do you want me to?
     13:21; Meera
     Oh my fucking god
     Okay here
Meera made a signal, beckoning him to keep his eyes on her. Bran resisted the
urge to check on Jojen again. He tried at least to appear as though he were not
speaking intimately with someone half a hundred feet away, making the small
effort to appear instead as though he’d simply decided to stare up at the sky
for a few minutes at a weird angle.
She checked the grounds from side to side. Then Meera was bending at the waist,
mostly disappearing from view. She was fidgeting or shuffling, or doing
something rather around her feet. When she straightened back up, she tossed her
head back clearing from her face the curls that had fallen forward.
Bran had just about had enough. Staring this long—he was convinced that in a
couple of seconds his father, the feared and admired Eddard Stark, would emerge
from the shadows of the house glowering.
He’d have to go inside and explain it all to Meera, through texts to be sure—he
couldn’t go upstairs. He couldn’t make up his mind but wherever his mind was at
now, he was almost somewhat sure that was the right one. The right decision.
She smiled at him. And something about the gleam in the way her eyes shined
made him remain where he was. Grinning, pleased with herself, Meera waved at
him again. Only this time something came up with her hand, and Bran saw. There,
clutched between two bunched fingers, was a pair of tacky white and purple
shorts.
 
***** House Reed Party (II) *****
Chapter Summary
     Talisa – 28. Robb, Jon – 27. Theon – 26. Meera – 25. Sansa – 24. Arya
     – 23. Jojen, Bran – 22. Rickon – 18.
     Mood: Fenne Lily – What's Good
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
THE_DAY_OF_THE_HARVEST_MOON
House_Reed
He ran his fingers through his hair.
Here goes.
He took the first step down. The rest of the stairs followed easier. People
were moving about the living room, about the house—everywhere. Everywhere he
looked, there were people. And they are moving just like me, so no more
fretting. Enough now. Bran was returning from the bathroom upstairs just like
any other person. That was the truth, so far as anyone else had to know.
Perched above the bottom stair he scanned the Reed’s living room, but alas a
bit too fast and barely saw anything.
He supposed he ought to find Jojen. Better yet, he should go and float near
bouts the food and then find Jojen. Maybe he’d bring them both beers or a
packet of crisps.
But that happy plan was not meant to be. In their survey of the room, Bran’s
eyes passed right over to the far corner. There the Reeds had shoved the sofa
and crammed in front of it the television set as well. Sat there with his arms
crossed, surrounded by a hoard of children, was Jojen.
Jojen, with his irritating knack for noticing everything, he had already found
Bran.
Up along the stairs, Bran faltered. The two boys stared at one another—Jojen,
surrounded by the hoard of kids, all their round young faces rapt to the glow
from the television. His jaw grew unnaturally tight but elsewise Jojen made no
move other than to return to watching whatever it was all his cousins were
watching, little Morya among them.
Head down, Bran shuffled over to them. He had to weave his way through children
sprawled out before the sofa, and then to wedge himself in between the armrest
and Jojen, who in tight-lipped stubbornness was proving difficult to budge.
Budge he did, eventually, enough so that Bran managed to embed himself in what
little space was left. Were he truly lucky, Bran would be able to sink right
into the sofa cushions and disappear. Whatever interest he’d had in attending
the party had melted away entirely, and that had been little enough.
Neither Jojen nor Bran spoke.  It took Bran a good few minutes to even realize
what it was he was watching. They’d turned on a film. Apparently one featuring
lots of loud bangs and jarring bursts of soundtrack. A mindless movie but one
that the children liked. It made them break out into giggles and ask questions
among themselves, such like ‘what made Pig Boy scream like that?’
Bran cleared his throat and crossed his arms, much like Jojen. To break the ice
he grumbled a cursory, “Alright?”
Jojen, eyes still fixed on the TV and jaw working silently, did not deign to
make a reply. Not until he reeled his arm in one abrupt motion to send it
punching down at Bran’s shoulder.
Bran yelped. Cramped together as they were, it had not been a real punch, not
truly. Jojen didn’t have the space. But still, he had done what he could.
The spot where Jojen had punched him smarting considerably, Bran snapped,
“What’s your problem?”
Morya, who had turned her head to stare curiously at the boys, snapped away
again as the TV recalled the kids’ attention with another loud bang. Deafening
zaniness ensued.
“You’re my problem,” Jojen growled back, a low murmur.              
Bran rubbed at his shoulder, frowning.
I’ll let him have that one, but just the one. He takes another swing and I will
hit him back. I will. Neither he nor Meera can blame on me for that.
Bran was not so certain about that last part though. Meera, he’d found, could
put blame wherever it was needed when it came to protecting Jojen.
Not that Bran thought that was exactly fair. But even so, he knew he was
already unduly pushing his luck. So he stayed silent. And in his silence Bran
sent a prayer to the gods, both the old and the new, that the party’s end come
quickly.
 
Unfortunately for him, the house party insisted on petering out over the
entirety of the afternoon. Eventually even cartoons lost the children’s
interest. They became fussy, and Bran with them, though he kept that to
himself.
But unlike Bran, the Crannog children were not one of the Reeds’ closest
friends and they were not expected to remain the whole duration. By 3:00pm,
they’d started to dwindle. Not Bran.
His own parents would not leave until near the very end. He watched them from
the sofa, sulking, his arms folded bound tight around his chest. Eddard and
Catyln stood chatting with the Reeds and other Northern or friendly families.
Sipping and chuckling over the trivial jibber jabber of adults. Acquisitions or
renovations. The riveting antics of some nutty VP of some former partner. What
a shame it was, so-and-so’s husband’s mother’s illness. It was endless.
 
The sun hung low in the sky by the time Ned and Catelyn seemed finally willing
to depart. Bran waited for them, hanging back on the gravel driveway before the
Reed’s house. Cars littered the grounds, parked on driveway or grass, or
spilling out to the adjoining street. The four adults were wrapping up their
goodbyes before his parents’ SUV. Chatting, for a change.
Bloody endless.
Bran stared about listlessly at the surrounding trees. He took to rubbing his
arms though the evening was pleasant. He couldn’t make sense of the day. The
two parts had been so different. A hundred things he’d meant to say. Between
the private space in Meera’s bedroom and the public space of Meera’s living the
room, the enormity of difference was such that they might as well have been
separated by train than by a flight of stairs.
It felt wrong. Leaving the party, without saying goodbye to Meera. Yes, they
had agreed not to seek each other out for the rest of the party. But he hadn’t
even seen her.
Not that he had been specifically on the lookout. He had, but that was not the
point. For the party’s remainder Bran had not much left the sanctuary of the
living room’s far corner, apart from one excruciating moment when called upon
to speak with the parents, all four of them. And that had been uncomfortable
enough.
He listened to the chorus of crickets and the familiar prattle of his and
Meera’s parents’ voices. Bran revolved on a foot, slow, and chanced to glance
back at the house.
His eyes fell on her. There must have been a dozen people in view, people
outside the house or those visible through the windows, yet his eyes found hers
as though Meera stood in an empty room. It was her curls; he’d know them
anywhere.
She’d been contemplating him from behind the bay window, leaned up on its frame
as remaining partygoers milled about behind her. The directness of his stare
had almost startled her. Her mouth parted in a muted expression of soft
surprise.
Bran’s face lit up. A flash of relief washed over him as pure reflex. He’d
found her; they could say their goodbyes.
The relief though, which had swelled so unexpectedly, began to wane. They were
still in public after all, not to mention in view of both sets of parents.
Spotting her one last time probably changed nothing.
But he was glad to see her one last time, even if it was only at a distance.
Meera would see him leave. She wouldn’t be left to come to conclusion on her
own an hour or so later.
Back inside the house, Meera lifted a small hand from where her arms were
crossed across her chest. She gave him a subdued wave with her fingers. ‘Bye.’
Bran did not wave back; he couldn’t. The smile he gave her in its stead was a
complicated one.
Upstairs in her room, when she’d been on him and she was all he could feel or
see, he’d been happy. Happy to stare up at brown eyes and see their every
detail like melted chocolate, all the microscopic canons and valleys. But out
here the sun was disappearing behind the trees. He could not even tell that her
eyes were brown. He could only tell where her eyes were looking. And
maybe…something of the expression behind them.
He heard his mother’s voice. “Bran.”
Barely turning his head, Bran had not looked away from her yet. Somewhere over
his shoulder their parents were wrapping up farewells and well-wishing. This
was it.
He gave her one last small smile. One which Meera returned, small as well.
And then he turned, and joined his parents.
 
Meera’s_room,_again
A hundred things he’d meant to say. ‘Are you having a laugh?’ ‘No, let’s not.’
‘You’re having a laugh—you are; stop it.’
Practiced words resurfaced once or twice, and were promptly tossed aside.
Trifling words.
It could have been song seven-hundred-and-thirty in the never ending playlist
of Bran’s favorite daydreams. And his head was so full of her, it was almost
hard to be sure. Meera’s noises were soft but coming fast. Her hands were more
than familiar with him, wonderfully. They ran over his arms and up his back
with a determined certainty. A dream it might have been, if not for the strain
in her touch, the anxiousness that bordered on brusque.
This was better. Even if they were dizzy from going too fast, even if every
sweet noise of relief required mental reprimand, this was better. Far and
forever and impossibly better.
He was touching her. Hands dragging up her sides. Letting her mouth explore him
again, lay claim to him again.
There was that distant buzzing of course. A grating, distant buzz for concerns
and logical thinking, present mostly in form of the general backdrop—a jumble
of voices and the dozens and dozens of feet downstairs. Laughs and cheers from
somewhere not here. Outside perhaps. Though none so loud to quell the need that
was spreading now, now that it had quickened. It coursed through the both of
them, from one into the other. Coursing through veins and through breath, they
felt it lurch and sway as they got lost, caught in a feedback loop.
Meera pulled back. They broke apart and heard the rasp of their heavy
breathing.
Blinking, he stared down at her. Meera’s lips were swollen. Messy. She looked
good like that. He blinked and then he smiled, content to contemplate Meera and
her daring while she licked her lips and caught her breath below. Her arms
crushed in the space between them, fingers bracing to his arm.
Meera and her brown eyes, aglow with play and perhaps a little curiosity. More
than aglow—brown eyes blazing. Her legs jut up from the flat of the mattress to
pinch in about his sides, securing him at the hips. Bran liked the feel of
them, the squeeze.
Even positioned as they were, she managed to snake a hand round his ear.
Fingers playing and tugging him towards her.
If he kissed her for longer, her lips would become more swollen and her mouth
more messy.
So he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers. Meera closed her eyes, and
opened to him.
Her thighs stretched until Bran fit between them as if she meant for him to
fuck her then, now, driving him mad. As if there remained no pants, no heavy
jeans between them.
They went faster. The way Bran was lying on top of her, Meera had only to lift
her hips, which she did, Bran rutting. It was all too much. The indifference on
denim was not enough to block it out. Bran could sense, as could the aching in
his cock, the soft impression of skin. Of Meera plush and ready for him, masked
in nothing more than a black pair of knickers beautifully plain. The air in his
lungs was driven out in a carnal grunt he failed to stifle.
That was when it happened. A floorboard creaked outside the room.
‘Nope,’ was all he thought. Meera’s head whipped down to gape at the door.
Elsewise they froze. Not moving. Meera wasn’t even breathing. Surely…this was a
jape.
Bran closed his eyes, dwelling internally (and self-indulgently) that his life
was not much more than one big jape. A joke made by gods of cruel humors.
 
In truth, the moment he’d first made it to the room had been a tad glorious.
That moment when he’d dashed inside and locked the door, spun round.
Each passing year of this trial-run go at a life of his brought with it the
possibility of moments. Moments that could or should be. Moments of play, of
fun and fancy or of hijinks and adventures. Anecdotes greatly needed to build a
repertoire, lest Bran be asked to relay a story from his life only to be forced
to the reveal that he had never lived one. Each year brought the potential, and
each year took with it another couple hundred moments unplayed in its passing.
A repertoire of next-times and next-years. Well, this would not be one of them.
Bran’s hand had still been gripped tight around the doorknob while he drank in
the sight before him. Across the room, bold as you please, Meera had stood with
nothing but her t-shirt and a pair of black knickers. And the wink she could
not help but to toss him.
They stood there for quite some time, delighting in their own cleverness. He
considered the prospect they made. Meera, proud of herself in her knickers, and
him with his cock embarrassingly hard and heavy inside his trousers.
Bran was glad to be young. Glad, grateful, that he was young and that so was
she, and that they had this chance to be young together. You couldn’t be young
and stupid forever.
 
Atop her bed, Bran and Meera waited. Unmoving.
Up until now, the party going on downstairs had been only a general blanket of
noise, much to their convenience. But now. Now they could hear its layers.
There were shallows here on the upper floor. Little pockets of silence. Pockets
of silence in which Bran and Meera heard someone walk across a floorboard
outside her room. If they could hear them, whoever was outside…
Meera’s head snapped to the left, listening as they heard a far off door shut
in that direction. She whispered, “That’s the bathroom.”
A beat passed, then another.
He swallowed. He felt waves of dizziness trying to get at him, and his throat
was dry. His insides though were sinking like lead.
“Bran?”
Head drooping, he let himself concentrate on a spot above Meera’s shoulders.
Above the way her shoulders curved, cradled as they were by Bran’s hand behind
them. It had to be asked, so he forced himself of it. “What are we doing?”
“We’re doing…what we’ve always been doing,” Meera said, still whispers. She
whipped up a smile chock-full of confidence that was out of place.
Bran stifled the almost-laugh it brought out in him.
“No, I mean it. What are we doing?”
“They didn’t hear.”
He’d begun to sigh but she grabbed him suddenly, a hand to either ear. Pulled
him down near to where his lips brushed hers—brow to brow, nose to nose. Bran
wouldn’t meet her gaze, deliberating blinking. His eyes stung as though they
suddenly thought the room too hot. Though that might have been because of how
he was perched above her now, awkward—his elbows jutting into the mattress. It
hurt.
With his head in her hands, Meera gave him a little shake. And this time he did
laugh, despite himself. “They didn’t hear,” she said again.
A pause while they heard the distant flush of a toilet. Next the plumbing
within the walls began to hum.
Continuing in whispers, Meera’s words tumbled over one another in her haste.
“Bran, you’re here. And that person doesn’t know what they heard. There’s more
noises out there than in here. And whoever they are, unless they’re Jojen,
hasn’t the faintest idea you could be in here.”
Gods, I hope it isn’t Jojen.Jojen hated the idea already enough. He didn’t need
to hear Bran grunt.
She closed her eyes to give the smallest hint of shaking her head. “It’s not
Jojen. He wouldn’t go through the pretense of using the loo as an excuse, would
he?”
It was not only Jojen who could know. Not that Meera was aware, but Eddard
Stark also knew. But the thought didn’t trouble Bran. His father was not much
for pretense either.
They heard vague creaking again of floorboards. The person was heading back
downstairs.
Meera—she looked so good in the afternoon sun—her eyes were bright, searching
him earnestly. She brushed back his hair from his face. No one ever touched him
as tenderly as Meera did.
“And I’m not just saying all that just ‘cause I want to shag you either.
Obviously I do—I do want that—but that’s not the point.”
All he’d thought of for the last month…
“Emo Boy, hurry up,” she said smiling and complaining. “Just let me know what
you want to do. If it’s not right now, I’ll pitch myself out the window. Nah, I
won’t. I’ll wait until tonight and then I’ll pitch myself out the window.”
She pinched his nose, which he tried to resent.
“Hey,” she started hopefully, “maybe it’ll work out so that we can do it
sometime in the next coming weeks. Maybe I’ll give you train fare for the way
to High Garden.”
“I don’t need you paying me.”
Meera was already looking off into her picture of the future, eyes sparkling.
“Think about it. I can set you up in a grand apartment at the top of a high
rise. ‘A love nest,’ if you will—”
“—won’t—”
“Well cared for. The finest establishments only for my courtesan. Isn’t that
what you wanted to be when you were a kid?”
“A knight,” Bran corrected, frowning. She shrugged. He felt her chest bump
against him when she did.
“Same difference, swearing your lance to some smarmy highborn.”
It was hard to sulk with Meera. She was always cheeky. “Knights don’t swear
their lance to crazy Crannog women.” He dropped his voice, then his face. Lips
pressed onto the hollow of her neck.
“That’s highborn crazy Crannog woman to you,” Meera said, stubborn, squirming a
little.
Bran kissed and sucked at the salt of her sweat from the sun. You literally
taste like sunshine, he thought licking at her, tasting, feeling drunk on her
scent. Breathing against her neck between kisses he murmured, “Were I a knight,
would you give me your favor to tie about my lance?”
“I dunno.” She tried to fight an embarrassed smirk as he shifted over her. “I’d
have to see you tilt.” Bran tilted her head back, pushing his body down,
covering, draping hers as with lips and tongue he opened her to him.
Meera’s hips lifted again to meet him. He’d had his fill of friction.
All business, he swerved off her. Hooked two fingers round the waistband of her
pants to slide them down. She helped, her unevenly tanned legs extending and
retreating out the pants before he tossed them away out into the ether.
She slunk closer—visibly smaller, the pink in her cheeks pinker. Meera tucked
herself as close to Bran as she could get in an effort to hide her sudden
nakedness beneath him.
He had to look; he had to see. Her legs, her thighs. The untouched skin beneath
her hips. The little tuft of hair. Chestnut, the same color as his favorite
curls.
Her eyes burning; chest rising, falling fast. She was so—she was his—
But before Bran could fall back on top of her, Meera hissed, “Wait.”
She began to twist, managing to rise up onto all fours before climbing to her
knees. “Sit here,” she said, leaning to pat a stretch of bed behind her along
the wall. Her legs—her ass. Smooth curves, plain for view. Her skin would do
well with a good kneading.
“What?” Bran asked, forgetting to check Meera’s face.
“Sit here,” she said again and with considerable less patience. Seizing Bran
about the collar, Meera dragged him. He fumbled, falling lopsided, only
managing to scoot himself backwards per buffeting insistence.
She crowded up to him. Bran glanced down to see what she was doing. Her fingers
were clumsy. She was more bullying the flap undone than unzipping. Hands
unsteady, mind empty, Bran shrugged her off. He pulled the opening of his jeans
wider, hitched up his waist, and dragged the heavy jeans down towards his
knees. Movement a little too fast, too dizzy. There was an initial snag, and
then his cock sprung free to stand stiff and upright. For her; it was for her.
Only time enough for half a thought, he used it to contemplate the undignified
nature of an erection, crude and dumb-looking in the daylight, before he
realized Meera was climbing on top of him. She’d dragged his jeans past his
knees, beyond that could not be bothered. It gave him a partly bound feel, he
tried to jangle his legs looser, but that bumped her ass on his lap, he didn’t
need that. He knew what the lads had started calling Roger Ryswell after it
became known he’d jizzed on Eddara Tallhart’s knee.
Her legs naked, locking her knees tight to his sides, touching the wall. He
could not register what seemed to be happening around him. He looked and saw
her thighs and the spry wisp of hair between them. Unveiled and plain and
lovely to behold. Mouth open, his hand traced up her waist. He his thumb
against her.
Bran choked on his lust. He had forgotten, somehow, how good a woman’s wet
could feel. Slicker than water. Slicker than anything had the right to be.
Meera swat his hand away and he lifted his head, confused.
She was getting ready. They’d have to go quickly.
The sounds of downstairs’ party had lost its layers. It’d turned back into
blasé backdrop. What Bran heard now was Meera’s uneven, shallow breathing. His
own blood pounding.
She rushed forward to kiss him, withdrawing much too fast and leaving Bran’s
mouth open, dazed. She ducked her face just past his, her breath tickling the
skin below his ear. And she sank down.
Meera sank onto him, pushing him up, driving him up as he filled her. Bran bit
his lip to keep quiet.
Walls of wet, plush heat, constricting. Further and further down she took him,
every inch, until her thighs pushed hard against his lap and he drowned in the
richness of the weight.
Maybe it was for the angle they had not yet tried together. Maybe it was
because they’d skipped most of foreplay or that Meera was nervous; this time
and place being no one’s first choice. But as she sank his cock pushing up, up
nearly straight into her, the squeeze of her gorgeous, dearest cunt felt a
million times tighter than he could have remembered. A million times for a
million nerves.
Then, Meera began to ride him.
Bran screwed his eyes shut, and submitted to the unbearable pleasure of it all.
Covering him with her slightly smaller self, Meera rolled her hips, working him
into her, against her walls.
Her arm wrapped around his shoulders for leverage. Experimenting with the
angle, feeling changes, working the thick swell of him. Again, and again
differently, more painful and more dear. Somehow fuller so that Bran had to
quell angry waves of desire to grab her ass, make her ride him faster, and try,
try, to make her understand just how truly impossibly gorgeous of a thing she
was.
Rogue locks of curly hair swung back and forth onto his face. Not even moving,
he was sweating. He put his hands to her waist, to their curve.
Bran clutched at her shoulders, her arms. He swallowed groans, groans that
might have given relief to the unremitting pleasure coiling at the pit of his
stomach. More, they must have more. Feel it as she took all of him, again and
again.Let them work together like this for an hour, then return. Would that be
too long a time? Why did people have to be so goddamned nosy?
It was fast and rushed. Clothes and skin with soft sweat. Her hands in his
hair. Half-whispers mumbled, shared between them. His head rolled back to where
it hit the wall. That was uncomfortable. That was good, he could cling to that.
Bran’s lap was getting wet, his skin glossy from a mess of their own making.
Again Bran closed his eyes. He wanted to watch her; he couldn’t. The grip on
her hips grew tight.
 “Please don’t stop.”Voice was alarmingly feeble.
She hummed angrily, pace kicking up. She rode him full to gallop; Bran thought
he heard the bed making noises.
He buried his face on her chest, to the cotton of shirt.
If they were unbothered and truly alone, he could lift her shirt up off her.
She would be bared, as well as spread, across his lap. He’d knead her skin like
dough and she would whimper. He could press his lips onto her chest, kissing,
and take into his mouth her nipple to suck. For who then could say they had no
claim to one another?
Her weight. Her weight landing on him and lifting off again sent pain and
pleasure shooting up, balls to brain. He groaned, head falling forward, then
backward. He tried to remember whatever it was they had to remember about
volume.         
He tried, bit back another groan. He tried, he did, but the way she used her
weight on him was maddening.
Meera tutted, her eyes snapping open. “You need to behave and hush up.”
He was trying. Sweat beaded on his brow, along the back of his neck for how
hard he was trying. Out of breath, Bran gasped, “I’m sorry,” leaning up close
to her. His smile dumb and daft below hers. Her pupils were wide.
She screwed up her face. Then Meera seized hold of Bran by his hair. She
anchored herself, and bucked her waist up and up, dragging his length inside
her in wild circles. He hissed curses. His hands were slipping—unsure whether
to dig at the mattress or grip her small waist to steady him. Lost.
“Fuck.”
“God.” The way her voice was high, sounded like breaking. He wanted to take her
voice and live in it. “God, oh god, oh—”
I’m going to come, Bran realized. I’m going to come, I’m going to, I can’t stop
it. Panicking, mere seconds at bay, he only thought, help me. Someone did.
Meera’s silence broke into a moan, one which grew louder and more real breath
by breath in spite of herself. She was moaning and moaning, her eyes shut
tight. She sounded so good. It sounded so good, it was impossible not to mimic.
He was almost moaning too—a barely contained, low building reflex of call and
response. His cock pulsed, jerking inside her, her heat and her moans
compounding it all. All at once she convulsed, he felt muscles around him
convulse. And Bran exploded.
All his restraint poured out from him in a groan. He gave himself to her shot
after shot. Fingers dug like iron into the flesh of her waist as he came noisy.
Brilliant Meera pumping them through it.
She wanted to go louder. So did he. They both knew and unknew the rule of being
silent; they were trapped.
So Meera caught his open mouth in a kiss, crushing forward onto him. He surged
up to meet her. He did generally not prefer coming while distracted by a kiss.
But not for this. This was nothing but harmony. It was a perfect moment.
The next moment, less so. As could only be expected.
They came back down to earth, to King’s Landing, to that godsforsaken House
Reed party. But it was not so bad. Meera was letting out the remains of her
pleasure in laughs. Bran toyed with her hair, the hair dangling in front of
him.
They knew that soon they would have to rush. Meera would sneak back to the
party busily and Bran would linger here to stagger the reappearances. And then
he, too, would trundle off downstairs. But the moment after the next moment.
They’d take a second just to savor.
Meera wiped Bran’s cheek for him. Quiet, like she didn’t want her empty room to
hear, she bid him promise they would do this again.
He had to soak up the images of the different shades of brown her eyes were in
the sunlight. Bran nodded, their faces close together. “I promise.”
 
Bran’s_apartment
Finally alone in the sanctuary of his apartment, Bran faced the stillness of
the flat and sighed a great long sigh.
Wriggling free from his shoes, he kicked them off to the closet to await his
return. He tossed keys and wallet aside, wiped his brow, and wondered if he
might like a shower. A rinse at least?
The rinse would have to wait. Too drained even to get ready for bed, Bran went
for the fridge instead and snatched from it a new bottle of beer. He’d finish
the day with a nightcap. He ought to have earned that after all.
Bran rubbed his eyes. The apartment lights were bothering him.
My head is full of beers. What I need is water.
That, or food. Bran hadn’t thought much of that Crannog food. And he’d seen
enough sticky rice to last him a lifetime.
As he passed the bathroom hall, he gave the light switch a clap. White fell
away to the greys and blues of an unlit apartment cast in shadows. That’s
better.
What light remained was better than he’d realized. Not only was the light no
longer annoying…It’s perfect. I could do my taxes by the light of this moon.
It might not have been the Crannog legend’s bounty of fish roe but by the
unnaturally bright light of the Harvest Moon, Bran hunted down his sofa, all
but collapsing on it.
He had a sip of beer and leaned back to gaze at plastered ceiling. Hmm.
He mused to himself, shifting upon the cushions.
Hmmm.
Father’s grave advice and a month’s accumulated guilt. All undone in half a
heartbeat, and by the world’s ugliest pair of shorts no doubt. But that’s how
it was for him, with Meera.
He thought of the month that had passed since that brilliant evening. The
nights he forced himself not to think of it, so as to fall asleep unmolested.
The nights he could not help but to think of it, to needs be satisfied by his
own hand and all the special places of his memory.
The rhythm her hips had beat on his sodden lap had not have the power his
strokes did. When he could lay her flat beneath him and fuck her, thrusting
deep, glimpsing her shake and squeak. But at the angle he could never have,
Meera’d driven him into her. In every right way. Closer than he could have
known.
At present though he seemed to be doing alright. Sitting with no reaction—he
was starkly calm. Like this sort of thing always happened.
Maybe it does. Maybe I’m that kind of guy.Maybe he’d finally grown into his
brothers.
Bran sniffed doubtfully at his beer.
If these things happened, if he were an adult for true, then why did he
feel…ill at ease? Bran had distinctly wanted to leave the party; he’d wanted to
return home so he could be alone, and relax. It seemed what relaxing really
meant was to sit, a knot still lodged in his throat, apparently waiting for the
other shoe to drop.
What he couldn’t figure out was why.
He had not liked the goodbye with Meera, that much was true. It had not even
been a real goodbye. That’s what he did not like so much about it. It felt
weird to come down without her…almost wrong, even though it was what he and
Meera had explicitly agreed to.
His brow furrowed. He stared as though glowering at the bottle sweating
moisture onto his hand. His thumb continued to push and scrunch the brand label
up until no longer recognizable.
Maybe he had simply grown accustomed to failure. Maybe that was it—presuming
somewhere he came up short. Sansa said he did that. She was always trying to
stamp it out of him.
“I know you’re not naturally so shy,” Sansa would snap, and she’d sometimes
brandish a pen threateningly. “I know because I remember. Everyone goes through
an insecure phase, Bran, just because you got well stuck in one doesn’t mean
you get to live there now.”
Jabbing at his sides. deaf to his protests, she’d say such things when trying
to bully him into something social. Practically serving as their mother’s hand.
“You’ll go or you’ll hear about it through to next winter. You’ve already
gotten too comfortable being shy. And the only way to get out of being
comfortable being shy is to get back into being comfortable not shy.”
The thought of Sansa’s badgerings made Bran smile. He smiled a lot today.
His sister meant well. But she was so focused on undoing any damage his fall
had done (whether it be real or projected), she could not always see beyond the
trees. He sighed.
What he really needed was to clear his head.
Jojen. His brothers, his sisters. Gods forbid, Theon. If only there was someone
he could talk to. And then…
Talisa. He could talk to Talisa.
Now that he thought about it, it seemed obvious. She’d been the only one Bran
had confided in last time.
And he’d been grateful. Although their conversation in the Starks’ kitchen had
been brief, Bran found he thought about it with almost as much frequency with
which he thought about the night that preceded it.
He liked talking to Talisa; talking to her was like talking to a sister. But
not one of his sisters. A new one. One who only knew him as a fellow young
adult, and had no old memories of doing their best to talk themselves out of
trouble to a younger, glowering Catelyn while Bran wailed his head off in the
background.
In the wake of his siblings’ excitement, all atwitter at the news of him and
Meera, Bran had been grateful he had her to talk to. But his initial desire to
talk it all over with someone had by now already faded. Returned to the
solitude of his own apartment, he knew that for the time being being alone was
better. Maybe he felt a little turned about but that was the initial shock of
it, as could be expected. Even after Arya’s birthday, he wasn’t terribly used
to good things happening.
Bran thought he knew what Talisa would have to say if she were here, so he
could marshal it only as much as it was needed.
And it wasn’t as if she and Robb were bastions of prudency themselves. The way
they started up had been more than sketchy, all vaguely knew.
People could have counseled them against it too. But fortunately, other
people’s opinions didn’t matter, not when it really came down to it. Whatever
good intentions of others, it was Robb and Talisa in the end who knew best Robb
and Talisa. And that was the same for him. For them, both him and her. Meera
would agree. She did.
That’s why they didn’t want to go around cluing everyone in. People would get
the wrong idea; they often did. They were well intentioned, sure, but they
didn’t know. They weren’t in it. Only he and Meera knew. And he trusted their
judgment.
‘I promise.’ Bran mouthed the words again just to taste them on his lips. He
ran his free hand through his hair. Remembering.
Remembering Meera. Remembering Talisa. Them, and what he promised.
He reckoned he’d had enough recuperated energy to shower soon. He’d finish his
beer first. It had been a lot packed into one day.
He tried not to. Bran tried to return to the image of the cool, aloof young
man. But, finally peeling off the bedraggled bottle logo, he failed again to
quench a budding smile again.
 
THE_DAY_AFTER_ARYA’S_BIRTHDAY
Stark_Manor
“Bran?”
Bran looked up from the countertop, eyes noticeably red.
“Oh. Hi, Talisa.”
Bran sniffed and straightened up.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Nope.”
She made her way into the kitchen.
Summer trailed in after. He contented himself to graze along Bran’s legs as he
passed, Bran reaching down to scratch his ears, before he settled on the floor
leaned against the kitchen island. He relaxed his paws’ grip on the tile floor,
legs sliding, until he came to be lying down.
Talisa meanwhile clambered up onto the barstool, taking the seat opposite to
where Bran stood watching her. The look she gave him was kind and reassuring.
Lightly patting the granite countertop, she added casually, “Essos time. You
know how it is.”
“Do you want something to drink? Water, or…” Bran started, trailing off.
“I think I’m feeling ‘or.’”
Bran brushed off his hand with one last small sniff and turned to regard the
kitchen’s bar. “We’ve got stouts mostly…There’s also wine, red or Arbor Gold. I
think the spirits are upstairs.”
“Can I get a glass of red?”
“Nice.” Bran strode to the back of the kitchen, retrieved a bottle and a glass.
“Very Essosian.”
“Valyrian,” she corrected wrinkling her nose. “And won’t you have a glass as
well?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t much drink wine.”
“That’s because you’re Northern. And while you’re all very sweet, you’re also
uneducated and backwards.” Bran wrinkled his nose back at her. “Have a cup of
wine with your brother’s girlfriend. She’s traveled quite a long way just to
get here.”
“But you live here anyways.”
“I came to Westeros just for you, Bran. Just for this drink. You can live with
that on your conscious? Are you so cruel?”
Bran was already returning, having added by now another glass to hand.
“What’s the Valyrian word for ‘overkill?’”
“There isn’t one.”
Bran couldn’t tell whether or not she was lying.
He poured. Listening the ‘pat pat’ of Talisa playing with her hands again. It
were as though the tidal wave of smallness and stress which had threatened to
drown him only moments ago had never even come. Sounding brighter than he had
done so far, Bran offered her a glass of wine rich in its oaky scent.
She held it aloft before her. “Cheers, then, to the Starks and their weekend
well spent!”
No matter how proud the vintage, Westerosi wine had the well-known reputation
of forever disappointing drinkers from Essos.
Talisa though seemed satisfied enough. She exhaled loudly, all but smacking her
lips as she savored what was for her a small taste of home.
Then her eyes sparkled with amusement as she fixed them onto Bran. More of
this. Everyone’s favorite sport—torment Bran.
Ignoring it as giddy impatience practically made her rattle atop the barstool,
Bran asked innocently, “Robb asleep?”
“I wouldn’t know, would I?” a playful arch to her brow. “I’m in Sansa’s room.”
He nodded. “Right.”
“Anyways, he’s asleep.”
Bran chuckled. The wine was making him blush. It was pleasantly warm, spreading
warmth up and down his chest.
He found himself lost in concentration, tracing with his eyes the smatterings
of cracks in the granite’s pattern.
Across from him, and Bran realized in muted shock he’d forgotten her presence
for a second, Talisa asked, “What’s the matter pickle?”
“What? Oh. I dunno.”
“I expect they’re still teasing you something awful?”
Bran heard Summer chuff behind him in an annoyed sort of rest.
“Yeah.” He allowed another sip. Would Theon tell Robb or Jon about their
scuffle? “It’s pretty awful.”
“I don’t know how you lot manage. So many of you. I’ve only got the one. And
I’ve got his number should he ever try to pull some of that shit with me.”
That’s right, it was just Talisa and her younger brother. Like Meera and Jojen.
“I know it can be kind of awkward discussing those things with family.”
Bran gave a hollow laugh.
Talisa frowned. “What’s up?”
“Huh? Oh. Well, I just thought. That would imply you’re meant to discuss it
with friends. Where in this case, my friend is her family.”
“That’s true. Jojen’s not just any old friend.” She nodded sadly, swallowing
another taste of wine.
“And Meera’s not just any old sister. Not that—” Bran gave a noncommittal wave,
“—my sisters are replaceable or anything. But the Reeds, they’ve only ever had
each other. Sometimes I think…”
He broke off and shook his head. He’d taken to squashing his thumb into the
countertop pattern.
“It’s like she partially raised him.”
Talisa laid her hands flat like she was laying a plan. “Okay. Possibly smidge
more dire than I understood it originally. But not necessarily a disaster. What
does Jojen say of it?”
“He tries not to say anything.”
“Can you tell if it bothers him?” Yes.
“He tries not to say anything,” Bran repeated. “He did tell me once that he
doesn’t appreciate me lying to him. But at that time, he also went out of his
way to make it 100% clear doesn’t want to know anything.”
“Well…you could talk to me. I’m something of a mixture between friends and
family.”
He shook his head again. That wasn’t the point, he wasn’t explaining it right.
Bran made a defeated noise and slumped forward, hiding among his elbows on the
countertop.
Talisa’s hands fell from her hair to the stem of her wine glass. She seemed to
be chewing her words for a good long while, watching him.
“Do you…regret it?”
He had to think about it first.
Bran said in fairness, “I regret the aftermath.”
Talisa hummed wisely into her glass. “Sex can have fallout. Not all the time,
to be sure. But for the first time with someone? More often than not, I’d
wager.”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve slept together.”
To her credit, Talisa kept relatively a straight face though her eyes popped
wide for half a heartbeat. “What?” she asked, blinking. “So this isa thing!”
“No,” Bran said hastily. “It’s not a thing.”
“Well, if you’ve already—”
“Listen—”
“I don’t understand what the pr—”
“It just sucks is all,” Bran cut in and he was surprised at the terseness in
his own voice.
“…It sucks?”
He sighed. “It wasn’t meant to go public. I mean, obviously, the way we went
about it—mistakes. I was wasted.” Bran rubbed and dragged his hands over his
face to scrub away the exhaustion. His father’s disappointment. The upshot of
fury in his fight with Theon. “I was really quite happy and now it’s all
fucked.”
“Aww, no, Bran,” Talisa urged suddenly sounding quite upset. “Bran, they only
take the mickey out of you because they know it gets to you. But they don’t
really care—I mean, they don’t really judge. They’re just mildly curious. And
they want you to be happy.”
Nothing in particular came across wrong about her words. But still…Bran would
not accept them.
“Ohh, I hope you don’t let their teasing sap away your happiness, it would so
defeat the point.”
“I don’t want them to know.”
“What?”
He’d spoken so quietly, the words had been intelligible. He tried again. “I
didn’t want them to know. But they’ll know now…They know I like her.”
The admission seemed only to perplex Talisa. She blinked all the more, bemused.
“Like her? Well, yes, I suppose that’s true. It’s usually expected in this kind
of territory. To be fair they can probably tell the same for her—”
He shook his head.
It was nearing the surface.
“No? What do you mean?”
“She…doesn’t like me.”
He hated the way Talisa’s responses were coming more and more slow. She’d been
so peppy. He didn’t need the over-serious way she was staring at him. Her mouth
slightly open. That expression.
The wheels of Talisa’s brain looked to be going along rather fast. “…What?”
“Meera.” Bran found his voice. “She doesn’t like me.”
It had slipped out.
“Well…of course she likes you.”
Talisa had wormed it out of him, but Bran wanted to catch the worm and cram it
back inside his chest before it slithered too far.
“She’s slept with you—”
“Sure, she likes me well enough for that.”
“What??” Talisa leaned back atop her barstool, her hands pushing out on the
counter surface. “What do you mean, she doesn’t like you… “This girl, Meera…she
doesn’t care about you?”
“No, she cares. She does. I mean, I’m Jojen’s best friend. She and I have been
mates since—”
“She likes being with you. She cares about you. But she…?”
How to cast it? “She doesn’t like me, not—not the way that—”
No. They had gotten off track. He was tired, Talisa didn’t know any of the
players, he wasn’t explaining it right. Bran’s ideal number for things to
happen during the weekend ranged from about 0.5 to 1. And in this weekend, all
of it.
He’d stumbled somehow into sleeping with Meera. And his siblings had all found
out, all at once, all publicly. And Meera had allowed that they might sleep
together again. It was all happening at once and he did not need to contend
with Eddard Stark’s icy solemn gaze or Theon’s cackling or with the jokes shot
back and forth in the van or before their parents.
Bran gave a start when a hand closed over his.
Talisa’s hand was pleasantly warm. And her grasp, though firm, was all
tenderness.
“No, I just—”
But Talisa cut him off. “So you have, as we call it in the medical community, a
small case of the feelings for this girl?”
“No,” he said hastily. She was trying to use humor to disarm him but he had to
make her understand. He didn’t need that. “That is…no more than she has for me.
No more than, you know, normal. In these circumstances.”
“Well, have you asked—”
“No,” Bran cut in, just as hasty. “No. We’re not—we don’t…No.”
She let him off the hook with a nod.
Talisa withdrew her hand as she folded her arms on the edge of the countertop
to lean against them, and Bran relaxed a little.
“Well, what I want is for you is to be happy. And what it is that gets you into
your own happiness, I’ll support you.” How formal.
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?”
Talisa pressed her lips together. “I don’t know.”
“I think,” he started, voice more solid than it had been for quite some time,
“I think that…despite how everyone found out and it got all fucked, I
think…that this weekend…was brilliant.” She inclined her head, listening. “I
do. I think that she and I have been attracted to each other for a while. And
it—it works. It really does, quite well.”
Talisa made to finish the very last of her wine. Bran decided to do the same
with his, swift.
“Yes, there’s a bit of an insecurity thing. You know, she’s Meera. Well, you
don’t know, but still. She’s…Meera. I’ve had a crush on her for ages. And with
her being older than me, cooler than me—she’s always just been more worldly
than me.”
“You need to give yourself more credit but go on.”
“I was already a little bit nervous to go with her into this territory. And
then all the teasing. But—also—that’s just it. Meera wouldn’t be intimidated.
She breathes adventure.”
“Nervous, no,” Talisa agreed doggedly. “Not intimidated, and also not caring?”
“What? No.” Talisa was thinking Meera cold. Why couldn’t he explain it?
“Bran,” she said before he could start. “I’m not going to try to explain at you
a situation that you’re in and I’m not. And let us just recall again, real
quickly, that your siblings are a bunch of assholes, who only want to tease you
because they love and hate you, and that there is truly no judginess to it
whatsoever. We’re talking about your siblings. The first person I met
today—yesterday—who was coherent enough to make any sense was your brother Jon,
who was wrestling with your youngest brother Rickon, who was at the time half
naked with vomit on his shoes. I saw Robb carrying them away, giggling.”
Bran digested the image, that along with his wine. A bunch of assholes, truly,
he thought fondly.
“And, honestly, what part about the bit with Meera doesn’t sound awesome? Apart
from everyone else being a dick. I mean the bit with you and her. Who doesn’t
want to spend some years in their twenties hooking up with their hot friend?”
“Yeah…”
“But I’m going to ask of you one thing just to secure an old woman’s heart.”
Her finger carved a little heart across her chest. Bran was suspicious. “Would
you promise me—”
“Promise you?”
“Yes, promise me. Would you go so far as to promise me that you’ll be careful?
That’s all. However unwarranted my worried bleatings might be…I know you’re
smart. And I know you and this Meera person are two good people, both. But in
the matters of love—and for good measure I’m going to include in that matters
of the loins as well—even the wisest men are often turned to fools.”
Hmm. That had a ring of truth. Even a bit of eloquence, Bran thought. Which it
probably would have retained more of had Talisa not immediately followed up
with, “Love’s a tricky bitch, and she can fuck us all.”
“Uh…”
“You’re a good person, a nice person. And you deserve to have someone looking
out for you. So just promise me…you’ll try to be that person?”
Bran was flummoxed. He was touched by how earnest Talisa’s naturally flowy
tones had become.
Remember to be careful—he thought he liked that. His father, Jojen, Talisa,
even Jon—none of them had technically demanded a stop. But it was only with
Talisa he felt, not merely that one of his decisions had someone’s muted
tolerance, but that any of his decisions would have someone’s support.
He looked up from the granite countertop. As his sights fell on her, the little
rediscovery of how lovely Talisa was broke over him like warmth. “Okay,” he
said. “I promise.”
Chapter End Notes
     Show canon? I don't know her.
     A/N: Author’s note aka “author’s excuse box.”
     I don’t think I’ve updated for like 2 months, which is when I was
     begrudgingly hired full-time. Where time goes to die.
     AND in what turns out is nothing but Nightmare Town--being tasked to
     plan my only sibling's wedding in little more than THREE MONTHS.
     Which takes place in another city only reachable by car 4 hours away.
     (Preparations for a sibling's wedding may actually crop up the story
     should I get there in the year 2047. Just know that I actually wrote
     it before my sot brother even proposed some months ago. That is a
     testament to both the slowness of my writing and how pro-stress that
     wedding is planned. So only if a character doing wedding planning
     goes_into_a_corner_and_starts_crying will that be a self-insert.
     Still the same in that I actually really like this story and am
     determined to finish it on principle. (And ppl leaving comments and
     kudos—gahh!! Brightens my day from the dark sea of capitalism and
     pissy responsibilities)
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