"Why have I not seen you? Where the hell have you been?"
He had been spotted. The family’s table at the front of the great hall lay under a great sheet of grey and silver thread; the cloth was decoration that only came out when a truly special guest was visiting.
Once more Bran had been dismissed, sat down by his father and told he was not yet old enough to attend the feast. The younger Stark did not understand. He stood nearly as tall as Arya, and she was allowed to go. Angrily he had stormed off, spending his time out in the yard, climbing and playing in the mud - just as his mother hated. When he returned indoors, Bran did not notice the trail of mud following him; the small Bran shaped footprints that lead to his location.
The fancy cloth of the table served as a perfect hiding place - a den Bran could sit in quietly, munching on the lemon cakes he had stolen from the kitchens. But he had not planned on being discovered.
At first he worried the footsteps leading to him and the voice calling him belonged to his mother. A deep sigh of relief exhaled the boy’s lungs when the bottom of the table cloth lifted, and there Sansa stood instead of their mother.
“I was playing.” The boy answered, pulling his knees to his chin, hugging them slightly. “Am I in trouble?”
