Bran felt the cold bricks against his soft hands as he scaled the inner walls of Winterfell, the light, chill breeze ruffling his Tully locks. He descended down the stonewall in a brisk, steady fashion, his feet finding ever nook and cranny with utter ease as if he were one with the walls of Winterfell. Climbing was a comfort Bran sort out most days, despite the pleas of his lady mother. There was a sense of freedom and calm that nothing else could offer Bran.
Looking over his shoulder, Bran saw the ground coming to meet him as he continued to climb down the bricks confidently. With the last remaining inches, Bran dropped to the ground lightly, his land make barely a sound. With a bright smile, Bran turned from the wall with a skip of jolly triumphant until he saw his lady mother, her face rigid with anger, yet a ghost of a smile graced her lips. Bran's heart leap in his throat, an inaudiable yelp escaping his mouth as he looked at his mother. "Good morning, mother," he stuttered.
