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IX SANSA "the eve before leaving" ⚜️
Bran's face, despite his cold stature, was warm to the touch. His skin was clammy beneath Sansa's fingers as she brushed his hair from his face. They'd put him in the room closest to Lady Catelyn and Lord Stark, where the walls were flush with hot water from the springs. It had not been needed, however, because their mother spent every moment beside him, never letting her eyes close, even as Sansa knelt by his side. There were piles of blankets keeping him tucked in and Sansa shuffled over, placing herself beneath them too.
Sleeping. He was only sleeping, she had to remind herself. Bran looked at peace, nothing like the expressions that'd held his face taunt last she'd spoken to him when tears had flushed his face instead of heat.
Somehow, he'd fallen from high atop one of the turrets in the oldest part of the keep. Bran had always been a good climber, scaling across the rooves and walls like a spider. Mother and Father had spent years trying to convince him to stop, only to fail. But Bran had never fallen until now.
Sansa thought of the years she'd spent dreaming of the south with Bran. She'd never been as close to her siblings, preferring softer things than horses and swords, but Bran had always entertained her stories, and had always joined in with her fantasies. Only a day earlier, they had been sharing their worries and excitement about leaving. She'd wiped the tears from his face and promised they would do it together. But already that promise was being broken.
Bran would not make it south.
The maesters said it was unlikely he would ever walk again and that was if he did wake up. Two weeks had passed, and Bran had not stirred, not moved a muscle nor uttered a word. But the Starks still held hope.
"Perhaps you can read your stories to him, dear," her mother said, hand brushing back red streaks of hair before moving to rest on Bran's side again. "He loves your stories."
Sansa smiled gently. She was thankful that their lady mother would only ever speak as if Bran could hear them- no use of past tense or passiveness. Without moving from the bed, Sansa nodded and drew the blanket up further despite the rosy warmth of her face- it would be easier for Bran to catch a chill, laying so motionlessly as he was.
It was not a story Catelyn would like her telling, but Bran had always liked the old tales of beyond the wall, of the children of the forest. It was adventure he craved. Sansa supposed he'd earned it in the end, climbing so high that even he had to fall. Perhaps if he had not been so upset, Brian wouldn't have fallen.
In some sense, Sansa felt responsible. She was the eldest of the children- except from Robb, but he was off hunting with father and the King- and Sansa had always been eager to please, acting as much like Catelyn as possible. But she'd let Bran go with a wipe of his cheeks, a weak smiled and little more than words. Now she could not give him much. She could not make him walk again nor wake him from this unmovable sleep, but she could give him this: a story he'd always acted out and inquired about, going so far as to bother maester Luwin.
