Game of Thrones 1. The Fall of Winterfell

Note:

Set during the Nazi time. Bran and his family are just some of the jews being hunted down. Not historically accurate.

Warnings:

Major character death, bad language, boy's love and probable.. ahem.. gay sex.

Please don't continue if you're not into that sort of thing.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

No wings for flight

Bran was dreaming.

Somehow he was a wolf, running through the fields of endless fog, hunting his kill. In the distance he felt that there was something waiting for him. A light. Green like moss, bright yet somber. It was quite complex. He could never comprehend the depth of it's light. He was so magnetically drawn to it that he ran towards it faster. Faster and faster until he felt like he was flying. He felt almost free.

But the sky changes and the clouds are tainted red like the blood of his kill. But somehow he knew this was more sinister, more foreboding. Then the full moon shines it's disc of gigantic white through the endless scarlet. But somehow he has no desire to howl to it- he almost fears it. More so when the black sign appears on it's face. Then he feels, he knows that it was the sign of death. - The Nazi Flag

In the distance the light lay forgotten and overshadowed.

He felt lost without it - then he was falling.

Falling towards the swirling sky of red, white and black.

* * *

Bran wakes up to the smell of burning and the loud screams he hears outside. Screams both of terror and cruelty. A mix of men with harsh, sadistic voices and weeps of torn, mourning women.

Their mansion was in total chaos, stewards were running to and fro trying to pilfer the last of their items before they flee. Their kitchens and guest rooms were stolen of their simple refineries. Anyway, whatever that's not taken now will be taken away by different men later.

In the confusion, Bran realized what was happening. They were here. They were finally taking him and his family. Immediately he flee through a back window.

Not caring if he was only in his pajamas and indoor shoes. Not caring for the biting cold and the deathly snow and the hard drop to the ground. He had to run to the midnight darkness before they catch him.

In his fall he sprained his angle. But he only cursed away the pain and kept running for the distant tree line that surrounded their town. He was fast. He was about to reach it.

But he wasn't fast enough. His sprained ankle slowed him. And a firm hand to the collar stopped him and flung him backwards when he was mere inches away from the tree line.

"_Haben sie, du kleine saukerl!_" A tall arian man said. "Got you, you little bastard!"

His eyes were cold and menacing as he towered over Bran who was now desperately clawing at the hand on his collar. The man gave him a hard backhand slap that sent red sparks through his eyes. The man then dragged him by the collar back to their mansion.

Bran could feel the fabric of his shirt digging into his throat as his collar was pulled with all his weight being dragged along. It made him dizzy and he stubbled to get his feat under him, barely managing with the quick pace of the man and his now erratic breathing. His sprained ankle was no help too.

Small drops of red painted the clear snow crimson. He realized between ragged breaths that it was his blood coming through his nose and ankle. Thinking it was only sprained now would be positive thinking.

Finally he was once again flung into the common room of the mansion. He landed heavily on the marble floor. Immediately he started gasping for air. Through the sparks in his eyes, he could see his other family members being forcefully brought from their rooms by more uniformed men and taken to an outside truck parked on the snow and packed full of bloody screaming, wailing people. It was a terrible sight, Robb and Arya were screaming in outrage, shouting curses. Rickon and Sansa were helpless and confused. Ned and Catlyn were complying with glum submission trying to calm the others and get to their children.

Jon was lucky. He had already travelled to further north of Germany for his new job last year.

And Theon. Where was Theon?

Bran had barely anytime to see all this as he was kicked in the gut, lying on the floor.

"_Sie denken, Sie können Vergangenheit durch mich bekommen, nicht wahr?!_

_Huh, du kleiner saukerl, du arschloch, du kleiner Scheißer!_

_Sie sind nur eine Ratte aus dem Gesicht der Mutter Deutschland ausgerottet werden!_ " The man screamed as he continuously kicked Bran.

"You think you can get past through me, huh?

Huh, you little bastard, you asshole, you little shit

You're just a rat to be exterminated off the face of mother Germany!"

In the distance he could hear crazed men singing '_Deutschland uber alles'_ \- the theme song of the Nazis - 'Germany over everything'.

Bran went into a fetal position but it barely seemed to help. The man seemed intent on kicking him to death. Bran could only cry and groan in pain. Next the arian started stomping on Brans legs, over and over until Bran intensely screamed when something crunched in both his legs.

His father finally heard this through all the commotion and turned to him, he struggled against his captor towards Bran's tormentor.

"Sir! Sir, please he's only a boy. Sir he means no harm just, please. Please let this one go." Ned Stark said in german, voice heavy with desperation. The words coming out rapidly.

_"Dieser kleine saukerl versucht, von mir zu entkommen …"_ The aryan lazily reasoned, then spit on Bran. "This little bastard is trying to escape from me …"

"I know, I know but please, Sir," Ned yanked one of his arms from his captor. With it he tore the silver brooch from his own chest. The symbol of his family line - the gray direwolf. He placed it on the man's hand. "He didn't mean it, let him go."

The aryan paused for a while, considering the bribe. With one last kick to Bran's already misshapen legs, he went away, muttering curses under his breath. Soon he would join the men outside in singing their putrid song.

Ned tried to help Bran stand up. Bran howled in pain. Sweat and blood ran though his whole body.

"Father? It hurts." Bran pants, barely making it out as a whisper. "I can't feel my legs." He can't feel his wings. Tears leaked from his eyes without his notice. They have been severed from him.

Ned wanted to assure him it would be alright. But Starks don't give false promises.

Ned despaired and wanted nothing more than to stay there and tend to his son's wounds, but he knew he had to get to that truck before his captor decided to drag the both of them. He strengthened his hearth and his will, he lifted the already unconscious Bran off the floor and carried him to the truck. Further into their doom.

The only thing Bran remembered as he drifted into nothingness was the sharp pain and the name on the Nazi officer's name tag.

**Lannister**

* * *

This is my first fanfic. Please excuse me if I've made any mistakes. Reviews would be much appreciated.

Mostly rated M for language, but may contain more M worthy things later.

Thank you of reading.


	2. Sleep in the Concentration Camp

Because the gods are cruel, Bran dreamt of his family before the war. The dream was so clear, so vivid that to him it was more than a reverie - it was a memory or moment of reality.

It was Christmas time, but the jews didn't celebrate Christmas really. But the relatives came over to annoy them with this anyway.

The twins of Frey greet them "Merry christmas" every year and they would reply that they had no Christmas. And the relatives would always reply "Oh, happy Hanukkah then." The twins knew they were wrong, they just wanted to joke about it. And the joke never gets old. The Starks didn't mind, usually the Freys only send cards or called anyway. It was impossible, even for the Starks' numerously roomed mansion, to accommodate all the Freys.

On that year, it was special. Bran was only seven then. He was told that the Reeds were coming to visit this year too, along with the usual Tullys and Arryns. And Robert Baratheon who was the only one on his rich family to visit. Maybe he wanted to get away from them. Maybe he wanted to pay respects to his Aunt Lyanna. Maybe both.

He'd never seen the Reeds before, but he's heard his father talk of them all the time. He talked of Howland Reed. A noble man who lived by the Greywaters. Though he was rich, he preferred his life to be simple and quiet. During the first world war, he and Ned met and became good friends. Net was providing meat and produce for the army while Howland provided them salt and fish from Greywater. As the two goodhearted men met during hardest of times, their relationship became the loyalest of friendships.

It was decided that they were to stay for three weeks including the new year.

When he met Jojen Reed, an older boy of nine at that time, he seemed to remember getting lost in his eyes. They were somber, deep and true. He wasn't sure. He couldn't describe it, so he decided to get lost in their mysteries instead. Every time they looked back at him, they seemed to say more. More than the words that come from his perfect lips. Though what he says is always kind, always so so gentle. His light golden hair was had gleam and luster, and his stature ideal without the slightest fault. And the rest of Jojen, of course would be just as glorious.

They would play by the wood, a little past the town. They would play chase, but Bran would always win. He was faster, he had wings.

Or maybe Jojen would let him win. Just because.

But Jojen would still try to catch up, he was fast enough too. But when he got too tired he would considerately say. "Wait, please, you shouldn't tire yourself," then he would look at him with those eyes "My prince." He would always call him that. And oddly enough he sounded like he meant it every time.

Bran's breath would stop, so his whole being would stop. And Jojen would catch up to him. Then sometimes he would carry him, or hold his hand as they walked to the heart tree. And they would talk all afternoon of their nightly dreams. He wanted to stay by the splendor that was Jojen forever.

In an instant, the sun disappeared and the sky tuned dark in the wood. In confusion he turned to look at Jojen.

But somehow he was different. He wore the uniform Bran dreaded so much. And his face was not his gentle face. It was the face of the tall Arian that came to torment him.

Once again he was dragged by the collar though the snowy path to his house, the same path he and Jojen used to run in. Now it was tainted with his blood and the muddy footprints of the Arian. He would scream for Jojen but he would not come to him, he would not hear him, would not protect him.

He got a dreaded feeling that maybe-

Maybe Jojen _was_ the Arian.

Finally he was thrown to the marble floor with a resounding crack.

* * *

Bran's eyes shot open. He was panting and sweating, mouth in mid-scream. But somehow no sound came out. It was covered with the hand of his father, quieting him.

He looked like he aged a few decades in a short time. There was grime in his face, and bags under his eyes that were bloodshot. His lips were cracked and dry.

Bran realized the nightmare was not over just yet.

His father spoke, "You're awake? You've been sleeping for a whole day."

Bran tried to sit up but only winced in the pain.

"I had to quiet your screams at night or they might force you to be quiet." Ned explained getting a cloth to whip the sweat off Bran's brow. "Permanently."

Bran understood. He nodded.

Ned looked away. "I'm sorry, son." his voice was filled with dread.

Bran interrupted, he didn't like seeing hid Dad defeated like this. "It's not your fault, I shouldn't have ran-"

"No, let me say this." Now Ned was tender but firm. "I should have come to your aid earlier. But I didn't notice, with all the chaos. I was too busy making sure they don't hurt the others." the words came out in a hushed hurry.

Again, Bran understood, he nodded. It wasn't his father's fault, it was the Arian's.

"My legs-" he started but couldn't find the voice to end.

His father's face darkened. He did not wish to sugarcoat the truth. Bran deserved to know however hard it may be. "They are bent out of shape. I suspect your left ankle bone is broken." this part his eyes darkened even more. "And both your knees too."

Bran's eyes watered. No wonder he couldn't feel his legs from the upper thighs under. His leg nerves were clashed. Blended into disarray. But he couldn't allow himself to cry in front for his father who was also trying to be strong for him.

"Think I'll be able to walk again?" He asked after he gathered his senses.

What Ned said was grave and low. "Not without proper medical attention." _that you won't be able to ever get in this war._ The rest didn't need to be said. Bran already knew. There was no hope for his legs.

His eyes watered again, and he tried to force them down again. But it was harder this time. He turned his face away. Ned let him. He gave him some privacy and went back to his own bunk.

They were in a concentration camp now. He could see that in the numerous cramped bunks in the all too small room. He could see it in the hollow eyes of the other people there with the stars of David on their shirts and sleeves. He could even smell it in the dirt and rotting flesh scent that clung to the air.

This was hell.

He was in Hell now.

After a long silence he asked. "Where's Robb and the others?"

There was a pregnant silence. Ned didn't want to respond. He was too grief stricken. But he did, and when he did his voice came out as barely a whisper. "Robb is probably outside being forced to work for _them_." Even softer still, "Your mother, Sansa, Arya and Rickon were separated from us. Taken to a different camp for women and children."

* * *

It was pointless to hope, but he wished that wherever his mother, brother and sisters are, that they were in a better place and were being treated well. They were women and children after all.

He would whisper this to himself at night before he slept, but somehow he knew it was a lie.

* * *

Note:

Please again excuse any mistakes I've made. I'll try to speed it up starting now. He would meet Jojen in a while. For now, I tried to include him a bit to keep you going through the chapter.

Reviews would be much appreciated. Thank you for reading.


	3. Escape from Hell

Note:

Before anything else, a warning. There will be major character death.

Seriously running low on inspiration right now. I'll try to pick up the pace. A infinitesimal reference to Hunger Games in there, almost written by accident. Also a reference to the Book Thief. And finally, not historically accurate of course.

* * *

Bran finally escapes from the endless fabric of red, white and black after hours of struggling, he runs.

He runs but the fabric still clings to him. It yanks and burns his fur and skin. He howls in pain but continues to run away.

When he finally breaks free from it's grasp he feels that he has left something important in it's clutches. He left a part of him.

As he looked back, still running, he sees the fabric devour two great gray lights that were a part of his soul. He felt torn somehow. But the dying gleam of light told him to keep running. So he did.

With every step he could feel the crack of his soul tear wider.

* * *

They had been planning it for weeks.

And escape plan. A way out.

Ned couldn't keep Bran in the concentration camp any longer. Starvation, dehydration and lack of sanitation worsens his wounds tenfold. Ned could do nothing more for him but clean it every night with water he's not even sure is clean. He fears that it will be infected in the cramped place. In his weakened state of immunity, god knows what kind of deceases may take him. Bran never complains, but Ned can see the pain and discomfort in his face from time to time, no matter how hard Bran tries to hide it.

What's worse is their guards will never allow a useless man in the concentration camp. Even Ned works for their deplorable wardens in the whole of his day. It is only during late nights when he is able to rest and care for Bran for a few hours. Robb who has the same forced working condition does the same from time to time. He would even try to cheer Bran up sometimes, because it's him, sometimes it almost works. Almost.

Ned and Robb try to keep Bran's presence as subtle and hidden as they can during the day. They knew as soon as one of the wardens would find him out, they would kill him on the spot. If he was lucky. Odds are they'd beat him, then kill him. Or beat him to death. Whichever goes first.

They knew that sooner or later one of the other captives would sell them out. Maybe for an extra piece of bread. Or another bowl of soup. Or just because.

On their third day in camp, Ned decided to think up a plan. By the end of the day he was finished with the details in his head. It would involve the help of their most loyal previous household workers Osha and Hodor.

Somehow he was able to contact them through a raven he caught and trained in the many weeks he's spent in the camps. The plan was full of what-ifs and anytime it might mess-up. What if the bird never reaches them? What if he overestimated their loyalty? What if they got caught?

It will be a miracle if it does work.

In those few weeks Robb worked twice as hard the others in whatever was work forced upon him. In return, the mocking Nazis would laugh at him and 'reward' him with an extra stale bread or a leftover bowl of broth.

"_Arbeit hure_" they would snicker at him, 'work whore' in German. Sometimes they would call him a 'pig' because we always tried to get more food than the others, even though he was getting more and more malnourished each week. Several times he was tempted to skin their faces or even give off a cutting retort. But he bit back all the fight he had in him. Because at night he would give the extra food to Bran along with a portion of his own food he had the discipline to spare.

Finally the plan was ready to proceed. Ned could only hope the darkness of the night would conceal them. He prayed the gods would finally turn the odds in their favor.

* * *

It was the _Führer_'s birthday. Hitler's birthday.

The guards were busy getting drunk on beer and the company of malnourished war whores after they were done doing the burning they love so much to do at the plaza. As an effect, the whole day they neglected to feed the whole camp, though it has never been more busy or more sadistic for the jews.

In the night, Ned was praying over the sleeping figure of Bran, hidden under a blanket. They took extra measures tonight, it was more crucial they don't get caught now of all times. His prayers were solemn and determined. He hoped this meant they were powerful too.

When midnight came and almost no guards but the ones in the watchtowers were in sight, they started their furtive activity.

Robb carried Bran in his arms as he sprinted as quietly as he could to a weakness in the fence at the back of the 'showers'. Already just being near them made the air feel foreboding as it smelled of burnt flesh and bones. Ned ran right after them, eyes on the look out for anyone that may see them. Under the bedsheet that was used to hide him, Bran was shivering. The convinced himself it was just the cold but in truth it was the fear he felt. He felt totally helpless being carried by their brother. Should they be discovered, he dreaded Robb would just drop him and run to salvage himself. He knew Robb would never do that. But dire circumstances can turn any person paranoid.

And if so what more could he do but lay there where he was dropped and accept his death.

It was death he felt breath down his neck, freezing his spine over. Somehow remembered the his dream. Fear gripped him but he tried swallowing it down again.

In the distance, there was a rustle.

Bran couldn't see it through the covers but he tensed anyway. Ned saw what it was and glanced at Robb. There was a wild look in his eyes that only Robb could understand. There was no stopping this now. Robb ran faster.

The sprint must have lasted for only a few minutes but to the three of them it felt like a lifetime. Adrenaline silently coursed through Robb as he never slowed.

Finally they reached the weak part of the fence. Robb unveiled Bran from the bed sheet. They noticed now that there was a hole on the fencing, small and barely big enough for one person to go through at a time. It would have to do.

Robb was looking over his shoulder at something in the distance behind him. He tensed. Ned was still a couple of paces off.

Robb looked at Bran with eyes crowded with emotion. "This is it Bran, you'll have to fight for yourself now". He looked dead serious.

Bran didn't understand. "What? What do you mean?" Finally, all the fear he's been suppressing showed in his eyes.

Solemnly Robb kissed Bran on his forehead. He whispered a quick blessing from the old books of their religion. Bran caught a hushed 'may he live, may he benefit from this sacrifice.' among the many rushed words.

His eyes grew wider, and he anxiously started panicking and fretting, gripping Robbs collar. "No". He said unbelieving. "No Robb, no no no no". His cries grew more desperate and shrill, repeating his words over and over again.

Robb, who miraculously maintained some measure strength in the concentration camp pulled Bran away from him. Bran could not even fight it though he frantically tried.

"No, Robb don't do this. Don't be a martyr. Come with me-"

Robb pushed him in and out of the hole in the fence through the other side. In the distance outside the fence, Osha and Hodor appeared through the dark woods silent and grave.

"Hodor." said Hodor with a sad, subtle nod.

"Robb, DON'T!" Bran gripped the fence through the other side. He could see what Robb was looking at earlier over his shoulder. An outline of two uniformed figures halfway across the field were running towards them. Ned finally reached them. He and Robb didn't even look at the men approaching behind them. Instead they looked as if they had accepted their fate.

Tears were running down Bran's face without him noticing. Ned knelt down to Bran on the other side. He gently but firmly unfastened Bran's vice-grip from the fence. Blood had slicked his fingers from holding too tight but all he felt was the warmth from where his father touched him.

"There's no time Bran, it would take us too long to get through." His father looked honorable until the very end and Bran couldn't stand it. He couldn't protest for he was chocking on sobs he couldn't control.

Ned said his last blessing, "May you live to fly." was all he said with overflowing sincerity in his deep voice. Then he turned away and stood by Robb.

Osha grabbed Bran and pulled him up towards Hodor who carried him in his back. Bran weakly fought them off trying to get to the other side, earning Osha a bloody scratch on the cheek and Hodor several thumps on the head which he didn't react to except to say "Hodor" sadly.

Ned and Robb clasped each other's forearms hard and looked in to each other's ashen faces. Somewhere in Robb's fathomless blue eyes Ned also found Catlyn. The Soldiers were only a few six paces away now.

Hodor gathered his strength and stepped away from the fence.

Five paces away

Ned and Robb started mumbling each other rapid blessings. Bran could barely hear over the angry crazed shouting of the incoming men but he knew that they were blessings for the dead. They were blessing each others souls in advance.

Four paces away

Hodor turned away and started running. Osha followed suit.

Three paces away

Ned and Robb hugged each other tight.

Two paces away

The two Nazis got their hand pistols out of their pockets and aimed.

One pace away

Bran screamed. He screamed so loud he could taste blood in his mouth. He held out a futile hand towards Robb and Ned.

Zero

Osha covered his eyes as two resounding claps of gun shots broke the placid night.

* * *

I promise Jojen would finally appear in the next chapter. Thank you for reading, reviews would be very much appreciated.


	4. To be lost and to be found

Ch4

Note:

Slight reference to Book Thief, my most recent addiction.

By now I think it's not geographically accurate either. As well as not historically accurate. But I try to match it as much as possible.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

"Hodor." said Hodor looking apprehensively at the gray early dawn sky.

Plump clouds seemed to foreshadow heavy rains and storm. The distant sky flashed of light as an effect of lightning though no thunder could be heard. Everything was deathly quiet again.

Osha looked too and seemed to grow anxious. "We have to hurry Hodor." She picked up her pace, Hodor following after her.

"Hodor", agreed Hodor.

During the night they have been running north through the forrest surrounding the concentration camp. They continued to head north through the end of the forest until they reached an adjacent town. They never stopped moving the whole night for fear of being seized.

For hours after the incident, Bran couldn't stop the grief he felt and the ache in his chest. For some moments he had a hard time breathing, Osha tried to calm him down. He buried his head in Hodor's back, trying to isolate himself from the world. The sound of the two gunshots played repeatedly over his mind's ear. It made him go crazy. His head would swirl and his eyes would water again. His spine would feel a cold piercing shiver and his chest would feel hollow except for the lingering ache. He tried to press his knuckles to his temples and shut his eyes closed or breath evenly but nothing seemed to work. He knew he was exhausted but he couldn't rest. He was afraid of the dreams that would come to him.

Eventually, sleep took him. The gods pitied him enough to let him have a dreamless sleep. But even in the endless darkness he felt sorrow.

Finally they reached the back of an old warehouse building at the edge of the town. Osha knelt in front of a pile of discarded boxes, sacks and crates. "Wake the little lord up, Hodor."

Hodor sat on his heels and gently pulled Bran from his back into his lap. He tries to softly pat Bran's shoulder awake, but with his ill-judged strength, he ended up slapping Bran's shoulder awake instead.

Bran's eyed snapped open, his whole torso jumping from the shock.

"Hodor!" regretfully apologized Hodor.

Osha sighed, but continues ruffling through something in the pile.

Bran, steadied his heart. "It's okay, Hodor." he pardoned.

Hodor relaxed and sheepishly smiled.

"You got to go further North, little lord." Osha said retaining her northern accent and her fond nickname for him. "Your father instructed us it was best for you to go to Jon."

Bran heart sank with the mention of his father. But he knew he had to act strong now already he was ashamed of all the crying he did last night. He was Brandon Stark of Winterfell. He shouldn't be broken so easily. His brother and father had sacrificed themselves for him though he never would have asked them, he had to live to honor their sacrifice. But he would hold on to the pain, it was the only way he knew to engrave their actions through his being.

"And where's Jon?" he asked after collecting himself.

Osha handed him a paper with the address. It was written in his father's hand. "Look for the big black stone house structure. Up there they call it Castle Black."

Osha finally revealed a makeshift wheelchair she's been secretly making during the last few weeks and hidden in the pile. It didn't look so great but it should work for him.

Bran tried not to look hesitant. "Won't you come with me?"

"It's safer to travel alone to avoid being seen. Hodor could attract attention when he's nervous. No we can't go with you, you'd have to go alone."

Bran let the fact sink in. Could he do this?

"Besides," Osha continued, this time she was hesitant, "We have to trace down you mother, brother and sisters."

Bran nodded. He understood. The rest of his family needed their help too. They were alive, but they would need a way to escape. He was older now, no more a child. He could to this alone.

Or at least he assured himself.

Hodor went about setting Bran up to his makeshift wheel chair. With handles in the side wheels he could manipulate himself and a strap on his waist to prevent him from falling off his seat.

Osha gave him a sack from the pile. "It's got supplies that could last you a week and a half, two if you manage 'em well. Also a blanket so you won't freeze over during the nights." Bran took the sack with reverent appreciation.

"Thank you, Osha." he looked into her eyes, trying to make her understand how much it meant to him. "For everything."

Osha turned away from him glance after a while. "I'm sorry it's all we could do." she said low.

"Please, it's more than I deserve-"

"Nothing is more than you deserve-" Osha said in a cutting voice. She was not angry at him, she was angry at the circumstances of leaving a cripple alone to fend for himself. A cripple she cared and served for since he was an infant. She remembered how the Starks picked her up from the snowing streets, giving her a new life.

"You keep moving and you keep safe." She said clutching Bran's forearms. Her eyes were fiery and determined. "You make it, you make it alive."

More tenderly she said. "For your lord father… and for me too."

Bran clutched her arms and nodded. He took the same expression "I promise I will."

Osha stood up finally satisfied. "You better." There was a silence. They were simply appreciating the final moment's in each other's company. This could be the last time they see each other.

"Goodbye, little lord." Osha said somberly.

"Goodbye, Osha". Bran tried to mirror her strength.

"Hodor" said Hodor with a tiny wave and a smile on his face, he did not fully understand what was happening.

"Bye, Hodor." Bran agreed and smiled back.

Bran wheeled into the direction that was north, taking all his supplies with him. It as hard to start moving but it grew easier the longer he went.

Osha and Hodor went the other way.

After sometime Bran looked back at them, to see Hodor looking back at him still waving with a smile on his face.

* * *

Time Skip

* * *

Bran fell over panting shallow breaths. His all fingers felt like ice and stone though his lungs were burning. He was hungry and a little delirious. All his limbs were fatigued and his arms felt like jelly. He could not control their ceaseless trembling. Not to mention the cold, the merciless, endless biting cold that seemed to get worse with every step he took.

He was buried in two feet snow, laying on his back. Despite the pain he would not cry. Tears would just sting his cheeks or freeze even before then. Besides, all his tears have dried up. There was no use for crying now. Everything was just survival and moving. If you stop you die, if you are too hasty, you die too.

He could take no step further. He had been traveling for three weeks now. He ran out of the food Osha gave him a week ago and had been surviving on frigid rainwater that felt like needles dropping into his tongue and almost nothing else. If he was lucky he would find a few nuts or a discarded scrap of bread on his way. He generally tried avoiding towns, as advised by Osha, as a result he was dead starving. The blanket, though he was thankful for it had almost no fight in the northern winter cold.

Several times he was delayed when the wheels of the makeshift wheelchair seemed to be inoperative. He would take the time to fix it until it was working again. But after a few days it would break down once more.

He had several suspenseful moments when a stray person from a town would almost see him, or soldiers on patrol would pass him by. In such times he would go perfectly still, trying to imitate a corpse while hiding. Even his breathing would slow down almost as if it was nonexistent. When the danger has passed he would start moving again, more and more watchful than the last time.

But come the third week, his makeshift wheelchair had finally given up and fragmented into a dozen pieces. One wheel was greatly bent out of shape and could never be repaired. It was in the early morning and he had just moved a dozen yards into the tree line of another woodland in the north. Everything was blanketed in thick snow. He buried the broken parts in near-by bushes or feet deep snow, threw some over to the lower branches of the tall trees. Taking only his blanket, he used his arms to crawl further from the crash site, deeper into the woods.

After hours of slow progress, his system finally crashed near a large tree with the thickest girth in the woodland, it's branches as pale as the snow.

There he lay, with his back to the ground. He covered himself in the blanket and waited until the night when sleep finally took him.

* * *

A newly appointed Nazi high officer of that area decided to have a military exercise that night of all nights through the woodland. They felt like their soldiers were out of practice and ordered them to run laps through the tree line surrounding the woodland. Sometimes they would ask the soldiers to do some exercises through the inner woodland. No one was ever allowed to complain, though it was clearly difficult to run through feet of snow. Many weak men lagged behind.

One dark blond haired soldier wearing his Nazi officer uniform ran along the front part of the lot with a few others, he was very young so he still had strength in him. The brutish commander ordered him to be the first in the lot, to be the one to break the snow first. The first lap was especially difficult and three quarters into the lap he could no longer feel his feet and his lungs were burning from effort. His joints were starting to feel stiff. He never slowed. He kept his moss green eyes forward into the path he was going. The next laps were easier as a trench of snow was caved and he was allowed to fall away into the middle of the runners.

Come midnight, they were dismissed and allowed to do as they please. Most went back to their stations to rest, some went to patrol the perimeter as was the shift assigned to them.

Jojen, tired as he was, stayed staring through the trees. It was reminiscent of the woods surrounding Winterfell where he used to play with his little prince. Almost dazed he walked through the treeline. A blessed reverie came to him. He welcomed it.

* * *

When he first met Bran Stark he couldn't understand how he could be so hooked instantly. He found the younger Bran too effortless to love. Quick to laugh easy to smile. That smile bright as the first light contrasting with his gleaming dark eyes. Free to trust, but not a fool. So innocent, so pure. He was going to be the death of him, he just knew it.

It was cute how he sometimes tried to act mature for Jojen. When they talked of their dreams Bran always tried to understand his despite his young age. Sometimes Jojen would be astonished of how right he was. Jojen would in turn interpret Brans dreams, Bran seemed to drink up every word he said. And Jojen would always understand him and the words he need not say. It was glorious. Every moment of it.

His little prince always belonged in the sun, he couldn't stay indoors for too long. He loved climbing with a passion. Sometimes Jojen would worry when he stepped on a particularly weak looking branch, but Bran never fell. He had wings. Sometimes he would look up, the sun in his eyes, he could see them before they disappeared into sunlight.

They would run too and Jojen would always let him win. Because he loved the smile his prince had when he was ahead and looked back at him. Or the way Bran laughs when he told him to hurry up. Or the look of his small graceful figure running so fast like the wolf he was. Or because to Jojen, Bran always had to go first. Or because Jojen loved everything that was Brandon Stark, his darling addiction.

_Definitely would be the death of me. _He would think for the nth time.

* * *

Jojen kept walking, following the afterimage of Bran in his mind. In a moment, it faded and he felt the hollow space back in his chest where the joy of being with his prince used to be. He would only have nightmares now. Sometimes wake up at midnight in cold sweat from a dream of Bran falling though the trees and breaking his stark white wings. He would despair into the darkness, he always worried over Bran. He knew Bran was a jew. He also knew what Nazis did to jews.

He would pray, in Bran's way and in his, that his prince would be safe.

It was all he ever prayed about lately. Or ever though about for that matter.

_What else_ could be so important as to _matter_?

Only Brandon Stark, _his_ prince.

He walked towards a weirwood that blended in the snowy forest without its red leaves like hands. Slowly he knelt by it's roots and bowed his head as he did almost every night since he discovered the tree after he was stationed here.

Solemnly he prayed again for his prince, his heart aching for his safety.

_Even if I don't have to see him, just make him safe, protect him through this war. _he prayed fervently.

He sat on his knees and stayed like that for a while, staring into the tree's knotted branches, memories running through his mind.

Until something broke his concentration. In the remote part of the wood, he could hear voices, the soldiers must be exchanging watches now. He realized how late it must be then stood up, giving one last look to the weirwood.

Then he noticed a disturbance in the otherwise smooth blanket of snow. He thought nothing of it but circled the tree to examine it anyway. His hunter senses to track game was still with him, from the old days when his father taught him how to hunt. When he got there he noticed only two lumps of dark cloth in the area of freshly fallen snow, now that it caught his attention he found more tracks in the snow treading here.

He got a shivering chill in his spine. He thought he may have discovered a dead animal - or worse a corpse.

He knelt down again and started uncovering the snow from the area with the two cloth lumps. He lifted the cloth to find two worn mud-caked shoes. He felt a mix of dread and morbid curiosity wash through him. He lifted the cloth further bringing the thick blanket of snow with it. Quickly in uncovered what was under the cloth - that must have been a burial shroud he now thought.

First a pair of thin legs, then a slender torso, then crossed arms at the chest - is if the body that trying to warm itself until the very end, then broad shoulders, then a lean neck and then -.

A gasp escaped Jojen. His eyes widened and he instantly bent down to get a better look at what he was seeing. His breath stopped and his heart raced. He thought he had finally lost his mind, that he was delusional.

Staring back at him was the sleeping face of Bran. He looked so different now but Jojen would never fail to recognize him. His face was smeared with grime and he looked so much thinner. His cheekbones, jawline and collar bones were more prominent. His eyes were lidded with dark thin skin bluish from the cold, surrounded by heavy eye bags betraying his exhaustion. His skin was deathly pale, as if all the heat were gone from them. His lips were chapped and turning blue. He looked like he was a tiny push away from truly being a corpse. For a panicked moment Jojen thought he was. But he could see small puffs rise from Bran's lips, a symbol of his immensely slow, shallow breaths.

He gently - barely- touched Bran's cheek. It felt as cold as the snow that encased him. He anxiety in him only grew worse. "Brandon?" he whispered barely making the word out.

No reaction.

More surely this time, "Bran?"

Ever so slowly, Bran's eyes thinly blinked open and met Jojen's eyes.

But they were glazed and lacking of the light Jojen knew they used to have.

* * *

Note:

Yaaaay finally Jojen! \:D/

It was surprisingly hard to write for Jojen. He is too solemn of serious. Plus I wanted you to get a good impression of him. Because of that, this took some time in writing, and a lot of editing. Plus this chapter is longer than the others. A thousand words longer.

I'm starting to think if I should push through with the... ahem... gay sex... in the later chapters. I don't think I can do it. *nervous laughter*. So maybe I'm just going to tone it down or imply it instead. Don't expect too much.

Reviews would be much appreciated. Thank you for reading. :)


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Game of Thrones, Hurt-Comfort, Romance