The next morning was freezing, but Bran Stark didn't seem to care. He was darting across the yard until he saw Alaric leaning against a stone pillar. Bran stopped and broke into a huge smile.
"You're back!" Bran yelled. He dropped his bow in the mud and ran over, skidding to a stop right in front of Alaric.
Alaric gave a small nod. "Yes..." He pointed back toward the archery range. "Keep going. A Prince of the North should be able to hit the center, even with someone watching."
Bran quickly picked up his bow and notched a fresh arrow. He gripped the wood so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath and let it go, but the arrow sailed wide and clattered against the stone wall.
He tried again, then a third time. He moved faster and more frantic with every shot, his shoulders bunching up as Alaric watched. His aim fell apart. The last arrow didn't even reach the target—it skipped off the frozen dirt and slid into the slush.
Bran's shoulders slumped. The light that had been in his eyes just moments ago vanished, replaced by a dull, hot flush of shame. He let the bow string go slack, the weapon hanging heavy in his hand like a piece of dead wood. With a heavy sigh, he trudged over to the bench and sat down beside Alaric, dropping the bow in the mud at his feet.
"I'm rubbish," Bran muttered, staring at his boots. "Robb never misses. Even Theon hits the mark without even trying. Father used to I'll grow into it, but I think I'm just... not a warrior."
He looked up at Alaric, his lower lip trembling slightly with the raw honesty only a child can muster. "Maybe I should just stick to climbing. At least the walls don't move."
Alaric looked down at the boy.
Alaric didn't offer a comforting pat on the back or a "don't worry about it." Instead, he stood up and walked into the mud. He picked up the fallen bow, wiped a smear of slush from the grip, and held it out.
"Stand up," Alaric said.
Bran got to his feet, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Alaric stepped behind him, moving the boy's feet until they were shoulder-width apart. He reached out and adjusted Bran's left arm, locking the elbow slightly.
"You're squeezing the wood like you're trying to choke it. Loosen your hand. It's a tool, not a club."
He waited for Bran to relax his grip. Then, he tapped the boy's shoulder.
"Stop looking at the whole target," Alaric said. "Look only at the very center of the black paint. Clear your mind and just focus. Alright?"
Bran nodded and took a breath. This time, his hands stayed steady. He pulled the string back, his fingers barely trembling as Alaric watched. He let go. The arrow hissed through the air and thudded into the straw. It wasn't a bullseye, but it stayed in the hay.
"Better," Alaric said. He stepped back, his face unreadable as he tightened his cloak. "Keep doing exactly that. A hundred times before sundown."
Alaric turned to leave, his boots crunching on the frozen ground as he headed toward the Great Hall. He hadn't gone five steps before he felt a tug on his sleeve.
Bran had followed him. The boy leaned in close, his voice barely a breath against the wind.
"I haven't told anyone," Bran whispered, his eyes darting toward the guards on the wall. "Not even Mother. I'm keeping the promise. I'll wait until I'm strong enough, just like you said."
Alaric's hand came down heavy on Bran's shoulder. He didn't flinch at the boy's words.
"Good boy," he said.
Alaric stood tall as the sound of heavy boots hit the dirt. Robb Stark walked toward them, his face pulled into the same serious look his father always wore. Theon Greyjoy followed, hands tucked into his belt and a sharp smirk on his face. Theon's eyes moved over Alaric with a look of pure annoyance.
"Alaric," Robb said, stopping a few feet away. He glanced at Bran's arrow in the straw. "My brother is finally hitting the target."
Alaric nodded. "He's good. He just needs training and a bit of focus."
Robb looked at Bran, then turned his gaze back to Alaric. He finally asked what he had come to ask. "And I heard you also brought a 'servant' with you?"
Theon snorted, looking Alaric up and down. His lip curled as if the idea was a joke.
"He isn't a servant," Alaric said, his voice flat. "I found him on the Kingsroad. I saved his life, and he decided he'd rather follow me than die in the snow. Now, he just keeps calling himself my servant."
Robb gave a slow nod. "And the woman? The guards at the gate said you arrived with a girl as well. Who is she?"
Before Alaric could speak, the heavy doors of the Keep creaked open. Maester Luwin hurried out, clutching a piece of parchment. His metal chain clinked against his robes as he stopped beside them, looking worried.
"Lord Robb," Luwin said, his voice tight. "A raven from the Twins. Lord Walder Frey is calling for blood. His daughter has been kidnapped."
Robb's brow furrowed. "Kidnapped? By who?"
"We don't know," Luwin said, squinting at the ink. "The escort was slaughtered near the Neck—a massacre. Not a man was left alive. It happened three weeks ago. Lord Walder is offering a massive reward for information. He's sent out descriptions of—"