Chapter 120

It stood in the snow, glancing back at the stone-built castle; snowflakes had already dyed it pure white, and it stood alone amidst the vast trees and wilderness.

His father, mother, brothers and sisters had all lived there; now no relative remained in the castle—they were either dead or scattered across the world.

Summer, Summer also had brothers and sisters.

The shaggy dog, that was its youngest brother; it could feel it, it was howling to the sky in grief and terror inside Winterfell, its voice a miserable wail.

Was it howling for Rickon?

He felt like crying.

But wolves don't cry, and direwolves even less so.

He had already consumed the little boy's fear together with Summer; now only the boy's sorrow remained, with no outlet for it, so he could only howl alone in the forest.

Perhaps only the moon understood his sorrow, but the moon hid behind the gray clouds, and he could not feel it.

His leg still hurt; the arrow wound made long-distance running difficult, so he could only hide in the forest.

Hide, hide.

He is a direwolf, not an injured puppy; he ought not to hide, nor should he avoid the boy's retainers and soldiers.

But it cannot. He cannot let people think that all Starks are monsters, nor that the direwolf raised by the Starks is mad and impulsive.

He felt tired.

He was too tired, too hungry; his four hooves walking in the stream were already numb from the cold.

If he relied only on Summer, the arrow that had pierced its hind leg would have killed the direwolf, but Summer still had him.

The hunters of Winterfell were tracking its blood trail; to shake them off, Bran, exerting all his strength and ingenuity, after enduring endless pain, painstakingly removed the arrow, pulled it out, and when he stood up again using Summer's body, he almost collapsed from the pain.

Before, when he entered Summer's body, this pain would always push him out; but now he felt he could stay as long as he wanted.

He went downstream, washing the blood from his hooves with the stream water, letting the water cover his 'escape' traces.

Following the stream northward, it wouldn't be long before he saw the farm nearest the market; he had countless times followed his brothers north past this place, witnessing the scenery of the North.

Back then it was still Summer.

The farm's green trees grew in clusters; the sentry trees and soldier pines, with their lush branches and leaves, adorned the path to the farm with pleasant shade; on the farm, the piglets born of the sow ran wildly about the large stone courtyard, and chickens foraged everywhere; outside, cattle and sheep grazed on the grass sprouts in the hills' stone crevices and the wilds; hunting dogs patrolled the hills, fields, and wilderness, and he remembered Harwin singing a lively song, after which everyone laughed.

Back then the stream water was clear, not as icy as now; tufts of green aquatic plants crawled from the streambed, stretching along the flow into the distance, eventually merging into the endless wheat fields of the plain.

Now that summer has passed, what meets the eye is withered yellow grass; ice and snow cover their roots, their slender stalks cannot bear the weight of the snow, they collapse onto the snow, and a light snowfall would bury them completely.

He did not know whether, after the next summer, they would rise again, send up green shoots, and continue to dot the mountains and wilderness with green, letting hares and foxes pass through.

He felt hungry.

He knew where food was, but that food belonged to his former subjects and vassals, not to Summer, nor to him now.

He seemed to smell those piglets.

He stopped, pricking up his ears and nose to listen and smell.

The cold wind brought him the information he wanted, each of their actions forming a picture in his mind. He knew the piglets' current size, and what else was around them—about thirty noisy chickens, eight cows, forty-two sheep, a few of the lambs possibly just right, and besides those, three hunting dogs.

He had seen these hunting dogs before, and felt they recognized him and Summer. But he did not want to communicate with the dogs, let alone negotiate with them on how to steal these animals.

He also heard and smelled the farmstead's movements.

He was a middle-aged man with a booming voice and sturdy build, who often went to Winterfell to bring Bran, Rickon, and his several sisters gifts of the harvest—handsome wildfowl, neatly prepared fox pelts, a fattened pig, and baskets of eggs and buckets of milk. His father and brothers also often returned the favor; when his sons reached a crucial age, they would always give bows, swords, and armor, and Mei Yi, upon returning from overseas, never forgot to send them gifts……

He had three sons and four daughters; his eldest son had died alongside Robb in the south, his second son had gone south with Sister Mei Yi, his fate unknown, his youngest son was still younger than Rickon…… His eldest daughter had married Karstark and borne a blond-haired child, but Bran had always suspected that the child was actually Xien's bastard, though he had never told anyone……

He turned and walked out of the stream toward the forest. His leg was injured; now was not the time to fight people or dogs. He also did not want the farmhand to recognize him, nor to have the farmhand see him as a thieving beast or a fallen Brandon Stark.

He needed to recover his health before he could proceed to the next step.

What was the next step? He did not know.

Cooking smoke rose above Winterfell, dissipating in the gray sky.

He could not help but stop and howl with deep feeling.

At that moment the farm's gate opened, making a creaky, twitching sound, and the hunting dogs began to bark all around.

Bran lowered his head and stepped toward the distant thicket.

The forest was quiet and expansive.

The falling snow seemed to spread a gray cloth over the forest floor; if he were still that child, he would feel everything the same, but now he was Summer, and the whole forest's panorama lay fully in his mind—he knew that everywhere was different.

To his east lay Winterfell; walking west along the cleared forest path would lead directly to Deepwood Motte.

He had been to Deepwood Motte only once, and only after repeatedly begging did they agree to take him along.

Along the way, Robb stayed by his father's side, and Xien stood guard on the other flank like his other grown son; only he was surrounded in the center of the guards, lonely as he passed through the dense forest, gazing at ancient trees he had never seen before. Qiongen occasionally joined his retinue, chatting with him awhile, pointing out the game on either side of the forest and the locations of the nearer fish‑scale trees along the route—he felt Qiongen was deliberately showing how familiar he was with this road.

He knew there were bears, deer, wild boar, roe deer, musk deer, and wolves here; he had seen hunters often bring game from this forest back to Winterfell.

On days when his father and brothers were absent, awaiting the return of the foreign hunters Roland and his crew was the boy's greatest hope.

He did not like eating that game, but he loved watching everyone feast on the roasted meat, eagerly sparring, feasting, and judging who excelled.

All that is past.

That was the boy's joy, not Summer's.

Summer ought to be in the woods, leading his wolf pack to hunt down prey one by one, living bravely on this land.

He recalled the scene from when he had accompanied his father to watch an execution—a giant wolf lay fallen in the snow, leaving behind six pups.

Qiaolikaisuo said they claimed there were no direwolves south of the Great Wall; thus Summer's true kin should be north of the Wall, and he should head north bearing his mother's mission to survive there.

He casually found a high spot and lay down beneath a large tree.

His leg sent waves of pain; he did not want to recall which guard had shot him with the arrow.

The forest's air was icy and sharp, lacking the smoke and fire smells of Winterfell, yet filled with other scents, some of game—but wounded, he could not bring down such prey.

He remembered the piglets he had seen on that farm in summer; perhaps if he swallowed just one, his wound would heal.

He endured the night's pain; feeling the wound's ache gradually ease, he shifted his consciousness, as if entering a dark room, then yielded his body to Summer.

It is the true master of this body, isn't it?

In the black space, he felt warm and safe; here he could still feel the brothers and sisters of Summer who were still alive.

That white brother seemed to be hunting with difficulty in the far north beyond the Great Wall; the sister in the south, the wolf named Nameria, was now leading her wolf pack in a frenzied assault, slaughtering fleeing soldiers and solitary pedestrians and horses. From Nameria's gaze he saw his own sister, the sister who rarely appeared in his dreams.

She was playful and thin, her archery and horsemanship superior to his; now she lay on a tattered mat, hidden in a street corner, her breathing calm, above her a brilliant starry sky.

Also, the fluffy dog of Approach Winter City, its green eyes full of anger and fear…… it doesn't know what happened, does it?

When he opened his eyes again, he found he had slept beneath a fish-beam tree, the taste of blood still in his mouth; he couldn't recall what prey Summer had found.

He looked at the white fish-beam tree, moved closer to that face, and sniffed with his nose.

A bitter taste.

The sky was still snowing; when he woke up, he found the wound on his leg completely healed, and he didn't know how long he had rested in the darkness.

He determined the direction, certain he was still in the Wolf Forest.

All directions were his domain, yet he hesitated, not knowing which way to go.

The wind and snow raged.

He finally ran eastward, to the place that haunted his dreams, feeling he could not leave it like a fugitive.

Heading east, the flying snow paused in the fur on his face before drifting off; a little melted on the tip of his nose, and he sensed his parents' scent in the snow.

Have they already reunited in the realm of the Old Gods?

In the snow he also sensed the scent of his smiling brother, feeling that they were all watching him.

Bu Lan wanted to cry, but Arctic wolves never cry.

He didn't know how to relieve himself, so he stopped his steps, stood still, and howled again at the gray sky.

When he felt somewhat better, he continued sprinting eastward, passing through the places often traversed by people at the Avoid Winter Market, carefully detouring around each passerby.

He leapt onto a nearby hill, stood on high ground, and gazed afar at Approach Winter City.

Cooking smoke still drifted above the city, dissipating into the gray clouds.

He was always familiar with this scent: the smoke of burning camphor wood, pine, and small brushwood; he also smelled the aroma of bread and roasted meat, and their lives continued.

He held back his howl. Perhaps this would be his last glance before leaving.

Summer will merge with the Old Gods over time, returning to his parents' wolf kingdom, and he too will follow his parents and brothers back into their embrace.

He rose, shook off the snow on his body, and stood alone on the hilltop.

From afar he smelled his sister's scent, heard the galloping hooves kicking the road, even heard her heavy breathing, and also heard the gate of Approach Winter City slowly opening.

He stepped down from the rocks, watching his sister ride her horse slowly into Approach Winter City.

He finally felt he could leave.

"Woo……"

He let out a howl, and then heard the younger brother of Approach Winter City, the fluffy dog, responding enthusiastically.

He made up his mind; this would be his final howl on his journey northward.