Bran Stark hung suspended in mid-air, clinging to a thick stone statue that jutted from the outer wall of the tower. His fingers were stiff from gripping the cold rock for so long, yet he didn't dare shift an inch. A moment earlier, he had been happily climbing the way he always did—quick, agile, and fearless. But then he heard it.
A woman's voice floated up through one of the open windows beneath him.
"I don't like this," Bran muttered under his breath. "Why now…"
Below him stretched a row of narrow windows, and from the third one he heard her again.
"You should be the Hand of the King!"
A man answered with lazy impatience. "Spare me. I don't want that chore. There are far better things I want to do…"
Their voices were growing clearer, and Bran's stomach twisted with sudden fear. If he swung past the window as usual, they might glance up and see him. So instead he hugged the cold stone, holding himself perfectly still, suspended like a spider caught between two points.
The woman's voice rose, sharp with irritation. "Can't you see the danger in this? Robert treats that man like a brother!"
The man gave a soft, amused sigh. "Robert couldn't stand either of his brothers. But honestly, who can blame him? Anyone would feel sick spending too long with Stannis."
"Don't be ridiculous. Stannis and Renly are one matter. Eddard Stark is another."
Ned Stark.
Bran froze, suddenly alert. They were talking about Father.
"Robert will listen to Stark," the woman went on. "Damn it, both of them deserve to be cursed. I should have insisted Robert choose you instead. I always thought Stark would refuse!"
"We're lucky enough," the man replied, trying to sound soothing. Bran could almost hear the indulgent smile in his voice. "If Stark had refused, the King might have chosen Stannis or Littlefinger. At least Stark values honor. I'd sleep more soundly facing a man ruled by honor instead of ambition."
Bran didn't understand much of what they were saying. But he understood enough to know this conversation wasn't meant for anyone else's ears—least of all his.
His curiosity, however, was irresistible.
He tilted his head, trying to listen better. Maybe if he just moved a little closer…
"We need to keep a close eye on him," the woman declared.
"And on his bastard," she added sharply. "We cannot ignore what happened. I believe Qiao wasn't lying."
The man snorted softly, uninterested. "Joffrey was just frightened… Forget it. I'd rather look at you."
A little thump, then the faint rustle of fabric drifted up to Bran. If he could see through the stone wall, he might have glimpsed the handsome, golden-haired man drawing a woman—also golden-haired—into his arms.
But Bran heard the woman's voice again, sharper and more strained. "Eddard Stark has never interfered in Southern politics. Never!"
The man seemed intent on nuzzling her neck instead of listening to her words.
"There are many reasons," he murmured against her skin. "Honor. Duty. Maybe he simply wants to help a friend…"
"That's too simple," she whispered harshly. "If he takes the Handship, he leaves his power base. That means something."
"Or maybe," the man continued, speaking lazily between breaths, "he wants his name in the histories. Perhaps he and his wife had a quarrel and he wants a warmer place to sleep."
The woman stiffened suddenly. Bran sensed it even from outside the wall.
"His wife—Catelyn—is Lysa's sister," she said. "Why didn't Lysa come to welcome us? Why didn't she accuse us the moment we arrived?"
The man's tone turned dismissive. "You're overthinking. Lysa Arryn is a frightened cow."
"This cow," Cersei hissed, "shared her bed with Jon Arryn."
"If she truly knew anything, she would have told Robert the moment he decided to send her useless son to Casterly Rock. She'd keep her mouth shut if it meant keeping her child safe."
The argument went back and forth—one sentence from her, one from him—like a tightening rope. Bran dared not move. His muscles burned, his fingers numbed, but he kept listening.
"You're as blind as Robert," the woman snapped.
"If you mean I share his views," the man answered, "you're right. Eddard Stark would sooner die than betray the King."
"He already betrayed one king," she reminded him, her voice icy. "Have you forgotten?"
He didn't answer at once.
"What if Robert dies?" she whispered. "What if Joffrey becomes king?"
"Then the sooner Robert dies," she said, voice dangerously calm, "the safer we will be."
Inside, the rustling stopped. Outside, Bran forgot how to breathe.
That was treason. Worse than treason. They were talking about killing the King.
He needed to tell someone. Mother. Father. Robb.
But what could he say? I heard voices while climbing a tower I wasn't supposed to climb?
No. He needed to see their faces. Without that, no one would believe him.
He had to get closer.
"Stop worrying about the future," the man said tiredly. "Can't we just enjoy what we have right now?"
"Don't say such things," she barked.
"But you keep talking," the man replied, exasperated. "And it's tiring. Shut up now… and come here."
A sharp slap. A man's laugh.
Bran swallowed.
He needed a better angle.
He shifted, hooking his leg over the gargoyle's wing, and pulled himself up. In moments he moved with the familiar nimbleness of a squirrel, climbing onto the roof. Snow crunched beneath his boots, crisp and cold. Then he swung down to the stone gargoyle that sat directly above the window.
He lowered himself slowly until he hung upside down, legs hooked around the stone beast, fingers gripping the rough edge. The world turned on its head. The courtyard spun beneath him, a mosaic of white snow, shadow, and stone.
But Bran had no interest in the view.
He peered through the window.
Two bodies intertwined. Blond hair against blond hair. Pale skin flushed with heat in the cold northern air.
Soft, breathy sounds. The slap of skin. A woman's gasping plea—"No… don't… stop… oh—please…"
Her voice was fragile, but she never pushed the man away. Instead, she clutched his golden hair, dragging his head downward.
Bran recognized her immediately.
Queen Cersei.
His breath hitched. He stared, horrified, unable to look away.
Cersei Lannister. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The wife of King Robert.
And the man—
Bran recognized him a half-second later: the Queen's brother. Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.
His mind reeled. His fingers slipped slightly against the stone.
The sound was small—barely more than a faint scuff—but Cersei heard it.
She froze. Her eyes snapped open—green, sharp, feral.
They locked directly onto Bran's face, hanging upside down outside her window.
A split second of stunned silence.
Then—
A scream ripped through the tower, shrill enough to stab through Bran's skull.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)