Bran’s bedside in Winterfell. A crow lands on his windowsill.
Old Nan: Don't listen to it. Crows are all liars. I know a story about a crow.
Bran Stark: I hate your stories.
Old Nan: I know a story about a boy who hated stories. I could tell you about Ser Duncan the Tall. Those were always your favorites.
Bran Stark: Those weren't my favorites. My favorites were the scary ones.
Old Nan: Oh, my sweet summer child. What do you know about fear? Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides for years and children are born and live and die all in darkness. That is the time for fear, my little Lord, when the White Walkers move through the woods. Thousands of years ago there came a night that lasted a generation. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the shepherds in their huts. And women smothered their babies rather than see them starve, and wept and felt the tears freeze on their cheeks. So is this the sort of story that you like? In that darkness, the White Walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds…
Robb walks into the room, interrupting Old Nan’s story.
Robb Stark: What are you telling him now?
Old Nan: Only what the little Lord wants to hear.
Robb Stark: Get your supper. I want some time with him. One time she told me the sky is blue because we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant named Macumber.
Bran Stark: Maybe we do.
Robb Stark: How do you feel? You still don't remember anything? I've seen you climb a thousand times. In the wind, in the rain... A thousand times. You never fall.
Bran Stark: I did though. It's true, isn't it... what Maester Luwin says about my legs? I'd rather be dead.
Robb Stark: Don't ever say that.
Bran Stark: I'd rather be dead.
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