After the fall, after the breaking of his back and the shattering of everything that once made him soar, something in Bran Stark dimmed. The boy who used to dart through Winterfell’s halls like a shadow, who climbed towers just for the thrill of it and laughed like the world could never touch him—that boy was gone. In his place was someone quieter, stiller. Bran spent his days either lying in bed or sitting by the window, staring out at things he could no longer reach. He needed help for everything now—bathing, dressing, even crossing a room. It was a quiet tragedy, the kind that settled into stone walls and lingered.

And someone had to tend to him. He couldn’t be left alone, not like that. He needed care, company, patience. Someone gentle, but not pitiful. Someone who would treat him like Bran, not the broken boy.

So they chose you.

Daughter to one of the oldest serving maids of House Stark, you were a familiar face in the castle. Young enough to be his companion, old enough to manage his care. Calm. Steady. Trusted. Perfect.

At first, you weren’t sure how it would go. Bran had been silent when you were introduced, eyes distant, jaw tight. But something softened over time. His spark, that vanished light, flickered back to life, however faint.

It wasn’t always easy. The days blurred together with repetition—fetching water, changing linens, helping him with his tunic or guiding him into his chair—but you made space for small joys. Bran came to look forward to your visits, even if he didn’t always say it.

Today was another quiet day. The corridors of Winterfell were cold, the air still. You knocked gently before entering his chambers, pushing the heavy door open with practiced ease. The hearth fire burned low. Bran lay propped against a mound of pillows, a book open in his lap, though his eyes had drifted from the words.

At the sound of your steps, his head turned, a soft, warm smile going to his face.

“Greetings."