A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2)

by George R.R. Martin

Jojen’s eyes were the color of moss, and sometimes when he looked at you he seemed to be seeing something else. Like now. “I dreamed of a winged wolf bound to earth with grey stone chains,” he said. “It was a green dream, so I knew it was true. A crow was trying to peck through the chains, but the stone was too hard and his beak could only chip at them.” “Did the crow have three eyes?” Jojen nodded. Summer raised his head from Bran’s lap, and gazed at the mudman with his dark golden eyes. “When I was little I almost died of greywater fever. That was when the crow came to me.” “He came to me after I fell,” Bran blurted. “I was asleep for a long time. He said I had to fly or die, and I woke up, only I was broken and I couldn’t fly after all.” “You can if you want to.” Picking up her net, Meera shook out the last tangles and began arranging it in loose folds. “You are the winged wolf, Bran,” said Jojen. “I wasn’t sure when we first came, but now I am. The crow sent us here to break your chains.” “Is the crow at Greywater?” “No. The crow is in the north.” “At the Wall?” Bran had always wanted to see the Wall. His bastard brother Jon was there now, a man of the Night’s Watch. “Beyond the Wall.” Meera Reed hung the net from her belt. “When Jojen told our lord father what he’d dreamed, he sent us to Winterfell.”