Bran stood at the gates of the manor, staring bnkly at the pair of teenagers before him—a boy and a girl, likely close to his age in this world, though in his mind, time didn’t quite move in straight lines.

  The girl gently nudged a mb forward, reluctant to let it go. It had only been gone a few days, but the moment it saw Bran, the creature leapt and rubbed itself all over him, bleating with joy. Still, Bran couldn’t bring himself to feel happy.

  You managed to steal something from a Northerner. You should’ve worn it like a trophy, Bran thought. At the very least, wait until I show up, challenge you properly, and beat you so thoroughly that you hand it back in tears. Since when are our peoples on such friendly terms?

  He felt... vioted. A strange kind of humiliation—like a line had been crossed while he wasn’t watching. And more than anything, he just wanted Dany. Her arms, her calm presence. He raised his hand instinctively, reaching to the familiar height where she would usually take it.

  But Dany wasn’t here.

  His hand hung in the air for a beat, then he dropped it and turned away from the gate, walking back inside without a word, leaving the two confused teenagers standing awkwardly at the entrance.

  They were just about to turn and leave when Bran reappeared—this time with a tall warrior woman at his side.

  Dany.

  Her presence changed the air instantly. The two youths straightened. Her name, her reputation—the stories were beginning to spread. The rumors of what she’d done. Of who she was.

  But strength didn’t always breed fear. For these two, it bred admiration.

  “You can take the mb back,” Dany said calmly. “Bran and I will come fetch it ourselves... when we have the time.”

  The teens’ eyes lit up. An acknowledgment. A warrior’s courtesy. A challenge, perhaps? They bowed formally.

  “Aemon and Elene greet you,” they said in unison.

  “And if time allows,” Dany added with a half-smile, “you’re welcome to visit the mountain vil.”

  Young hearts don’t need much—just a look of recognition, a sense of equality. That’s often enough to inspire them for days.

  …

  The two teens cheerfully carried the mb back to their camp, proud of the strange encounter. Their elders, however, were less impressed.

  The Northerners are slipping, one of the veterans thought. Since when do they wait overnight to recim what’s theirs?

  By tradition, any stolen item was to be recimed that very day—or else it didn’t matter. And yet, Bran hadn’t come. No shouting, no demands. Just… quiet. And now the adults had to wonder.

  “We'll come fetch it ourselves—when we have the time.”

  What kind of vague, evasive wording was that? Since when did Northerners use such soft-edged diplomacy?

  Still, Dany’s invitation to visit the mountain vil didn’t go unnoticed.

  We’ll pretend we didn’t catch the sarcasm, they decided. They say we Northerners don’t understand polite nguage anyway.

  So they told their children to visit more often, to “observe” this Bran and his warrior. The vil was impressively id out—too good for the backwater north. Might as well get a closer look.

  …

  Children, of course, had their own world. No matter how many warnings or agendas their families pnted in their heads, the youths—brought to the North for all kinds of reasons—soon blended into one messy, boisterous crowd. And so, the once-quiet courtyard of the castle began to hum with chatter, ughter, and the light footsteps of rivalry.

  Vanity bloomed as expected. Whenever Bran’s two sisters appeared wearing fine ribbons or jeweled combs, they instantly became the center of attention. His younger sister, Cyrene, especially—she would always come running to his side, full of exaggerated concern.

  Even if Bran’s “idiocy” had returned recently, it only made her more protective.

  With her at his side, several curious gnces followed. Not all of them unkind.

  Some of the children remembered their lessons: Be courteous. Observe. Find the weak points. And if you couldn’t make an impression on the lords, perhaps befriending their “broken” kin would do.

  So one or two girls began to hover near Bran. Not too close—just enough to seem caring. After all, the “idiot” wouldn’t reject them, wouldn’t scowl or scoff. If they kept the tone soft and the distance proper, they could chat without shame.

  One such girl stood by Bran now—graceful, composed, overly polite.

  But to Bran, she reeked of drama css.

  "What, were you reincarnated from the theater school of some overly sentimental realm?" he grumbled silently. She even looked disappointed that his clothes were so clean. If only there had been some dust or grass stains for her to fuss over…

  Meanwhile, his older sister pyed hostess, leading a gaggle of carefree girls through the grounds, slowly widening the gap between them and Bran.

  He sighed. In the end, only family’s reliable in a crowd like this.

  …

  Where there are boys and girls, comparisons bloom. And where comparisons bloom, so too does conflict.

  One particur boy now stood before Bran, face stern—not jealous, but bothered.

  Bran didn’t dislike him. The boy had been decent enough—until the others began teasing. Apparently, his little sister had spent too much time around that mute Northern boy. To protect her honor, he’d decided it was time to intervene.

  Bran couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for the girl. She had tried to be cautious at first, watching what she said around Cyrene. But after Bran gave his sister’s hand a gentle squeeze—a quiet signal—Cyrene left them alone.

  And that was when the girl began to talk.

  Maybe it was Bran’s silence. Maybe it was the way he listened. But her words spilled out—about her family, her frustrations. The kind of petty, exaggerated drama only teenagers believed were monumental.

  “Two years ago,” she said, eyes wide, “my parents got into a real fight. All because they couldn’t agree on which foot to step out the door with first.”

  Bran had no idea how to respond. He simply nodded occasionally.

  Meanwhile, the boy who dragged her away did notice something—his sister’s unwillingness to leave. That hint of attachment. Everyone’s searching for someone who actually listens, Bran thought. Not someone who just waits for their turn to speak.

  And this girl had found it. Which meant…

  He’d be hearing from her again.

  Probably often.

  …

  That evening, Bran and Cyrene sat on the railing, legs swinging.

  “So what did she say to you?” Cyrene asked, squinting at the sunset.

  “Nothing much. Life, dreams, family.”

  “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  Bran smirked. “What else would there be? We were in the middle of the courtyard. What did you expect?”