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“Lady Hornwood can have one of our Freys,” said Bran. “She can have both of them if she likes.”
　　“You are not kind, my prince,” Ser Rodrik chided gently.
　　Neither are the Walders. Scowling, Bran stared down at the table and said nothing.
　　In the days that followed, ravens arrived from other lordly houses, bearing regrets. The bastard of the Dreadfort would not be joining them, the Mormonts and Karstarks had all gone south with Robb, Lord Locke was too old to dare the journey, Lady Flint was heavy with child, there was sickness at Widow’s Watch. Finally all of the principal vassals of House Stark had been heard from save for Howland Reed the crannogman, who had not set foot outside his swamps for many a year, and the Cerwyns whose castle lay a half day’s ride from Winterfell. Lord Cerwyn was a captive of the Lannisters, but his son, a lad of fourteen, arrived one bright, blustery morning at the head of two dozen lances. Bran was riding Dancer around the yard when they came through the gate. He trotted over to greet them. Cley Cerwyn had always been a friend to Bran and his brothers.
　　“Good morrow, Bran,” Cley called out cheerfully. “Or must I call you Prince Bran now?”
　　“Only if you want.”
　　Cley laughed. “Why not? Everyone else is a king or prince these days. Did Stannis write Winterfell as well?”
　　“Stannis? I don’t know.”
　　“He’s a king now too,” Cley confided. “He says Queen Cersei bedded her brother, so Joffrey is a bastard.”

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