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Summary
Bran knows the padding footsteps behind him, and he opens his eyes to the noise as he returns to his kneel. "Your grace." Jojen bows swiftly, his soft straw hair swept sideways in the unsteady breeze.
"Please, don't," Bran whispers as Jojen lights beside him, staring deep into the snowy, cracked bark of the heart tree. "I was never meant to carry the crown. I'm not Robb, or my father, or--" Bran feels his heart aflutter.
"You will always be my king," the lord of the crannogmen whispers as he draws close enough to mix brown with silky straw.
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