POPPY | Game Of Thrones

SEVEN

it was not dead, just broken.
like me, i'm not dead either.

WHEN HE WAS YOUNGER, Bran curiously inquired his mother about what happened after one dies. Lady Catelyn had asked, surprised by such a question from a boy of the age of six, "Why is such a thing on your mind?"

He hadn't wanted to tell her it was because curiosity had gotten the best of him. That he had followed his father and brothers on one misty afternoon and saw them gathering on the plains just beyond Winterfell. That he had watched his father, with his sword in hand, look down at a helpless man in black. Watched as his father raised his sword high above his head. Watched as for just one second Westeros itself seemed to stop—the leaves didn't rustle, and the clouds didn't move—then with a swift swipe the sword was sunken deep in the grass, the man's head inches from his body and red blood dripping from the thick blade.

So, instead, he lied. Saying he'd seen a bird falling from a tree, yet still, his mother didn't give him a sufficient answer. "That is not something you should be worried about." Lady Catelyn smoothed his hair down before telling him to run along.

Still, Bran wanted an answer.

So, he went looking for Maester Luwin, surely he would know.

It took little time to find the Maester, he had been where he always was in his dungeon chambers. The scents of herbs and brews were strong and stung Bran's nose. "Maester Luwin." The kind man's brown eyes flickered up towards the small boy approaching his workbench.

"Hello Bran," Maester Luwin finished chopping a few herbs before adding them to the smoking cauldron. "What can I do for you?"

Bran swallowed, pushing himself on his toes to add to his height. Maybe this would make him seem more mature, he thought before speaking. "What happens after somebody dies?"

Setting down his knife, the Maester exhaled. "Bran why—"

"I just want to know," he spoke. "I need to know."