After Bran left the room, his sister exhaled with a dramatic scoff.“He’s so stingy,” she muttered, arms crossed over her chest.

  Their mother gave her a side gnce, her expression calm but firm.“No. He’s not stingy at all.”

  The sister raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are we talking about the same Bran?”

  “Look at your gear,” their mother said, nodding toward the girl’s armor and weaponry. “Every piece you're wearing has been reworked by your brother.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve asked him for help before, he ignored me completely.”

  The mother’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s because you never notice the little things. Ask Dany—she’ll tell you.”

  “He’s her master. Of course she’ll take his side.”

  “Then ask your own squire. Lissa.”

  The sister turned to the quiet girl standing behind her. Lissa gave a hesitant nod, then another, firmer one.

  “Bran doesn’t boast. He doesn’t expin himself. But he’s been refining all your weapons,” Lissa said gently. “Your bde’s weight? The bance? The way the hilt fits your hand just right now? You thought it was your training improving, but… he’s been adjusting it in silence. Watching you train. Taking notes. Then changing things—quietly, precisely. I’ve seen him do it.”

  “You’re telling me my idiot brother’s a genius now?” she grumbled.

  The mother let out a soft sigh. “You always called him forgetful. But how could someone who 'doesn’t remember people' custom-craft weapons for each knight in this keep? How could he tune their bdes to the rhythm of their strongest strike? He saw each of them show off their favorite move once, back when we were still building the manor—and he never forgot.”

  Her voice dropped, warmer now.

  “He’s not forgetful. He just… doesn’t know how to be close to people. So he pretends. Pys the fool. Makes up reasons to keep his distance. But I’ve watched him get rejected—then walk away like it didn’t matter. And yet… it always did.”

  The sister shifted uncomfortably.

  “Have you ever seen his room disorganized?” the mother asked. “Everything he owns is in perfect order. Except that box he carried in today—jewelry spilling over, nothing wrapped. That wasn’t an accident. He wanted you to take something. It’s a game he pys with himself.”

  The sister blinked.

  “A game?”

  “Yes. A little scavenger hunt,” the mother smiled faintly. “Every time he wants to give someone a gift, he first shows it off, then pretends to forget it. Leaves it somewhere visible but slightly out of reach. Says, ‘Whoever finds it, keeps it,’ and waits to see who wins.”

  The younger children giggled.

  “So you took the whole box,” one of them accused their mother with admiration.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to let that opportunity pass,” she said with a sly grin. “Don’t look so betrayed. One of those weapons was made for you.”

  The sister's eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  “He shouted something earlier about ‘two daggers for your sister when she grows up.’ You really think he only prepared something for the youngest? He always makes an extra. Just in case.”

  She crossed her arms, her voice softening again.

  “You two were close once. Do you remember?”

  The sister didn’t answer.

  “You were the only one he talked to. You’d come running, saying ‘Bran said something again!’ But no one else could understand him. You called it your secret nguage—he’d say something strange, and you’d repeat it proudly to the rest of us like it was prophecy.”

  A faint flush rose in the girl’s cheeks.

  “Then you started your training. The two of you drifted. And one day, you called him an idiot to his face. He stopped talking after that. Not just to you—to anyone. He stood by the gate for hours, staring out at nothing.”

  There was a pause. Then the mother lifted her wrist, revealing a bracelet of twisted silver and copper.

  “He made this for me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He said, ‘I remember everything.’”

  She looked at her daughter.

  “Only… you forgot.”

  “Dany,” one of the younger siblings chirped. “You’ve spent the most time with Bran tely. Has he ever told you a story?”

  Dany smiled, suddenly shy.

  “He told stories all the time… but not in the usual way. Whenever he painted those beasts on the courtyard wall—each one came with a tale. At first, only Huahua listened. Later… I started paying attention.”

  She paused. Then began, softly:

  “Once upon a time, in a nd of rusted moons and crooked trees…”

  Before she could finish the sentence, Bran’s sister interrupted—speaking in a strange cadence, her words guttural, rhythmic, and incomprehensible. The room froze. Then she waved at Dany to continue, like nothing had happened.

  The mother’s gaze lingered on her daughter with a quiet smile.

  That evening, Bran sat on the guardrail of the upper slope, staring off into the dimming sky. His sister approached quietly and said something—again, in that strange, forgotten tongue.

  He turned slowly, surprise blooming across his face. Then he replied, haltingly at first, then more fluidly. And just like that, the two began to speak again. The ancient nguage of their childhood—the one no one else could ever decipher—came alive between them.

  Bran watched her, and for a moment, he didn’t see the hardened warrior she had become. He saw a scrappy little girl with oversized boots, puffing out her chest and lecturing him on how to be a proper little brother.

  He reached out and tousled her hair, earning a pair of swift, retaliatory cws across his own scalp.

  From below, little Cyrie peeked over the balcony railing, eager to join—but their mother gently pced a hand on her shoulder.

  “Let them have this moment,” she whispered.

  And so the two sat beneath the pale stars, speaking in a forgotten tongue that still remembered them.