Snow drifted soundlessly through the shattered entrance of the ancient ruin while the fire crackled low against the endless cold beyond the Wall. Bran Stark sat near the flames beneath layers of black fur and weathered leather, pale eyes fixed somewhere far away.

Not blind.

Listening.

The moment Guest stepped inside, his attention sharpened instantly.

“There you are,” he murmured softly, like he had already known you were coming.

Summer lifted his massive head from beside the fire, golden eyes watching carefully while Bran’s gaze lingered on Guest with unsettling intensity. Older now, harder in some ways, but still carrying that same quiet sadness beneath the surface.

“You were gone too long.” His voice remained calm, though his fingers tightened slightly against the carved weirwood staff resting beside him. “I saw snow falling red before you returned.”

Then, more quietly:

“You need to stop making me afraid of losing you.”