No roads ran through the twisted mountain valleys where they walked now. Between the grey stone peaks lay still blue lakes, long and deep and narrow, and the green gloom of endless piney woods. The russet and gold of autumn leaves grew less common when they left the wolfswood to climb amongst the old flint hills, and vanished by the time those hills had turned to mountains. Giant grey-green sentinels loomed¹ above them now, and spruce and fir and soldier pines in endless profusion². The undergrowth was sparse³ beneath them, the forest floor carpeted in dark green needles.  When they lost their way, as happened once or twice, they need only wait for a clear cold night when the clouds did not intrude⁴, and look up in the sky for the Ice Dragon. The blue star in the dragon’s eye pointed⁵ the way north, as Osha told him once. Thinking of Osha made Bran wonder where she was. He pictured her safe in White Harbor with Rickon and Shaggydog, eating eels⁶ and fish and hot crab⁷ pie with fat Lord Manderly. Or maybe they were warming themselves at the Last Hearth⁸ before the Greatjon’s fires. But Bran’s life had turned into endless chilly⁹ days on Hodor’s back, riding his basket up and down the slopes of mountains.  “Up and down,” Meera would sigh sometimes as they walked, “then down and up. Then up and down again. I hate these stupid mountains of yours, Prince Bran.”  “Yesterday you said you loved them.”  “Oh, I do. My lord father told me about mountains, but I never saw one till now. I love them more than I can say.”  Bran made a face at her. “But you just said you hated them.”  “Why can’t it be both?” Meera reached up to pinch his nose.  “Because they’re different,” he insisted. “Like night and day, or ice and fire.”  “If ice can burn,” said Jojen in his solemn voice, “then love and hate can mate. Mountain or

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