He doesnít know this, of course; he canít remember. Thereís no reason for the ache, he thinks. But sometimes when Bran sleeps he hears the sound of a clear, ringing bark and he remembers. A silver shadow by his side, a bright-eyed puppy in his arms, a wagging tail, a protector, guide, a surrogate mother of sorts.
Bran talks in his sleep, then, and he wakes with his cheeks wet with tears. He wipes them away, of course, and wonders dreamily at his grief.
He canít remember.