The wild Arya

"Arya!" He firmly answered. She was the wildest and fiercest of his siblings. The Northerners would follow most loyally to one of their own. The fact that she was the last in line to inherit his father's domain was unimportant. The Manderlys, the Umbers, the Glovers, all of his numerous bannerman were loyal to the North, and Arya was the North incarnate in female form.

"Thank you for your honesty, lord Stark." Melisandre, as he had heard it, spoke.

And with that he was left alone in his dark cell. Bran mulled over what he was told. The last living Stark. Hearing those news, that Sansa had died particularly hurt him. He wished he'd told her while he still had the chance, even if she was disgusted by his confession. He wished he'd told her how beautiful she was. How much he wanted to smell her hair and hold her on his arms at night.

But now she was dead.

And his brother Robb, and his father, and his mother too. Rickon and Arya were still missing, but it was likely that they were also dead. He felt tears streaming down his face. He wished that Meera was with him to console him.

Gods, how stupid he was to think he could save her alone. All that when she wasn't even alive in the first place. At least he wouldn't be in a dark cell in gods-know-where.

He was angry, but even his **** had been denied once he'd been told that the scum that had done it was already killed.

His anger gave way to sadness, and his sadness gave way to tiredness and before Bran could've notice, he fell asleep on the cold and hard floor.