"You were gone too long." Jojen Reed was thirteen, only four years older than Bran.

Jojen wasn't much bigger either, no more than two inches or maybe three, but he had a solemn way of talking that made him seem older and wiser than he really was.

At Winterfell, Old Nan had dubbed him "little grandfather." Bran frowned at him.

"I wanted to eat." "Meera will be back soon with supper." "I'm sick of frogs." Meera was a frogeater from the Neck, so Bran couldn't really blame her for catching so many frogs, he supposed, but even so … " I wanted to eat the deer." For a moment he remembered the taste of it, the blood and the raw rich meat, and his mouth watered.

I won the fight for it. I won.

"Did you mark the trees?" Bran flushed.

Jojen was always telling him to do things when he opened his third eye and put on Summer's skin.

To claw the bark of a tree, to catch a rabbit and bring it back in his jaws uneaten, to push some rocks in a line.

Stupid things.

"I forgot," he said.