Ned's words were like a fist in his stomach. He supposed that it oughtn't have been too surprising, really. He was twenty. Why couldn't Arya be eighteen? And yet... that meant his older sister was now his younger sister, and that was too much to think about. Bran hid his confusion as best he could and smiled at his father. "A blessing, indeed."
From whom, he didn't know.
Then it was as if Bran were eight again. He was being lifted from the metal chair. Quickly, he put his arms about Ned's neck, all the while wishing he wasn't so heavy - or that he could walk on his own. - He wasn't able to dwell too long on his misery, however. As they passed through the keep, it was all Bran could do not to cry from happiness. He had missed his home. He could feel the warmth coming off of the stone walls. He could smell the damp earth, as his father bore him outside, the pine needles, the bubbling, muddy springs. He was glad, as they entered the dark godswood, that his father hadn't yet caught his foot in the looping roots.
The silence was disquieting. And it only grew as they drew deeper into the forest. Here, however, it was always quiet. Bran looked from tree to tree, from sentinel to oak. Then, suddenly, the heart tree loomed before them, bone white with red leaves reaching high, standing over its still black pool. Its face regarded them long and sad. There was a power here, Bran knew. The old gods were watching.
When Ned eased him to the ground, Bran looked at his father. As a child, Bran had been scared of the weirwood and its melancholy. But as he grew into his powers, he came to love and respect heart trees of the north. He smiled again. "Now," he said. "We're home."