All of the usual disclaimers apply. This story is entirely fictional. This story contains depictions of young boys engaging in sexual acts, if you are offended or do not enjoy this subject do not read.
This story contains characters and places from “A Game of Thrones” from the series “A Song of Ice and Fire” written by George RR Martin. All places and characters contained therein are his work and belong to him.
Please do not publish this story anywhere without asking me first by emailing me at [email protected].
**************************************************************************************************
****Note From the Author****
This is my first attempt at writing my own story like this. I realy hope you enjoy it and hope to hear from my readers. Please E-mail any comments, questions, or suggestions to [email protected] and I will reply back to you asap. If I get enough feedback I am planning on continuing this story and possibly writing others. Happy reading!!!!
The Lone Wolf
Bran Stark had never felt more alone than he did now. His father was dead, and the gods
only knew about his sisters. Both of his brothers were off winning battles and bringing glory to
Winterfell and House Stark, but not him. He was Bran the broken, he was useless. After tonight
though he wouldn’t be a bother any longer, he would leave, as the castle slept. Rickon could be
Lord of Winterfell until Robb returned. After all he had Maester Luwin to guide him. There was
no place here any longer for a broken boy who had to be looked after.
Hodor entered Bran’s bed chamber just as Bran had commanded him earlier in the day.
He needed Hodor for even the simplest of tasks, the thought of it made Bran want to cry but he
would not.
“Hodor,” Hodor greeted his young Lord.
“Hello Hodor,” Bran responded in a melancholy tone. Bran was grateful for Hodor but
despised being dependent on the simple giant. Bran had Hodor pack a few things for him and
after Hodor gathered all he required it was time to dress for the journey. Bran was dressed in his
bed clothes but these would not do for the journey to come. Bran began to undress as he sat on
his bed looking down at his lifeless legs. Bran removed his night cloak revealing his naked body;
he was completely hairless from his neck all the way down his skinny body to his toes. He had a
small frame but he had tiny muscles beginning to develop on his arms, and his chest, and his
stomach. They made him look like a boy lord should. He had now grown enough so he no longer
had the look of a baby but a young boy; his eighth name day had already passed. His milky white
skin was flawless, save for a few boyish freckles that dotted his skin here and there. And there
between his legs was his manhood, well boyhood he supposed. He was quite small, only 3 inches,
nothing compared to Hodor, half giant in his manhood no different from everything else. Bran
remembered when he first saw it in the gods wood, how surprised he was to see Hodor’s giant
member swinging between his legs as he walked. It even excited him a little; he recalled
pondering what something that size would feel like inside of another human when they mated.
For a moment Bran imagined that he was the one receiving the half giant’s manhood. But he put
that thought away quickly; such thoughts were not befitting a highborn Lord, least of all a Stark
of Winterfell.
Bran always liked his body and the way he looked, with his boyish features and his
shaggy brown hair that hung down over his forehead. He didn’t receive the attention from the
girls the way Robb did but they did sometimes giggle with each other as he passed. But now
when others giggled or stared at Bran it was for a different reason.
Bran loved being naked like many boys of his age. It made him feel free and without
limits, much like he felt when he climbed, almost like a bird. And now that he couldn’t climb
being naked was the only freeing thing he had left. He didn’t mind being naked in front of
others, he had never minded. Before his accident sometimes he would run and climb the walls of
Winterfell naked on the rare occasion it was warm enough to do so.
One of his favorite things to do was climb to the top of one of Winterfell’s high deserted
towers and pleasure himself there. He would climb naked, digging his toes into the warm stones
of the tower, his sweaty body glistening in the sun as he climbed. He would begin to breathe
harder the longer he climbed, and his legs would start to burn, but that made him all the more
excited. Sometimes his manhood would become hard and erected which made the climbing
slightly more difficult, but Bran loved every second. He would have to wait until he was safe on
top of the tower to truly pleasure himself and the suspense made him that much more excited.
When he finally arrived at the top of the tower he would lay on the floor and let his
hands explore every inch of his small body. He would rub his hands over his chest and stomach
wishing it was someone else lightly massaging his body. Then he would let his hand drift down
to his small but very hard boy cock. He would pull it and flick it and stroke it for what seemed
like hours. Every stroke brought forth a soft moan from the little Lord. He didn’t have to worry
about anyone hearing him up here. Eventually he would stroke enough to make his whole body
quiver and his entire body would tighten up awaiting the moment to come. He would always
gasp and moan loudly when he finally arrived in this moment of ecstasy. He had no seed yet and
nothing came forth when it happened but it felt wonderful all the same.
On one such climb he was surprised to have a visitor in one of his believed to be secret
hideaways. His Lord Father was entertaining one of his bannermen who had brought an entire
host with him. Winterfell was full to the brim with people; Bran had never seen so many within
the walls. As Bran lay on the tower floor with his tiny cock in hand he saw another boy slightly
older climb up just as he had. Both boys were startled to find another there but began to laugh all
the same. The boy introduced himself as Colton of House Hornwood he was a nephew of Lord
Hornwood a Bannerman of the Starks, sworn to Winterfell. “Everyone calls me Colt for short my
Lord.” The boy explained to him. His 12th name day had just passed. He was slightly taller than
Bran but he had the same build. He was golden haired with a little brown mixed in. Bran
marveled at the boy but tried not to show it. Bran was awestruck by his beauty; he most admired
his deep brown eyes, and his lips that looked as soft as the softest silk. Bran lay there naked
while the boys laughed and chatted. Colton wore only his trousers and no shirt, Bran stole every
glance he could at his new mate’s bare skin. The last time he chanced a quick glance he was
caught and a smile spread across the young Colt’s face.
“I am sorry I interrupted you my Lord, allow me to help.” And with that Colt began to
remove his own trousers. Now both boys were naked with hard cocks dying for attention. Colt’s
was slightly longer than Bran’s standing at 4 inches maybe more. Then Colt began to give Bran
pleasure unlike any he had felt before. He wrapped his lips that Bran so admired around his rock
hard boyhood and began to suck and move his head up and down. He let his tongue dance
around his new mates tiny cock; licking it from balls to the very tip. Bran had never been in such
ecstasy. It did not take long for Bran’s pleasure to become too much and he shook all over and
his boyhood became soft again. Colt looked up at him and smiled his mischievous smile.
“My turn if you will my Lord.” Was all he needed say, and with that Bran wanted to
return him all the pleasure he had just received and more. Bran placed his boyish face in between
his mate’s legs just above his erected cock. The young boy engulfed the small dick and did just as
the other boy had done to him. Bran looked up into Colt’s eyes and saw the pleasure on his face.
Colt reached down and with the softest touch brushed his Lord lover’s shaggy hair away from
his face. It didn’t take long for the boy to reach orgasm and he pleaded for Bran to stop but Bran
continued despite his protests. What happened next surprised Bran. Spurt after spurt of the boy’s
seed flowed into Bran’s mouth. It was a new experience for the little Lord. It tasted salty but it
was the greatest thing he had ever tasted at the same time. Bran didn’t know what to do so he
swallowed all of it. When the boys were done they laughed together and climbed down from the
tower. The Starks and their men gathered the next day to see off their honored guests and the
two boys exchanged knowing glances with one another.
The memory made Bran’s heart flutter as he sat there on his bed naked with Hodor
looking on. His small cock began to twitch at the thought. That was one thing Bran was grateful
for, while his fall had rendered useless his lower body that was the one thing that still worked
thank the gods. He wanted to pleasure himself but he knew that there was no time tonight, there
was other business he needed to address. Bran had Hodor bring him his riding clothes and he
dressed. After he was clothed he commanded Hodor to take him down to his horse who was
saddled and ready. As they left the room Summer awakened from his sleep at the foot of Bran’s
bed and trotted along behind them.
Tonight he would leave Winterfell and go out alone. He didn’t know how he would make
it but he would try. He had grown tired of the mocking whispers and the long stares as Hodor
carried him through Winterfell’s halls. After Hodor had strapped Bran into his saddle and opened
the gate Bran rode out alone, save his direwolf which was now his only friend. Bran rode as far
as his horse would take him. He came to a forest and supposed he would stop for the night. He
figured he could mount his horse again if he pulled himself up on a tree limb. So he decided to
stop in the forest for the night.
He looked ahead and thought he saw a small pond in the woods, that would be a good
place to stop. As they approached the pond Bran noticed Summer begin to sniff the air and he
looked at him. “What is it?” he questioned his wolf. Bran strained his eyes and looked ahead;
there was someone in the water bathing. He was instantly afraid; it could be a wildling, or a
bandit, meeting men in the wild were rarely cordial encounters. He stopped his horse just behind
a thick covering of bushes and trees and looked on. There in the pool was a young man not much
older than his brother Robb. Bran guessed he must have seen no more than 25 years. The man
was naked bathing in the pool in the woods. He was alone except for his horse, tied up at the
edge of the water drinking.
Bran watched him in secret as he bathed. It was night but it was a clear night with a full
moon. As Bran looked on he could see the man in the water, his wet body shining in the
moonlight. The water came up to his waist as he stood in the pool soaking in the quiet calm
waters. Bran thought the man was very beautiful, he could think these thoughts now; he was
alone and wasn’t held to standards like before. The stranger looked to be tall, maybe not as tall as
his father but he looked like a Lord, only younger. His skin was flawless and tanned he must be
from the South, he didn’t have the rough, hardened look of the Northerners. He had a trail of
dark hair down the middle of his stomach disappearing in the water at his waist. Bran wanted to
follow the trail down farther but the glare of the moonlight on the surface prevented him from
revealing the treasures below. Bran could feel himself getting hard as he continued to watch and
imagine. He let his hand find his small cock through his trousers and explore.
The man washed himself splashing water into his face. His muscles were tight and sleek
he had the look of a great warrior. He wasn’t large like King Robert had been; he had a different
look about him, a sleeker look but just as fierce. His hair was short and dark and his face had
features of a young soldier with great pride. Bran wondered who the stranger was; he must be a
knight or a young Lord. Just then the man looked towards Bran, his gaze lingering on the brush
Bran was hidden behind. Bran ducked down as low as his horse would allow. His heart
pounded, had he seen? After a short few seconds Bran chanced another look. The man was still
in the pool; he didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. After a final splash the man began to emerge
on the bank. Bran’s heart began to race again. He was going to get to see the rest of his lusted
after stranger. The man walked out next to his horse and stood there naked in the moonlight his
wet skin shinning like a suit of armor in the sun. Bran watched as he stood there and then he
noticed something about the man that made Bran’s small cock stand up again. His manhood was
beginning to grow between his legs.
As Bran looked on the man reached down and began to stroke his increasingly large cock.
Bran estimated it stood around 6 inches, it was nothing like Hodor’s but it was the most
beautiful cock he had ever seen and he wanted to touch it, to feel it inside him more than
anything. He was entranced by it and could do nothing but lust after this stranger from afar. He
forgot about everything else in the world except for this man pleasuring himself for Bran’s
amusement.
Bran continued to watch in secret as the stranger stroked his manhood. And then the man
tensed up, his tight muscles rippled as the orgasm washed over him. Bran thought he was even
more beautiful now as he was experiencing these sensations. Bran wanted so badly to relieve
himself but he could not while still mounted on his horse. Bran peered through the thicket to
watch the man further. He trotted out of the pool. He dressed himself in fine quality traveling
clothes befitting a Lord. They looked to be elegant, dyed in the deepest black; some sigil was
sewn into the chest in pure white thread but Bran could not make it out.
“He must be a Lord,” Bran reasoned with himself. For a moment Bran considered
revealing himself to the man but though better of it. Instead he looked on as the man settled
down, lit a fire, and began to cook some kind of meat he pulled from a saddle bag that hung
from the side of his steed. As the meat roasted over the fire the scent of it filled Bran’s nose. He
was suddenly aware of how alone he was out here and how long it had been since he had last
eaten. Perhaps he was mistaken in leaving Winterfell; if there was a place for him in the world it
was there.
“Will you come and share my fire little Lord or are you contented watching me from
afar?” The stranger’s voice startled Bran. He waited motionless on the back of his horse. A
thousand thousand thoughts rushed through his head. How had he seen? How long had he
known he was being watched? With all the courage he could muster Bran led his horse forward,
his direwolf trotting along behind. Bran approached the man on horseback until he was
illuminated by the fire light.
He could now make out the sigil on the man’s chest. Two crossed swords underneath a
storm cloud, with a bolt of lightning striking where the two swords crossed. Bran knew it well,
the sigil of House Brighton. They were one of the great houses no different from the Starks, but
they were often overlooked by the people of the seven kingdoms. House Brighton held no
loyalties to other houses, or the crown for that matter. They rarely interfered with matters that
did not directly concern their house. It was as if they were completely separate from the other
people of Westeros although they lived among them. Their seat was Castle Stormshield that lay
to the South of Winterfell. It was South of the neck and was settled just West of the Vale of
Arryn. The Brightons held the little land that surrounded their castle. They had few people in
their service but their glory was legend.
They were self sufficient, relying only upon their own lands and people. They had never
been conquered, never bowed to a King or a Lord, not even the mighty Targaryen dynasty stood
against them. Few were ever concerned enough to rise against them, there was little to be gained
from opposing the Brightons but there was much to lose. Castle Stormshield was said to be
almost as impenetrable as the Eyrie and their soldiers were ten times as fierce. The few times
anyone was foolish enough to take up arms against House Brighton they sustained losses great
enough to abandon their conquest.
Old Nan had told Bran many stories about House Brighton and their fierce albeit small
armies. They marched in all black armor so dark that it drew the light from the battlefield and
struck fear into the hearts of their enemies.
“When a host of Brighton soldiers gather it looks as if a great storm gathers to march
against its enemies,” Old Nan once told him.
The soldiers of House Brighton were said to be the finest swordsmen in Westeros. Old
Nan told Bran that a knight in the service of House Brighton could defeat 50 knights of any
other house in sword combat, but he wasn’t sure that was entirely true.
Perhaps some of the most famous stories about House Brighton were the ones about the
son of Lord Brighton; those had always been Bran’s favorite. There was one instance in which
the Brightons rode out from their castle in force and joined the cause of their fellow houses,
during Robert’s Rebellion. The Brighton’s joined Roberts cause and sought to overthrow the
Mad King. Their forces were led by the very young son of Lord Brighton himself. He was
scarcely older than Bran was now, a boy of 12 leading an army to war. He had prodigious skill in
sword play and was a gifted soldier and so his Lord father allowed his only son to lead their
armies to war. The boy did well for himself in battle; his enemies named him the Stormsword
because he struck as quick as a bolt of lightning and overtook his enemies like a great swift
storm. It was said that his skill in the field nearly matched that of King Robert and Lord Eddard
and the rest of the great heroes and that he killed enough men to fill the narrow sea with their
blood. He carried two Valyrian steel swords into battle, and wielded them with deadly precision.
His skill in battle had people saying that he couldn’t be killed, that he was a chosen hero of the
gods. These stories helped inspire Bran to become a great knight when he heard them.
And here he was, in front of a soldier of Castle Stormshield a broken cripple who could
not even mount a horse properly. Bran looked directly into the man’s eyes; they were a grayish
blue, somehow when he looked into them he felt less alone and less like Bran the broken. To
Bran’s surprise Summer was nuzzled up next to the stranger, none of the Stark children’s
direwolves took to strangers this quickly. Summer was usually very protective of Bran; he didn’t
know what to make of this.
“How long were you planning on watching me in those bushes Lord Stark?” the man
asked.
“I’m sorry, I was scared and…How do you know who I am? Bran asked perplexed.
The man began to laugh. “You are Bran Stark of Winterfell, any fool could see that. Few
men travel with a direwolf at their side, you must be a Stark. I know you aren’t Robb Stark I saw
him less than a fortnight ago leading a host South. That only leaves Bran and Rickon, I assume
you are Bran?”
“I am.” Bran answered his question. Bran prepared to ask for the stranger’s name when
Summer raised his head and sniffed the air. He rose to his feet and began to growl. Suddenly, a
group of men appeared in the clearing. Bran counted at least six. They were dressed in ragged
clothes and were very dirty; one of the men was dressed in the black as the men of the Nights
Watch. “They must be wildlings,” Bran thought to himself. His last encounter with the wild men
had not gone well.
“We saw your fire and thought we might come and see what we could find.” The man in
the black said with a grim smile that showed the few teeth he had in his mouth. The rest of his
company chuckled along with him.
“I can assure you the only thing you will find here is death.” The Stormshield warrior
warned them.
“Bold words, maybe the southerner thinks he is above us boys. Let’s fuck his young mate
to teach him some respect, he is awfully pretty.”
“For that you will pay with your life.” Was all the man said as he sprang to his feet.
Summer was first to charge, overtaking the first man he encountered driving him to the dirt.
Screams of terror and the smell of blood filled the calm night air. When Bran looked back to the
stranger he was retrieving his sword from his scabbard that lay on the ground next to him. When
the man arose Bran noted that he was armed with not one but two swords. The blades shined the
deepest black. Bran immediately recognized them as Valyrian steel.
“He could not be,” Bran thought to himself.
Summer had finished off his first victim and was charging a second. The remaining four
men had drawn their swords and were approaching Bran’s mount. They were met by the warrior
before they could reach him. The first wildling swung wildly at the warrior. The man sidestepped
the strike with the grace of a dancer, and with his first sword cut the sword hand from the
wildling’s arm; with his second he sliced his leg open. The wildling was on his knees in front of
the gallant warrior screaming in agony clutching the stump that was once his hand. The Lord
placed both his swords crossed in front of his enemy’s neck and with a swift motion cut his
throat. A spray of blood gushed from the wound. Some of it splattered in Bran’s face and on his
clothes as he fought to steady his horse. The remaining three combatants looked startled at the
ease with which their companion was slaughtered. They charged together. The first strike came
from the deserter; the warrior swept the blow away with one of his swords. He deflected it with
such force that it struck one of the wildlings knocking him to the ground. The soldier seized this
opportunity and drove his sword into the downed man’s chest all the way through to the ground.
With his remaining sword he attacked the remaining wildling. He struck him so swiftly Bran
barely saw the blow fall. Bran did notice however the gash across the man’s chest from
underneath his left arm to half way across his chest, a river of blood flowed from the wound.
There was only one man left standing, the deserter from the Nights Watch. His grim confident
look had faded from his face, replaced by a look of pure terror. He made a desperate attempt to
strike the warrior but was deterred. The Lord deflected the blow and disarmed the man. He
begged for life on his knees in front of his conqueror.
“Please my lord, spare my life, and I am yours.”
“I told you the price was death.” The victor stuck him with a downward strike with such
force that it nearly cleaved the man’s head into two pieces. And with that it was finished.
Summer stood beside him, his face covered with blood. Six men were dead, killed by a wolf and
one man. Bran had never seen such a victory, the man killed with such grace and precision. The
man retrieved the sword he had driven into the wildling’s chest during the battle. Bran sat upon
his horse, unmoving and silent as he watched his hero drag the bodies from the camp.
When he returned he gazed deep into Bran’s eyes. Neither spoke a word; the only noises
that were heard came from summer licking the blood from her face lying in the grass. The man
began to untie Bran from his saddle and lifted him from his horse. He was not a large man but
the strength of his grasp was surprising to Bran. He cradled Bran in his arms never breaking eye
contact. Bran wrapped his hands around his new friend’s neck as he carried him to the edge of
the water. “We’ll need to clean you up,” was all he said. He lay Bran down at the pool and knelt
over him. With the gentlest of touches he began to remove Bran’s clothes until he lay naked in
the grass. Then he undressed himself and Bran saw the object of his affection up close, the naked
body and six inch cock he had watched from afar in secret. Bran sat up and the man cradled him
once again their naked bodies in contact with one another. The feeling of being carried in the
hero’s arms, feeling his small body pressed against his naked flesh, looking into his grey blue
eyes; all of these things made Bran tremble with excitement. He felt safe and at home here. He
hadn’t felt this way since his body was broken after falling from that tower.
Bran’s protector wadded into the water with Bran in his arms. Surprisingly the water was
warm against Bran’s skin. The man resituated Bran in his arms so that they were face to face and
Bran’s legs hung to the sides of the man drifting in the water. Bran wrapped his hands around his
neck and pulled himself in closer; it made him feel better to be closer to his new friend. The man
cupped water in his hands and washed the blood from Bran’s face. Bran was suddenly aware of
how hard he had become. His tiny cock was as hard as it could be. He had wanted to relieve
himself even before he had left Winterfell but had never had an opportunity. His cock brushed
up against the body of his gallant knight. The sensation sent chills up Bran’s body. Bran began to
rock his hips back and forth in his hero’s arms; each time his cock brushing up against his body. It
didn’t take long until Bran felt an overwhelming sensation overtake him. His orgasm was as
powerful as any he had ever felt. He felt it throughout his entire body, even in his toes, which
shocked Bran more than anything. He could feel nothing down there, not anymore.
Bran awakened from his trance and looked at the face of his friend; he was more
beautiful now than Bran had thought before. The man reached forward and swept Bran’s shaggy
brown hair from his forehead and smiled at the little Lord. He carried him out of the water back
up to the camp. He wrapped Bran in one of his own cloaks and sat him beside the fire.
“You’re the Stormsword.” Bran spoke as calmly as he could.
“I am Lord Lucas Brighton heir to Stormshield,” the man replied. “But many call me the
Stormsword, you’ve heard the stories I take it.” He added with a sly smile at the young boy.
“But you my young friend can call me Luke.”
“You’re the most gifted swordsman that’s ever lived. I’ve never seen such skill with a
blade. I wanted to be a great warrior just like you.” Bran told him, his eyes sparkling with
delight. “But I’m sure you’ve noticed that’s impossible now.” Bran added as he looked down at
his lifeless legs.
“Gifted? The power to kill is not a gift it is a curse. Each man I kill raises five more that
would see me dead. This is my burden to bear, my “gift” from the gods.” He spoke calmly but
with a sadness in his voice that Bran was all too familiar with.
“I thank you for saving me Lord Lucas. Ask of me what you will and if it be in my power
to give it, it is yours.”
“Just Luke if you will little Lord. And I would ask what you are doing alone at night time
outside the walls of Winterfell.” Luke said smiling warmly at his young friend.
“Just Bran if you will Luke, and I left Winterfell in the night. I should ask you the same.
What are you doing this far to the north all alone?” Bran retorted.
“Sometimes I like to venture out alone and see the world. It makes me feel alive.”
Bran liked that answer well enough. He smiled up at his protector and new friend. When
he looked at him he felt alive again. He had been dying on the inside ever since his fall and
meeting his hero had given him his life back. He was grateful he had left Winterfell; the gods had
arranged this chance meeting in the wild. It had helped him realize that his place was Winterfell.
But more than anything Bran was glad that he had stumbled upon Luke and they had become
friends. He still wasn’t sure what their connection was but Bran had never felt this strongly about
anyone before. His place may have been inside of Winterfell’s great halls but he never wanted his
friend to leave him. Everyone else had left him and none had come back, his father, Robb, Jon,
Sansa, Arya, even his mother had gone. He would not lose another, nearly everyone he had loved
had left him he would not lose his newest love. Suddenly Bran realized his strong feelings for his
mighty hero. He loved him; he must love him how else could he explain what he felt.
“Will you return to Winterfell with me?” Bran asked looking desperately into his new
love’s eyes.
“I will see you safely back to Winterfell. I welcome the adventure; I have never seen the
great northern halls in person.” Luke answered.
“How long will you stay?” Bran asked him next.
Luke looked down at the boy and brushed Bran’s hair from his forehead affectionately.
“We will see, we leave on the morrow, tonight we’ll sleep here.”
Luke knelt down and scooped Bran up in his arms and carried him to the tent they would
share for the night. As they were walking to the tent Bran rested his head on Luke’s chest and
listen to the steady beating of his heart. As they lay down for the night Bran slid himself as close
to his hero as he could, pressing his back against his chest. Bran felt warm and secure being so
close to his love. Slowly, Luke wrapped his arm around Bran and pulled him into a tight embrace.
As he drifted off to sleep Bran could feel his lover’s manhood harden underneath his trousers
and press against him.