Mikken had fixed iron manacles to her ankles, with a heavy chain between them;
she could walk, so long as she kept her strides small, but there was no way for her to run, or climb, or mount a horse.
"They see you, boy. They hear you talking.
That rustling, that's them talking back."
What are they saying?
They're sad. Your lord brother will get no help from them, not where he's going.
The old gods have no power in the south.
The weirwoods there were all cut down, thousands of years ago.
How can they watch your brother when they have no eyes?
Bran had not thought of that.
It frightened him. If even the gods could not help his brother, what hope was there?
Maybe Osha wasn't hearing them right.
He cocked his head and tried to listen again.
He thought he could hear the sadness now, but nothing more than that.
The rustling grew louder. Bran heard muffled footfalls and a low humming,
and Hodor came blundering out of the trees, naked and smiling. "Hodor!"
He must have heard our voices, Bran said. "Hodor, you forgot your clothes."
Hodor, Hodor agreed. He was dripping wet from the neck down, steaming in the chill air.
His body was covered with brown hair, thick as a pelt. Between his legs, his manhood swung long and heavy.