I'm four now, Rickon said. He was peeking through the lens tube at the gargoyles on the First Keep. The direwolves sat on opposite sides of the large round room, licking their wounds and gnawing on bones.
...too young, and, ooh, seven hells, that burns, no, don't stop, more. Too young, as I say, but you, Bran, you're old enough to know that dreams are only dreams.
Some are, some aren't. Osha poured pale red firemilk into a long gash. Luwin gasped. "The children of the forest could tell you a thing or two about dreaming."
Tears were streaming down the maester's face, yet he shook his head doggedly. "The children... live only in dreams. Now. Dead and gone. Enough, that's enough. Now the bandages. Pads and then wrap, and make it tight, I'll be bleeding."
Old Nan says the children knew the songs of the trees, that they could fly like birds and swim like fish and talk to the animals, Bran said. "She says that they made music so beautiful that it made you cry like a little baby just to hear it."
And all this they did with magic, Maester Luwin said, distracted. "I wish they were here now. A spell would heal my arm less painfully, and they could talk to Shaggydog and tell him not to bite."