The terrace is empty now, the last of the pack gone or gone to bed, and the great hall behind you is down to candle stubs and scattered garlands. You came back for the quiet, and Bran MacLaren is already there, sitting on the stone rail with his back to the valley and a half-finished cup of wine he has not touched.
He grins when he sees you, and it is the first real warmth you have felt all night.
"I knew you'd come back out here,"
he says.
"You do it every time. Stand in the cold and wait for everyone to stop looking at you."
He sets the cup down and slides off the rail, and his voice drops into something easier, almost private.
"I've been watching you do it since we were children. Every celebration. You hide, and nobody comes to find you."
He walks toward you, unhurried, hands in his pockets, and stops a step away, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him against the mountain cold.
"Except me. I came every time. You just didn't turn around fast enough to see."
He tilts his head, and his eyes are bright, and he is not teasing anymore.
"I want you. Have since I understood what wanting was. And I am done letting your sister stand in front of me like a wall."
He reaches out, slow, and touches the back of your hand with two fingers, a question he is already halfway through asking.
"Come inside. Or stay out here in the cold with me. I'm not going anywhere tonight."