Find the reference for the related question and answer Essay

Find the reference for the related question and answer - Essay Example y out very extensive research and programs for development unless such are forestalling some competition or bring hefty profits immediately (United States Federal Trade Commission, 2011). The tax alternative is more considerable to some factors as; internalization of the firm, thus eventual price adjustment, output, and profit maximization through production technology, with a consideration of the generated externalities. The hardest aspect in considering this alternative is the specification of the pollution tax rate amount which acts to guide the firm in managing its pollution rates satisfactorily. Like the Coase Theorem, if Branding Iron has a property right to pollute, it could be paid to reduce that pollution. Indeed, there is a presumption that Branding Iron was operating for some time before the â€Å"new residents† start to complain (McGuigan, Moyer and Harris, 2010). Donfeld, D. and Aurich, J. (2010). Burrs - Analysis, Control and Removal: Proceedings of the Cirp International Conference on Burrs, 2nd-3rd April, 2009, University of Kaiserslautern, Germany. London:

Summary paper on The Article Power and The Tiny Acts of Rebellion By Essay

Summary paper on The Article Power and The Tiny Acts of Rebellion By Chris Hedges found on truthdig.com - Essay Example Accordingly, the electoral process has been hijacked by corporations; the judiciary has become corrupted, the press reckless, the universities hopeless, labor unions marginal and ineffectual forces, economy tainted by swindlers and speculators. Worst of all, the general public is captivated by electronic hallucinations and it remains passive and supine to the miserable quandary of the democracy. Thus, Chris Hedges establishes that the power structure within the democratic process in the nation is left with no tools to fight against the unrestricted corporate plunder. (Hedges, 1) In a reflective reading of the article â€Å"Power and the Tiny Acts of Rebellion† by Chris Hedges, it becomes lucid that the author deals with one of the most pertinent issues in the socio-economic and political spheres of the nation, i.e. the overruling role of the unobstructed corporate power over the power structure within the democracy.

Conflict of personal and professional values

Conflict of personal and professional values Conflict of personal and professional values Introduction: It has always been acknowledged that social work practice raises ethical dilemmas on a regular basis. These dilemmas occur due to a conflict of professional and personal values. Social work is involved with the support of people who have a variety of needs, with relationships within the family, with needs ascending from structural influences; such as poverty and conflicts with society. These are individually moral concerns which are integrated into the tradition of society, and are therefore laden with social values. This is where the problem lies, because the views in which are regarded as being acceptable in society, are then accepted by the mass population. They say â€Å"what ought to be the case† (Shardlow, 2003, p.3), consequently initiating the potential for conflict between individuals on bases of belief and conceptualisation. Therefore, social work will always reflect values and will often be disputed because society may not necessarily agree with the aim of social wo rk. The following assignment will look at values at a professional and personal level, while considering the possible conflicts which could arise within practice, why this can happen and what needs to change. The word ‘value’ means the â€Å"Principles or standards of behaviour; one’s judgement of what is important in life† (Oxford Dictionaries, 2014). Every individual has a set of beliefs which influence their actions, some are personal to us, while others are shared beliefs. Our own moral code defines what is of value to us in life and therefore, identifies part of who we are. As a social work student, we are taught to be aware of our own personal values and how they might be different to people of a different culture. Professional values are based on a code of ethics presented by the British Association of Social Workers (BASW). These are split into: human rights, social justice and professional integrity (BASW, 2012). Therefore, social workers are expected to respect all individuals and protect vulnerable people. Likewise, the Northern Ireland Social Care Council (NISCC) issued a code of practice for social care workers to abide by. These highlight standards such as; protecting the rights of service users and carers, maintain trust, promote independence, respect and accountability and responsibility (NISCC, 2002). There are also agency policies, procedures and legislation which governs the way in which a social worker must practice. One dilemma which could prove to be conflicting for a social worker is balancing confidentiality with the duty to protect versus the right to self-determination. A central question with relation to ethics in social work is how a social worker should behave towards a client. What are the boundaries of a client-worker relationship? Let’s say for example, you are a social worker working with a female client, Miss Smyth, within a mental health facility. You have been working with Miss Smyth for three months and she has a son, aged six, who has some behaviour problems. Over the past few months, your relationship with Miss Smyth has strengthened and she now feels she can confide in you and trust you, talking to you about some of her personal problems such as; financial issues and her battle with depression. Working together, you have taught Miss Smyth different ways with which to deal with her son’s behaviour problems and from this, there have been a great deal of improvement s. However, one day during your visit with her, Miss Smyth confides in you about an incident she had with her son, when he was acting out and she pushed him because she was frustrated, but this caused him to bang his head as he fell over; leaving him with a bruise. Miss Smyth pleads with you not to tell anyone, but the problem here is that the law requires you to report what has happened. You understand that Miss Smyth and her son have improved greatly and continue to make progress, however, if you report this incident, then your progress with both Miss Smyth and her son will likely be permanently affected. What do you do? The above case highlights some of the difficulties social workers face: a dilemma of social work values. Values such as respecting the client’s right to self-determination and confidentiality, can be a complex process, since there are particular circumstances where breaching confidentiality is sanctioned by the law and professional values. For example, â€Å"†¦confidentiality may be breached with or without the client’s consent in order to report instances of neglect and abuse† (Saxon et al. 2006). This is a conflict of personal and professional values, referred to as an ethical dilemma. An ethical dilemma is â€Å"..a situation in which professional duties and obligations, rooted in core values, clash† (Reamer, 2006, p.4). ‘Confidentiality’ in terms of social work means â€Å"a system of rules and norms applied to information given by clients to social workers†¦social workers will not divulge this information to others except in ce rtain circumstances† (Hugman and Smith, 1995, p.67). As established, it is clear that the majority of professionals agree that it is acceptable in particular situations to break confidentiality, yet, the principles surrounding the importance of maintaining confidentiality are considered as significant in gaining the clients trust. Jonathan Coe, chief executive of Witness, states â€Å"I don’t think anyone has got the boundaries right in all circumstances. Things will always come up and people need to be able to articulate these challenges and discuss them with supervisors and managers..†(Sale, 2007). He added â€Å"You cannot have an absolute list of do’s and don’ts when it comes to professional boundaries†¦you would end up with a situation where workers become so remote and distant from clients they would be unable to engage with them†¦Ã¢â‚¬  (Sale, 2007). As a result, there is no perfect solution. However, it could be highlighted that the BASW code of ethics fails to provide sufficient guidance for social workers in the day to day conflicts of values and their responsibilities. Additionally, another conflict which could be highlighted is social work valued based practice versus core value, such as; working with sex offenders. A characteristic of social workers is personal resilience, and this is particularly fundamental for those working with sex offenders. This profession requires a practitioner to help empower people, to see an individual’s strengths and build on them. There have been many conflicting debates on the view of sex offenders, especially paedophiles. Naturally, societies view has been that paedophiles are ‘monsters’ while fuelling fear into parents over the safety of their children, with the media hyping up public speculation by releasing stories such as; â€Å"Warning over paedophiles ‘grooming’ primary school children..† (Harris, 2012). Further stories involving respected individuals within the public, shocked society with articles featuring; â€Å"Irish Catholic church child abuse: A cruel and wicked system† (McDonald, 2009). Therefore, strengthening society’s negative view of sex offenders. However, in recent years, there has been an increasingly oppositional view of these offenders. Sarah Goode, published by Damian Thompson, in the Telegraph (2013), states â€Å"Adult sexual attraction to children is part of the continuum of human sexuality; it’s not something we can eliminate†¦if we can talk about this rationally†¦we can maybe avoid the hysteria†. Likewise, a recent television documentary: ‘The Paedophile next door’ (Channel 4, 2014) showed a rise in public debate. The documentary attempts to discover why legislation has failed to protect children from sexual abuse, and investigates drastic and controversial alternatives. Peter Saunders, founder of the National Association of People Abused in Childhood, told Metro â€Å"We have to tackle these sordid issues head on and if someone is seeking help, better we do that before they offend rather than after† (Binns, 2014). Statements like these reinforce the fact that awareness has increased and that there is more evidence in support of assistance for sex offenders to change. Therefore, viewing the offender as a person and not focussing on their offence. As a result, there are ways in which a social worker can control the conflict of values and dominate the mixture of feelings which are triggered by these offences. These include; not labelling, recognising and validating experienced trauma, understanding attachment difficulties and understanding the pathway an individual has undergone to get where they are (Hebb, 2013). This approach can help to encourage the individual to believe that they can lead a purposeful life and achieve goals without posing a threat to others. As a social work student, I know I will find some situations more challenging than others. My personal beliefs have been instilled into me from a young age, therefore, training to be a social worker and having to learn new values which I have to take into account will be difficult. The code of practice clearly states that all â€Å"social workers must protect the rights and promote the interests of service users and carers† (NISCC, 2002), therefore it is important to recognise that the appropriate action is to assess someone’s needs while working at a professional level. Furthermore, social workers operate from a ‘Framework for Theory and Practice’ (Dalrymple and Burke, 2006) that understands the presence of inequality and oppression that exists in society. Therefore, using this framework will help to develop the skills required within practice without causing oppression or inequality. These skills will also help to improve working relationships with multi- agency and multi-disciplinary groups. These can be applied to my practice and will strengthen my ability as a social worker. . Conclusion: As previously stated, social workers regularly make difficult decisions, where there is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ answer. This essay supports the argument that social work values, such as, client self-determination and sustaining confidentiality can create an uncertain process, causing confusing between values and process, therefore resulting in the inability to find the ‘correct’ response. A clients concerns are often complex and have many aspects, therefore, it could be suggested that the greater the knowledge and skills that a practitioner is able to develop in ethical decision making, the more effective this would be for a social worker in practice. Additionally, the foundations of good social work practice is knowing your values and principles, how you’ve learned to interact with people, your knowledge and skills learned. I have always considered myself to be an empathetic person, who listens well, does not judge others and is sensitive to the feelings of others. But, I am aware that there are still some areas I need to strengthen. For example; the ability to work with a person that has abused a child, I have always focused on the areas I would like to work and never considered being placed with a person or group of people I might struggle to accept or work with. This will be a conflict of my personal and professional values, however, through consistent training and development, I will be able to further develop in the profession of social work based on a commitment in practice to key values and principles. Word count: 1806 Reference Section BASW (2012) The Code of Ethics for Social Work: Statement of Principles. [pdf] BASW. Available at cdn.basw.co.uk/upload/basw_112315-7.pdf [Accessed 13 November 2014] Binns, D., (2014) Paedophile to out himself in channel 4 documentary. Metro. [online] Available at metro.co.uk [Accessed 28 November 2014] Dalrymple, J., and Burke, B., (2006) Anti-Oppressive Practice: Social Care and the Law. McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc. Harris, S., (2012) Warning over paedophiles ‘grooming’ primary school children on Club Penguin and Moshi Monsters website. Daily Mail Online [online] Available at www.dailymail.co.uk [Accessed 21 November 2014] Hebb, J., (2013) ‘Social work values are essential in my work with high risk offenders’. Community Care. [online] Available at www.communitycare.co.uk [Accessed 30 November 2014] Hugman, R. and Smith, D. (1995) Ethical Issues in Social Work. United Kingdom: Taylor Francis, Inc. McDonald, H., (2009) Irish Catholic Church child abuse: ‘A cruel and wicked system’. The Guardian [online] Available at www.theguardian.com [Accessed 22 November 2014] NISCC (2002) Codes of Practice for Social Care Workers and Employers of Social Care Workers. [pdf] NISCC. Available at www.niscc.info/files/Codes/2002Sep_NISCCCodesOfPracticeWordVersionEnglish_Publication_Approved_AFMCK.pdf [Accessed 15 November 2014] Oxford Dictionaries: Language Matters (2014) Oxford Press. [online] Available from www.oxforddictionaries.com [Accessed 13 November 2014] Reamer, G. F., (2006) Social Work Values and Ethics. New York: Columbia University Press. Sale, A. U., (2007) How to maintain proper relations between practitioner and service user. Community Care. [online] Available at www.communitycare.co.uk [Accessed 30 November 2014] Saxon, C., Jacinto, A. G., and Dziegielewski, F, S., (2006) ‘Self-Determination and Confidentiality: The Ambiguous Nature of Decision-Making in Social Work Practice’. Journal of Human Behaviour in the Social Environment, 13 (4) p. 56. Shardlow, S., (2003) The Values of Change in Social Work. Routledge. The Paedophile Next Door (2014) [TV programme] Channel 4, 25 November 2014 21:00 Thompson, D., (2013) Guardian: Paedophiles are ‘ordinary members of society’ who need moral support. The Telegraph [online] Available at http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/news/damianthompson/100196502/guardian-paedophiles-are-ordinary-members-of-society-who-need-moral-support/ [Accessed 23 November 2014] 1

Graduation Speech: Do or Do Not, There is No Try :: Graduation Speech, Commencement Address

The year 2012 marks an era of new beginnings and bold adventures. Years from now, when we look back on our senior year, we’ll remember a year of good friends, hard work and planning for the future. As graduating seniors we will create different paths to our own success. Some will choose the superhighway and some will choose the winding road — each person deciding their own level of happiness. It has been said, "To know where you are going, one must remember where you have been." Tonight, the Class of 2012 will start a new chapter, moving toward new endeavors and taking on greater challenges, making this evening the perfect time to reflect on our past here at County High School. As we look back on our senior year, we will remember it as the year the voters of Stoll passed a new school bond creating the promise of a new high school. The year our girls’ basketball team went to state, and our football team went undefeated in league. We will remember the cold, wet nights in the stands watching football; the cold, wet nights in the stands watching soccer and well, ... you get the idea. We will remember working endless nights creating our homecoming floats. Maybe not Rose Bowl Parade material, but they did manage to roll, and we had fun! Laughing at each other and laughing with each other, we have had a great time together. Let us not forget the Lawn Chair Drill Team practices at O Dark Hundred — the Tolo dance and the Senior Prom. And on a personal note, a great 18th birthday — Thanks, guys! Tonight as we go our separate ways, let’s not forget that we have the ability to be whatever we want to be. To climb mountains, to reach the stars, to stretch as far as we can imagine.

A Game of Thrones Chapter Twenty-four

Bran In the yard below, Rickon ran with the wolves. Bran watched from his window seat. Wherever the boy went, Grey Wind was there first, loping ahead to cut him off, until Rickon saw him, screamed in delight, and went pelting off in another direction. Shaggydog ran at his heels, spinning and snapping if the other wolves came too close. His fur had darkened until he was all black, and his eyes were green fire. Bran's Summer came last. He was silver and smoke, with eyes of yellow gold that saw all there was to see. Smaller than Grey Wind, and more wary. Bran thought he was the smartest of the litter. He could hear his brother's breathless laughter as Rickon dashed across the hard-packed earth on little baby legs. His eyes stung. He wanted to be down there, laughing and running. Angry at the thought, Bran knuckled away the tears before they could fall. His eighth name day had come and gone. He was almost a man grown now, too old to cry. â€Å"It was just a lie,† he said bitterly, remembering the crow from his dream. â€Å"I can't fly. I can't even run.† â€Å"Crows are all liars,† Old Nan agreed, from the chair where she sat doing her needlework. â€Å"I know a story about a crow.† â€Å"I don't want any more stories,† Bran snapped, his voice petulant. He had liked Old Nan and her stories once. Before. But it was different now. They left her with him all day now, to watch over him and clean him and keep him from being lonely, but she just made it worse. â€Å"I hate your stupid stories.† The old woman smiled at him toothlessly. â€Å"My stories? No, my little lord, not mine. The stories are, before me and after me, before you too.† She was a very ugly old woman, Bran thought spitefully; shrunken and wrinkled, almost blind, too weak to climb stairs, with only a few wisps of white hair left to cover a mottled pink scalp. No one really knew how old she was, but his father said she'd been called Old Nan even when he was a boy. She was the oldest person in Winterfell for certain, maybe the oldest person in the Seven Kingdoms. Nan had come to the castle as a wet nurse for a Brandon Stark whose mother had died birthing him. He had been an older brother of Lord Rickard, Bran's grandfather, or perhaps a younger brother, or a brother to Lord Rickard's father. Sometimes Old Nan told it one way and sometimes another. In all the stories the little boy died at three of a summer chill, but Old Nan stayed on at Winterfell with her own children. She had lost both her sons to the war when King Robert won the throne, and her grandson was killed on the walls of Pyke during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. Her daughters had long ago marr ied and moved away and died. All that was left of her own blood was Hodor, the simpleminded giant who worked in the stables, but Old Nan just lived on and on, doing her needlework and telling her stories. â€Å"I don't care whose stories they are,† Bran told her, â€Å"I hate them.† He didn't want stories and he didn't want Old Nan. He wanted his mother and father. He wanted to go running with Summer loping beside him. He wanted to climb the broken tower and feed corn to the crows. He wanted to ride his pony again with his brothers. He wanted it to be the way it had been before. â€Å"I know a story about a boy who hated stories,† Old Nan said with her stupid little smile, her needles moving all the while, click click click, until Bran was ready to scream at her. It would never be the way it had been, he knew. The crow had tricked him into flying, but when he woke up he was broken and the world was changed. They had all left him, his father and his mother and his sisters and even his bastard brother Jon. His father had promised he would ride a real horse to King's Landing, but they'd gone without him. Maester Luwin had sent a bird after Lord Eddard with a message, and another to Mother and a third to Jon on the Wall, but there had been no answers. â€Å"Ofttimes the birds are lost, child,† the maester had told him. â€Å"There's many a mile and many a hawk between here and King's Landing, the message may not have reached them.† Yet to Bran it felt as if they had all died while he had slept . . . or perhaps Bran had died, and they had forgotten him. Jory and Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole had gone too, and Hullen and Harwin and Fat Tom and a quarter of the guard. Only Robb and baby Rickon were still here, and Robb was changed. He was Robb the Lord now, or trying to be. He wore a real sword and never smiled. His days were spent drilling the guard and practicing his swordplay, making the yard ring with the sound of steel as Bran watched forlornly from his window. At night he closeted himself with Maester Luwin, talking or going over account books. Sometimes he would ride out with Hallis Mollen and be gone for days at a time, visiting distant holdfasts. Whenever he was away more than a day, Rickon would cry and ask Bran if Robb was ever coming back. Even when he was home at Winterfell, Robb the Lord seemed to have more time for Hallis Mollen and Theon Greyjoy than he ever did for his brothers. â€Å"I could tell you the story about Brandon the Builder,† Old Nan said. â€Å"That was always your favorite.† Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some said the Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she had nursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, that all the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head. â€Å"That's not my favorite,† he said. â€Å"My favorites were the scary ones.† He heard some sort of commotion outside and turned back to the window. Rickon was running across the yard toward the gatehouse, the wolves following him, but the tower faced the wrong way for Bran to see what was happening. He smashed a fist on his thigh in frustration and felt nothing. â€Å"Oh, my sweet summer child,† Old Nan said quietly, â€Å"what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.† â€Å"You mean the Others,† Bran said querulously. â€Å"The Others,† Old Nan agreed. â€Å"Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.† Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, â€Å"So, child. This is the sort of story you like?† â€Å"Well,† Bran said reluctantly, â€Å"yes, only . . . â€Å" Old Nan nodded. â€Å"In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,† she said as her needles went click click click. â€Å"They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.† Her voice had dropped very low, almost to a whisper, and Bran found himself leaning forward to listen. â€Å"Now these were the days before the Andals came, and long before the women fled across the narrow sea from the cities of the Rhoyne, and the hundred kingdoms of those times were the kingdoms of the First Men, who had taken these lands from the children of the forest. Yet here and there in the fastness of the woods the children still lived in their wooden cities and hollow hills, and the faces in the trees kept watch. So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silen t on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—† The door opened with a bang, and Bran's heart leapt up into his mouth in sudden fear, but it was only Maester Luwin, with Hodor looming in the stairway behind him. â€Å"Hodor!† the stableboy announced, as was his custom, smiling hugely at them all. Maester Luwin was not smiling. â€Å"We have visitors,† he announced, â€Å"and your presence is required, Bran.† â€Å"I'm listening to a story now,† Bran complained. â€Å"Stories wait, my little lord, and when you come back to them, why, there they are,† Old Nan said. â€Å"Visitors are not so patient, and ofttimes they bring stories of their own.† â€Å"Who is it?† Bran asked Maester Luwin. â€Å"Tyrion Lannister, and some men of the Night's Watch, with word from your brother Jon. Robb is meeting with them now. Hodor, will you help Bran down to the hall?† â€Å"Hodor!† Hodor agreed happily. He ducked to get his great shaggy head under the door. Hodor was nearly seven feet tall. It was hard to believe that he was the same blood as Old Nan. Bran wondered if he would shrivel up as small as his great-grandmother when he was old. It did not seem likely, even if Hodor lived to be a thousand. Hodor lifted Bran as easy as if he were a bale of hay, and cradled him against his massive chest. He always smelled faintly of horses, but it was not a bad smell. His arms were thick with muscle and matted with brown hair. â€Å"Hodor,† he said again. Theon Greyjoy had once commented that Hodor did not know much, but no one could doubt that he knew his name. Old Nan had cackled like a hen when Bran told her that, and confessed that Hodor's real name was Walder. No one knew where â€Å"Hodor† had come from, she said, but when he started saying it, they started calling him by it. It was the only word he had. They left Old Nan in the tower room with her needles and her memories. Hodor hummed tunelessly as he carried Bran down the steps and through the gallery, with Maester Luwin following behind, hurrying to keep up with the stableboy's long strides. Robb was seated in Father's high seat, wearing ringmail and boiled leather and the stern face of Robb the Lord. Theon Greyjoy and Hallis Mollen stood behind him. A dozen guardsmen lined the grey stone walls beneath tall narrow windows. In the center of the room the dwarf stood with his servants, and four strangers in the black of the Night's Watch. Bran could sense the anger in the hall the moment that Hodor carried him through the doors. â€Å"Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome here at Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay,† Robb was saying with the voice of Robb the Lord. His sword was across his knees, the steel bare for all the world to see. Even Bran knew what it meant to greet a guest with an unsheathed sword. â€Å"Any man of the Night's Watch,† the dwarf repeated, â€Å"but not me, do I take your meaning, boy?† Robb stood and pointed at the little man with his sword. â€Å"I am the lord here while my mother and father are away, Lannister. I am not your boy.† â€Å"If you are a lord, you might learn a lord's courtesy,† the little man replied, ignoring the sword point in his face. â€Å"Your bastard brother has all your father's graces, it would seem.† â€Å"Jon,† Bran gasped out from Hodor's arms. The dwarf turned to look at him. â€Å"So it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it. You Starks are hard to kill.† â€Å"You Lannisters had best remember that,† Robb said, lowering his sword. â€Å"Hodor, bring my brother here.† â€Å"Hodor,† Hodor said, and he trotted forward smiling and set Bran in the high seat of the Starks, where the Lords of Winterfell had sat since the days when they called themselves the Kings in the North. The seat was cold stone, polished smooth by countless bottoms; the carved heads of direwolves snarled on the ends of its massive arms. Bran clasped them as he sat, his useless legs dangling. The great seat made him feel half a baby. Robb put a hand on his shoulder. â€Å"You said you had business with Bran. Well, here he is, Lannister.† Bran was uncomfortably aware of Tyrion Lannister's eyes. One was black and one was green, and both were looking at him, studying him, weighing him. â€Å"I am told you were quite the climber, Bran,† the little man said at last. â€Å"Tell me, how is it you happened to fall that day?† â€Å"I never,† Bran insisted. He never fell, never never never. â€Å"The child does not remember anything of the fall, or the climb that came before it,† said Maester Luwin gently. â€Å"Curious,† said Tyrion Lannister. â€Å"My brother is not here to answer questions, Lannister,† Robb said curtly. â€Å"Do your business and be on your way.† â€Å"I have a gift for you,† the dwarf said to Bran. â€Å"Do you like to ride, boy?† Maester Luwin came forward. â€Å"My lord, the child has lost the use of his legs. He cannot sit a horse.† â€Å"Nonsense,† said Lannister. â€Å"With the right horse and the right saddle, even a cripple can ride.† The word was a knife through Bran's heart. He felt tears come unbidden to his eyes. â€Å"I'm not a cripple!† â€Å"Then I am not a dwarf,† the dwarf said with a twist of his mouth. â€Å"My father will rejoice to hear it.† Greyjoy laughed. â€Å"What sort of horse and saddle are you suggesting?† Maester Luwin asked. â€Å"A smart horse,† Lannister replied. â€Å"The boy cannot use his legs to command the animal, so you must shape the horse to the rider, teach it to respond to the reins, to the voice. I would begin with an unbroken yearling, with no old training to be unlearned.† He drew a rolled paper from his belt. â€Å"Give this to your saddler. He will provide the rest.† Maester Luwin took the paper from the dwarfs hand, curious as a small grey squirrel. He unrolled it, studied it. â€Å"I see. You draw nicely, my lord. Yes, this ought to work. I should have thought of this myself.† â€Å"It came easier to me, Maester. It is not terribly unlike my own saddles.† â€Å"Will I truly be able to ride?† Bran asked. He wanted to believe them, but he was afraid. Perhaps it was just another lie. The crow had promised him that he could fly. â€Å"You will,† the dwarf told him. â€Å"And I swear to you, boy, on horseback you will be as tall as any of them.† Robb Stark seemed puzzled. â€Å"Is this some trap, Lannister? What's Bran to you? Why should you want to help him?† â€Å"Your brother Jon asked it of me. And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.† Tyrion Lannister placed a hand over his heart and grinned. The door to the yard flew open. Sunlight came streaming across the hall as Rickon burst in, breathless. The direwolves were with him. The boy stopped by the door, wide-eyed, but the wolves came on. Their eyes found Lannister, or perhaps they caught his scent. Summer began to growl first. Grey Wind picked it up. They padded toward the little man, one from the right and one from the left. â€Å"The wolves do not like your smell, Lannister,† Theon Greyioy commented. â€Å"Perhaps it's time I took my leave,† Tyrion said. He took a step backward . . . and Shaggydog came out of the shadows behind him, snarling. Lannister recoiled, and Summer lunged at him from the other side. He reeled away, unsteady on his feet, and Grey Wind snapped at his arm, teeth ripping at his sleeve and tearing loose a scrap of cloth. â€Å"No!† Bran shouted from the high seat as Lannister's men reached for their steel. â€Å"Summer, here. Summer, to me!† The direwolf heard the voice, glanced at Bran, and again at Lannister. He crept backward, away from the little man, and settled down below Bran's dangling feet. Robb had been holding his breath. He let it out with a sigh and called, â€Å"Grey Wind.† His direwolf moved to him, swift and silent. Now there was only Shaggydog, rumbling at the small man, his eyes burning like green fire. â€Å"Rickon, call him,† Bran shouted to his baby brother, and Rickon remembered himself and screamed, â€Å"Home, Shaggy, home now.† The black wolf gave Lannister one final snarl and bounded off to Rickon, who hugged him tightly around the neck. Tyrion Lannister undid his scarf, mopped at his brow, and said in a flat voice, â€Å"How interesting.† â€Å"Are you well, my lord?† asked one of his men, his sword in hand. He glanced nervously at the direwolves as he spoke. â€Å"My sleeve is torn and my breeches are unaccountably damp, but nothing was harmed save my dignity.† Even Robb looked shaken. â€Å"The wolves . . . I don't know why they did that . . . â€Å" â€Å"No doubt they mistook me for dinner.† Lannister bowed stiffly to Bran. â€Å"I thank you for calling them off, young ser. I promise you, they would have found me quite indigestible. And now I will be leaving, truly.† â€Å"A moment, my lord,† Maester Luwin said. He moved to Robb and they huddled close together, whispering. Bran tried to hear what they were saying, but their voices were too low. Robb Stark finally sheathed his sword. â€Å"I . . . I may have been hasty with you,† he said. â€Å"You've done Bran a kindness, and, well . . . † Robb composed himself with an effort. â€Å"The hospitality of Winterfell is yours if you wish it, Lannister.† â€Å"Spare me your false courtesies, boy. You do not love me and you do not want me here. I saw an inn outside your walls, in the winter town. I'll find a bed there, and both of us will sleep easier. For a few coppers I may even find a comely wench to warm the sheets for me.† He spoke to one of the black brothers, an old man with a twisted back and a tangled beard. â€Å"Yoren, we go south at daybreak. You will find me on the road, no doubt.† With that he made his exit, struggling across the hall on his short legs, past Rickon and out the door. His men followed. The four of the Night's Watch remained. Robb turned to them uncertainly. â€Å"I have had rooms prepared, and you'll find no lack of hot water to wash off the dust of the road. I hope you will honor us at table tonight.† He spoke the words so awkwardly that even Bran took note; it was a speech he had learned, not words from the heart, but the black brothers thanked him all the same. Summer followed them up the tower steps as Hodor carried Bran back to his bed. Old Nan was asleep in her chair. Hodor said â€Å"Hodor,† gathered up his great-grandmother, and carried her off, snoring softly, while Bran lay thinking. Robb had promised that he could feast with the Night's Watch in the Great Hall. â€Å"Summer,† he called. The wolf bounded up on the bed. Bran hugged him so hard he could feel the hot breath on his cheek. â€Å"I can ride now,† he whispered to his friend. â€Å"We can go hunting in the woods soon, wait and see.† After a time he slept. In his dream he was climbing again, pulling himself up an ancient windowless tower, his fingers forcing themselves between blackened stones, his feet scrabbling for purchase. Higher and higher he climbed, through the clouds and into the night sky, and still the tower rose before him. When he paused to look down, his head swam dizzily and he felt his fingers slipping. Bran cried out and clung for dear life. The earth was a thousand miles beneath him and he could not fly. He could not fly. He waited until his heart had stopped pounding, until he could breathe, and he began to climb again. There was no way to go but up. Far above him, outlined against a vast pale moon, he thought he could see the shapes of gargoyles. His arms were sore and aching, but he dared not rest. He forced himself to climb faster. The gargoyles watched him ascend. Their eyes glowed red as hot coals in a brazier. Perhaps once they had been lions, but now they were twisted and grotesque. Bran could hear them whispe ring to each other in soft stone voices terrible to hear. He must not listen, he told himself, he must not hear, so long as he did not hear them he was safe. But when the gargoyles pulled themselves loose from the stone and padded down the side of the tower to where Bran clung, he knew he was not safe after all. â€Å"I didn't hear,† he wept as they came closer and closer, â€Å"I didn't, I didn't.† He woke gasping, lost in darkness, and saw a vast shadow looming over him. â€Å"I didn't hear,† he whispered, trembling in fear, but then the shadow said â€Å"Hodor,† and lit the candle by the bedside, and Bran sighed with relief. Hodor washed the sweat from him with a warm, damp cloth and dressed him with deft and gentle hands. When it was time, he carried him down to the Great Hall, where a long trestle table had been set up near the fire. The lord's seat at the head of the table had been left empty, but Robb sat to the right of it, with Bran across from him. They ate suckling pig that night, and pigeon pie, and turnips soaking in butter, and afterward the cook had promised honeycombs. Summer snatched table scraps from Bran's hand, while Grey Wind and Shaggydog fought over a bone in the corner. Winterfell's dogs would not come near the hall now. Bran had found that strange at first, but he was growing used to it. Yoren was senior among the black brothers, so the steward had seated him between Robb and Maester Luwin. The old man had a sour smell, as if he had not washed in a long time. He ripped at the meat with his teeth, cracked the ribs to suck out the marrow from the bones, and shrugged at the mention of Jon Snow. â€Å"Ser Alliser's bane,† he grunted, and two of his companions shared a laugh that Bran did not understand. But when Robb asked for news of their uncle Benjen, the black brothers grew ominously quiet. â€Å"What is it?† Bran asked. Yoren wiped his fingers on his vest. â€Å"There's hard news, m'lords, and a cruel way to pay you for your meat and mead, but the man as asks the question must bear the answer. Stark's gone.† One of the other men said, â€Å"The Old Bear sent him out to look for Waymar Royce, and he's late returning, my lord.† â€Å"Too long,† Yoren said. â€Å"Most like he's dead.† â€Å"My uncle is not dead,† Robb Stark said loudly, anger in his tones. He rose from the bench and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. â€Å"Do you hear me? My uncle is not dead!† His voice rang against the stone walls, and Bran was suddenly afraid. Old sour-smelling Yoren looked up at Robb, unimpressed. â€Å"Whatever you say, m'lord,† he said. He sucked at a piece of meat between his teeth. The youngest of the black brothers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. â€Å"There's not a man on the Wall knows the haunted forest better than Benjen Stark. He'll find his way back.† â€Å"Well,† said Yoren, â€Å"maybe he will and maybe he won't. Good men have gone into those woods before, and never come out.† All Bran could think of was Old Nan's story of the Others and the last hero, hounded through the white woods by dead men and spiders big as hounds. He was afraid for a moment, until he remembered how that story ended. â€Å"The children will help him,† he blurted, â€Å"the children of the forest!† Theon Greyjoy sniggered, and Maester Luwin said, â€Å"Bran, the children of the forest have been dead and gone for thousands of years. All that is left of them are the faces in the trees.† â€Å"Down here, might be that's true, Maester,† Yoren said, â€Å"but up past the Wall, who's to say? Up there, a man can't always tell what's alive and what's dead.† That night, after the plates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself. Grey Wind led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. â€Å"We'll find a horse for you, I promise,† Robb whispered at last. â€Å"Are they ever coming back?† Bran asked him. â€Å"Yes,† Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. â€Å"Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn't that surprise her, to see you ahorse?† Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother's smile. â€Å"And afterward, we'll ride north to see the Wall. We won't even tell Jon we're coming, we'll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure.† â€Å"An adventure,† Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb's face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together.

A Game of Thrones Chapter Sixty-six

Bran The oldest were men grown, seventeen and eighteen years from the day of their naming. One was past twenty. Most were younger, sixteen or less. Bran watched them from the balcony of Maester Luwin's turret, listening to them grunt and strain and curse as they swung their staves and wooden swords. The yard was alive to the clack of wood on wood, punctuated all too often by thwacks and yowls of pain when a blow struck leather or flesh. Ser Rodrik strode among the boys, face reddening beneath his white whiskers, muttering at them one and all. Bran had never seen the old knight look so fierce. â€Å"No,† he kept saying. â€Å"No. No. No.† â€Å"They don't fight very well,† Bran said dubiously. He scratched Summer idly behind the ears as the direwolf tore at a haunch of meat. Bones crunched between his teeth. â€Å"For a certainty,† Maester Luwin agreed with a deep sigh. The maester was peering through his big Myrish lens tube, measuring shadows and noting the position of the comet that hung low in the morning sky. â€Å"Yet given time . . . Ser Rodrik has the truth of it, we need men to walk the walls. Your lord father took the cream of his guard to King's Landing, and your brother took the rest, along with all the likely lads for leagues around. Many will not come back to us, and we must needs find the men to take their places.† Bran stared resentfully at the sweating boys below. â€Å"If I still had my legs, I could beat them all.† He remembered the last time he'd held a sword in his hand, when the king had come to Winterfell. It was only a wooden sword, yet he'd knocked Prince Tommen down half a hundred times. â€Å"Ser Rodrik should teach me to use a poleaxe. If I had a poleaxe with a big long haft, Hodor could be my legs. We could be a knight together.† â€Å"I think that . . . unlikely,† Maester Luwin said. â€Å"Bran, when a man fights, his arms and legs and thoughts must be as one.† Below in the yard, Ser Rodrik was yelling. â€Å"You fight like a goose. He pecks you and you peck him harder. Parry! Block the blow. Goose fighting will not suffice. If those were real swords, the first peck would take your arm off!† One of the other boys laughed, and the old knight rounded on him. â€Å"You laugh. You. Now that is gall. You fight like a hedgehog . . . â€Å" â€Å"There was a knight once who couldn't see,† Bran said stubbornly, as Ser Rodrik went on below. â€Å"Old Nan told me about him. He had a long staff with blades at both ends and he could spin it in his hands and chop two men at once.† â€Å"Symeon Star-Eyes,† Luwin said as he marked numbers in a book. â€Å"When he lost his eyes, he put star sapphires in the empty sockets, or so the singers claim. Bran, that is only a story, like the tales of Florian the Fool. A fable from the Age of Heroes.† The maester tsked. â€Å"You must put these dreams aside, they will only break your heart.† The mention of dreams reminded him. â€Å"I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad.† â€Å"And why was that?† Luwin peered through his tube. â€Å"It was something to do about Jon, I think.† The dream had been deeply disturbing, more so than any of the other crow dreams. â€Å"Hodor won't go down into the crypts.† The maester had only been half listening, Bran could tell. He lifted his eye from the tube, blinking. â€Å"Hodor won't . . . â€Å" â€Å"Go down into the crypts. When I woke, I told him to take me down, to see if Father was truly there. At first he didn't know what I was saying, but I got him to the steps by telling him to go here and go there, only then he wouldn't go down. He just stood on the top step and said ‘Hodor,' like he was scared of the dark, but I had a torch. It made me so mad I almost gave him a swat in the head, like Old Nan is always doing.† He saw the way the maester was frowning and hurriedly added, â€Å"I didn't, though.† â€Å"Good. Hodor is a man, not a mule to be beaten.† â€Å"In the dream I flew down with the crow, but I can't do that when I'm awake,† Bran explained. â€Å"Why would you want to go down to the crypts?† â€Å"I told you. To look for Father.† The maester tugged at the chain around his neck, as he often did when he was uncomfortable. â€Å"Bran, sweet child, one day Lord Eddard will sit below in stone, beside his father and his father's father and all the Starks back to the old Kings in the North . . . but that will not be for many years, gods be good. Your father is a prisoner of the queen in King's Landing. You will not find him in the crypts.† â€Å"He was there last night. I talked to him.† â€Å"Stubborn boy,† the maester sighed, setting his book aside. â€Å"Would you like to go see?† â€Å"I can't. Hodor won't go, and the steps are too narrow and twisty for Dancer.† â€Å"I believe I can solve that difficulty.† In place of Hodor, the wildling woman Osha was summoned. She was tall and tough and uncomplaining, willing to go wherever she was commanded. â€Å"I lived my life beyond the Wall, a hole in the ground won't fret me none, m'lords,† she said. â€Å"Summer, come,† Bran called as she lifted him in wiry-strong arms. The direwolf left his bone and followed as Osha carried Bran across the yard and down the spiral steps to the cold vault under the earth. Maester Luwin went ahead with a torch. Bran did not even mind—too badly—that she carried him in her arms and not on her back. Ser Rodrik had ordered Osha's chain struck off, since she had served faithfully and well since she had been at Winterfell. She still wore the heavy iron shackles around her ankles—a sign that she was not yet wholly trusted—but they did not hinder her sure strides down the steps. Bran could not recall the last time he had been in the crypts. It had been before, for certain. When he was little, he used to play down here with Robb and Jon and his sisters. He wished they were here now; the vault might not have seemed so dark and scary. Summer stalked out in the echoing gloom, then stopped, lifted his head, and sniffed the chill dead air. He bared his teeth and crept backward, eyes glowing golden in the light of the maester's torch. Even Osha, hard as old iron, seemed uncomfortable. â€Å"Grim folk, by the look of them,† she said as she eyed the long row of granite Starks on their stone thrones. â€Å"They were the Kings of Winter,† Bran whispered. Somehow it felt wrong to talk too loudly in this place. Osha smiled. â€Å"Winter's got no king. If you'd seen it, you'd know that, summer boy.† â€Å"They were the Kings in the North for thousands of years,† Maester Luwin said, lifting the torch high so the light shone on the stone faces. Some were hairy and bearded, shaggy men fierce as the wolves that crouched by their feet. Others were shaved clean, their features gaunt and sharp-edged as the iron longswords across their laps. â€Å"Hard men for a hard time. Come.† He strode briskly down the vault, past the procession of stone pillars and the endless carved figures. A tongue of flame trailed back from the upraised torch as he went. The vault was cavernous, longer than Winterfell itself, and Jon had told him once that there were other levels underneath, vaults even deeper and darker where the older kings were buried. It would not do to lose the light. Summer refused to move from the steps, even when Osha followed the torch, Bran in her arms. â€Å"Do you recall your history, Bran?† the maester said as they walked. â€Å"Tell Osha who they were and what they did, if you can.† He looked at the passing faces and the tales came back to him. The maester had told him the stories, and Old Nan had made them come alive. â€Å"That one is Jon Stark. When the sea raiders landed in the east, he drove them out and built the castle at White Harbor. His son was Rickard Stark, not my father's father but another Rickard, he took the Neck away from the Marsh King and married his daughter. Theon Stark's the real thin one with the long hair and the skinny beard. They called him the ‘Hungry Wolf,' because he was always at war. That's a Brandon, the tall one with the dreamy face, he was Brandon the Shipwright, because he loved the sea. His tomb is empty. He tried to sail west across the Sunset Sea and was never seen again. His son was Brandon the Burner, because he put the torch to all his father's ships in grief. There's Rodrik Stark, who won Bear Island in a wrestling match and gave it to the Mormonts. And that's Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. He was the last Kin g in the North and the first Lord of Winterfell, after he yielded to Aegon the Conqueror. Oh, there, he's Cregan Stark. He fought with Prince Aemon once, and the Dragonknight said he'd never faced a finer swordsman.† They were almost at the end now, and Bran felt a sadness creeping over him. â€Å"And there's my grandfather, Lord Rickard, who was beheaded by Mad King Aerys. His daughter Lyanna and his son Brandon are in the tombs beside him. Not me, another Brandon, my father's brother. They're not supposed to have statues, that's only for the lords and the kings, but my father loved them so much he had them done.† â€Å"The maid's a fair one,† Osha said. â€Å"Robert was betrothed to marry her, but Prince Rhaegar carried her off and raped her,† Bran explained. â€Å"Robert fought a war to win her back. He killed Rhaegar on the Trident with his hammer, but Lyanna died and he never got her back at all.† â€Å"A sad tale,† said Osha, â€Å"but those empty holes are sadder.† â€Å"Lord Eddard's tomb, for when his time comes,† Maester Luwin said. â€Å"Is this where you saw your father in your dream, Bran?† â€Å"Yes.† The memory made him shiver. He looked around the vault uneasily, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. Had he heard a noise? Was there someone here? Maester Luwin stepped toward the open sepulchre, torch in hand. â€Å"As you see, he's not here. Nor will he be, for many a year. Dreams are only dreams, child.† He thrust his arm into the blackness inside the tomb, as into the mouth of some great beast. â€Å"Do you see? It's quite empt—† The darkness sprang at him, snarling. Bran saw eyes like green fire, a flash of teeth, fur as black as the pit around them. Maester Luwin yelled and threw up his hands. The torch went flying from his fingers, caromed off the stone face of Brandon Stark, and tumbled to the statue's feet, the flames licking up his legs. In the drunken shifting torchlight, they saw Luwin struggling with the direwolf, beating at his muzzle with one hand while the jaws closed on the other. â€Å"Summer!† Bran screamed. And Summer came, shooting from the dimness behind them, a leaping shadow. He slammed into Shaggydog and knocked him back, and the two direwolves rolled over and over in a tangle of grey and black fur, snapping and biting at each other, while Maester Luwin struggled to his knees, his arm torn and bloody. Osha propped Bran up against Lord Rickard's stone wolf as she hurried to assist the maester. In the light of the guttering torch, shadow wolves twenty feet tall fought on the wall and roof. â€Å"Shaggy,† a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father's tomb. With one final snap at Summer's face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon's side. â€Å"You let my father be,† Rickon warned Luwin. â€Å"You let him be.† â€Å"Rickon,† Bran said softly. â€Å"Father's not here.† â€Å"Yes he is. I saw him.† Tears glistened on Rickon's face. â€Å"I saw him last night.† â€Å"In your dream . . . ?† Rickon nodded. â€Å"You leave him. You leave him be. He's coming home now, like he promised. He's coming home.† Bran had never seen Maester Luwin took so uncertain before. Blood dripped down his arm where Shaggydog had shredded the wool of his sleeve and the flesh beneath. â€Å"Osha, the torch,† he said, biting through his pain, and she snatched it up before it went out. Soot stains blackened both legs of his uncle's likeness. â€Å"That . . . that beast,† Luwin went on, â€Å"is supposed to be chained up in the kennels.† Rickon patted Shaggydog's muzzle, damp with blood. â€Å"I let him loose. He doesn't like chains.† He licked at his fingers. â€Å"Rickon,† Bran said, â€Å"would you like to come with me?† â€Å"No. I like it here.† â€Å"It's dark here. And cold.† â€Å"I'm not afraid. I have to wait for Father.† â€Å"You can wait with me,† Bran said. â€Å"We'll wait together, you and me and our wolves.† Both of the direwolves were licking wounds now, and would bear close watching. â€Å"Bran,† the maester said firmly, â€Å"I know you mean well, but Shaggydog is too wild to run loose. I'm the third man he's savaged. Give him the freedom of the castle and it's only a question of time before he kills someone. The truth is hard, but the wolf has to be chained, or . . . &rdquo He hesitated . . . or killed, Bran thought, but what he said was, â€Å"He was not made for chains. We will wait in your tower, all of us.† â€Å"That is quite impossible,† Maester Luwin said. Osha grinned. â€Å"The boy's the lordling here, as I recall.† She handed Luwin back his torch and scooped Bran up into her arms again. â€Å"The maester's tower it is.† â€Å"Will you come, Rickon?† His brother nodded. â€Å"If Shaggy comes too,† he said, running after Osha and Bran, and there was nothing Maester Luwin could do but follow, keeping a wary eye on the wolves. Maester Luwin's turret was so cluttered that it seemed to Bran a wonder that he ever found anything. Tottering piles of books covered tables and chairs, rows of stoppered jars lined the shelves, candle stubs and puddles of dried wax dotted the furniture, the bronze Myrish lens tube sat on a tripod by the terrace door, star charts hung from the walls, shadow maps lay scattered among the rushes, papers, quills, and pots of inks were everywhere, and all of it was spotted with droppings from the ravens in the rafters. Their strident quorks drifted down from above as Osha washed and cleaned and bandaged the maester's wounds, under Luwin's terse instruction. â€Å"This is folly,† the small grey man said while she dabbed at the wolf bites with a stinging ointment. â€Å"I agree that it is odd that both you boys dreamed the same dream, yet when you stop to consider it, it's only natural. You miss your lord father, and you know that he is a captive. Fear can fever a man's mind and giv e him queer thoughts. Rickon is too young to comprehend—† â€Å"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. â€Å"—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.† â€Å"Some are, some aren't.† Osha poured pale red firemilk into a long gash. Luwin gasped. â€Å"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. â€Å"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.† â€Å"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. â€Å"She says that they made music so beautiful that it made you cry like a little baby just to hear it.† â€Å"And all this they did with magic,† Maester Luwin said, distracted. â€Å"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.† He gave the big black wolf an angry glance out of the corner of his eye. â€Å"Take a lesson, Bran. The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword. As the children did. Here, let me show you something.† He stood abruptly, crossed the room, and returned with a green jar in his good hand. â€Å"Have a look at these,† he said as he pulled the stopper and shook out a handful of shiny black arrowheads. Bran picked one up. â€Å"It's made of glass.† Curious, Rickon drifted closer to peer over the table. â€Å"Dragonglass,† Osha named it as she sat down beside Luwin, bandagings in hand. â€Å"Obsidian,† Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. â€Å"Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian.† â€Å"And still do.† Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester's forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen. Bran held the arrowhead up close. The black glass was slick and shiny. He thought it beautiful. â€Å"Can I keep one?† â€Å"As you wish,† the maester said. â€Å"I want one too,† Rickon said. â€Å"I want four. I'm four.† Luwin made him count them out. â€Å"Careful, they're still sharp. Don't cut yourself.† â€Å"Tell me about the children,† Bran said. It was important. â€Å"What do you wish to know?† â€Å"Everything.† Maester Luwin tugged at his chain collar where it chafed against his neck. â€Å"They were people of the Dawn Age, the very first, before kings and kingdoms,† he said. â€Å"In those days, there were no castles or holdfasts, no cities, not so much as a market town to be found between here and the sea of Dorne. There were no men at all. Only the children of the forest dwelt in the lands we now call the Seven Kingdoms. â€Å"They were a people dark and beautiful, small of stature, no taller than children even when grown to manhood. They lived in the depths of the wood, in caves and crannogs and secret tree towns. Slight as they were, the children were quick and graceful. Male and female hunted together, with weirwood bows and flying snares. Their gods were the gods of the forest, stream, and stone, the old gods whose names are secret. Their wise men were called greenseers, and carved strange faces in the weirwoods to keep watch on the woods. How long the children reigned here or where they came from, no man can know. â€Å"But some twelve thousand years ago, the First Men appeared from the east, crossing the Broken Arm of Dorne before it was broken. They came with bronze swords and great leathern shields, riding horses. No horse had ever been seen on this side of the narrow sea. No doubt the children were as frightened by the horses as the First Men were by the faces in the trees. As the First Men carved out holdfasts and farms, they cut down the faces and gave them to the fire. Horror-struck, the children went to war. The old songs say that the greenseers used dark magics to make the seas rise and sweep away the land, shattering the Arm, but it was too late to close the door. The wars went on until the earth ran red with blood of men and children both, but more children than men, for men were bigger and stronger, and wood and stone and obsidian make a poor match for bronze. Finally the wise of both races prevailed, and the chiefs and heroes of the First Men met the greenseers and wood dancers a midst the weirwood groves of a small island in the great lake called Gods Eye. â€Å"There they forged the Pact. The First Men were given the coastlands, the high plains and bright meadows, the mountains and bogs, but the deep woods were to remain forever the children's, and no more weirwoods were to be put to the axe anywhere in the realm. So the gods might bear witness to the signing, every tree on the island was given a face, and afterward, the sacred order of green men was formed to keep watch over the Isle of Faces. â€Å"The Pact began four thousand years of friendship between men and children. In time, the First Men even put aside the gods they had brought with them, and took up the worship of the secret gods of the wood. The signing of the Pact ended the Dawn Age, and began the Age of Heroes.† Bran's fist curled around the shiny black arrowhead. â€Å"But the children of the forest are all gone now, you said.† â€Å"Here, they are,† said Osha, as she bit off the end of the last bandage with her teeth. â€Å"North of the Wall, things are different. That's where the children went, and the giants, and the other old races.† Maester Luwin sighed. â€Å"Woman, by rights you ought to be dead or in chains. The Starks have treated you more gently than you deserve. It is unkind to repay them for their kindness by filling the boys' heads with folly.† â€Å"Tell me where they went,† Bran said. â€Å"I want to know.† â€Å"Me too,† Rickon echoed. â€Å"Oh, very well,† Luwin muttered. â€Å"So long as the kingdoms of the First Men held sway, the Pact endured, all through the Age of Heroes and the Long Night and the birth of the Seven Kingdoms, yet finally there came a time, many centuries later, when other peoples crossed the narrow sea. â€Å"The Andals were the first, a race of tall, fair-haired warriors who came with steel and fire and the seven-pointed star of the new gods painted on their chests. The wars lasted hundreds of years, but in the end the six southron kingdoms all fell before them. Only here, where the King in the North threw back every army that tried to cross the Neck, did the rule of the First Men endure. The Andals burnt out the weirwood groves, hacked down the faces, slaughtered the children where they found them, and everywhere proclaimed the triumph of the Seven over the old gods. So the children fled north—† Summer began to howl. Maester Luwin broke off, startled. When Shaggydog bounded to his feet and added his voice to his brother's, dread clutched at Bran's heart. â€Å"It's coming,† he whispered, with the certainty of despair. He had known it since last night, he realized, since the crow had led him down into the crypts to say farewell. He had known it, but he had not believed. He had wanted Maester Luwin to be right. The crow, he thought, the three-eyed crow . . . The howling stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Summer padded across the tower floor to Shaggydog, and began to lick at a mat of bloody fur on the back of his brother's neck. From the window came a flutter of wings. A raven landed on the grey stone sill, opened its beak, and gave a harsh, raucous rattle of distress. Rickon began to cry. His arrowheads fell from his hand one by one and clattered on the floor. Bran pulled him close and hugged him. Maester Luwin stared at the black bird as if it were a scorpion with feathers. He rose, slow as a sleepwalker, and moved to the window. When he whistled, the raven hopped onto his bandaged forearm. There was dried blood on its wings. â€Å"A hawk,† Luwin murmured, â€Å"perhaps an owl. Poor thing, a wonder it got through.† He took the letter from its leg. Bran found himself shivering as the maester unrolled the paper. â€Å"What is it?† he said, holding his brother all the harder. â€Å"You know what it is, boy,† Osha said, not unkindly. She put her hand on his head. Maester Luwin looked up at them numbly, a small grey man with blood on the sleeve of his grey wool robe and tears in his bright grey eyes. â€Å"My lords,† he said to the sons, in a voice gone hoarse and shrunken, â€Å"we . . . we shall need to find a stonecarver who knew his likeness well . . . â€Å"

AIDS in New York prisons

Why lack of awareness leads to the spread of HIV/AIDS in New York prisons In the New York state prisons, urgent attention is needed to reduce the HIV/ AIDS epidemic. From a survey done in the recent years, it has shown that the HIV infected inmates are increasing each year.Advertising We will write a custom article sample on Why lack of awareness leads to the spread of HIV/AIDS in New York prisons specifically for you for only $16.05 $11/page Learn More The inmates do not get enough and fair health care while in the prison. They should be educated and given prevention programs so that the transmission rate can reduce in the prisons as well as the community (Boutwell Rich, 2004). The inmates are at a very high risk of contracting the virus and then they go back to the society with little idea of the disease; how it is spread and prevented. Therefore, the prisons have become breeding places for HIV/AIDS which then spreads to the community. The health department in US intends to expand testing of HIV to the inmates because they found that twenty percent of the inmates are HIV positive (Mutter et al, 1994). The health department has initiated a program called pilot program that allocates the coordinators for patient care to HIV-infected inmates in the same jail. The program targets all the jails and aims at connecting all the HIV- positive inmates to the community care after they get released from the prison. Efforts made to prevent transmission of HIV/AIDS in the New York prisons HIV rates are very high among the African American prisoners and it is six times that of the population in general. In the year 2008, more than twenty thousand inmates were HIV positive; the female inmates were the most affected with 1.9% while the male inmates were 1.7% (Boutwell Rich, 2004). The local facilities determine the medical care of any prison or jail. Generally, the inmates do not receive adequate health care that meet the standards of public health. In New York, there is a constitutional right for the healthcare of the pri soners. If care is not provided to them, then this is termed as an unusual punishment (Krebs, 2006). On the other hand, the inmates need to support their own care by understanding their illnesses and making sure that they obtain suitable care in the prison or jail. The AIDS Institute’s Criminal Justice Initiative (CJI) was created to respond to the prevention and services for the HIV positive inmates in the New York State. Its main goal is to offer a complete, unified range of excellent HIV prevention and helpful services to individuals as well as those going back to the society. The services are usually made to reduce the transmission of HIV in the prisons and to enhance good health and happiness of the individuals who already have the disease. Factors that lead to the spread of HIV/ AIDS in the New York prisons Since there is a great increase in the number of inmates getting infected with HIV/AIDs, the setting in the prisons should be a focus in addressing such epidemics. T he inmates should be tested more often so that those infected with the disease are identified, and given adequate care while still in prison so that primary and secondary prevention goals are achieved (Krebs, 2006). Resources for carrying out routine testing should be available as well as provision of complete HIV care so that the epidemic is stopped.Advertising Looking for article on health medicine? Let's see if we can help you! Get your first paper with 15% OFF Learn More HIV transmission among the New York prison inmates mainly occurs due to sex between two males or two females. Tattooing in the prisons also increases HIV transmission thus the need for HIV prevention programs in these prisons (Mutter R. et al, 1994). It is apparent that HIV is transmitted in prisons due to the behaviors that occur among the inmates. From a survey done in the New York state prisons, the characteristics of the inmates who are likely to contract the disease while still in p rison are: black and younger inmates, inmates who have been imprisoned due to sexual crimes and those inmates who have stayed in prison for a longer time. List of References Boutwell A Rich J. (2004) â€Å"HIV Infection behind bars.† Clinical Infectious Diseases. 38(2):1761-1763. Krebs C. (2006) â€Å"Inmate factors associated with HIV transmission in prison.†Ã‚  Criminology and Public Policy. 5(1):113-135. Mutter R.et al. (1994) â€Å"Evidence of intra prison spread of HIV infection.† Archives of  Internal Medicine. 154(7):793-795.