Jon’s finger traced the outline of the direwolf in the white wax of the broken seat. He recognized Robb’s hand, but the letters seemed to blur and run as he tried to read them. He realized he was crying. And then, through the tears, he found the sense in the words, and raised his head. “He woke up,” he said. “The gods gave him back.” “Crippled,” Mormont said. “I’m sorry, boy. Read the rest of the letter.” He looked at the words, but they didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Bran was going to live.
You say “ensemble cast” I hear “You’re going to become far too invested in one or two emotionally damaged middle aged character(s) and join a small but dedicated fandom where you’ll obsess over every minute detail when they are on screen. Any sort of physical contact or eye contact will be interpreted as an act of passion and you’ll miss large plot lines because you’ll be too busy staring at their movements out of focus.”