━ in which; Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, receives a raven from across the sea, speaking of how her dear sister had come into contact with another race of people from the mysterious, rumoured magic of the sea on Arya's desire to answer the age o...
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A raven tapped it's beak on the window of the Maester's tower of the grand castle of Winterfell. It had the lightest coating of snowflakes obscuring the dark, oily black feathers from shining their full dragonglass lustre in the light of the sun through the open window. Maester Wolkan ambled over, in the high tower, pulling the window open by the handle. The bird fluttered in, a soft croak sounding from its throat. It fluttered over to the side of the room with an open feeder of grain and ate its fill, drinking gulps of water from the pitcher in the centre of the room. It's beady eyes focused on the man, demanding attention. Maester Wolkan rolled his eyes at the obnoxious bird, walking to check the clasp on its ankle.
The sigil embossed on the cuff was that of a running wolf. The personal sigil of Arya Stark, opposed to the traditional snarling wolf of her elder sister. He untied the leather string and removed the letter from its small cuff. The bird cawed out, tired and eager to express it. He unrolled the parchment and nodded to himself, seeing the name of the intended receiver being that of the Queen. The rest was written in the old tongue, a language barely used, even in the traditional households of the North.
His eyes scanned over the parchment. Attempting to decipher familiar symbols of the sisters consistent correspondence. The only thing entirely consistent was the small scribbles of direwolves in the margins of the pages. A sigh escaped his lips, at least it was not another proposal. Those were not fun for himself, Queen Sansa, nor anyone else in her council to discuss. There were more important matters, rebuilding, mending and feeding the people, as well as establishing a new world order. It was a also thankfully not requests of aid from or for others in the south claiming to of been supporters or allies of the Starks for generations.
Winterfell was warm, despite the midwinter season. The days had blurred into one long one, not having gone into a properly dark night for almost two weeks. The warm water from the hotsprings pumped through the walls, making it warm enough one could walk through the keep barefoot without a chance of contracting frostbite. It was easier on the aching bones of the elderly and the fragile citizens and smallfolk within. Refugees from across the seven kingdoms, primarily from the North, but many from beyond the wall, the Riverlands and even the Vale had elected to remain in Winterfell. It's size able to host them all easily.
Maester Wolkan's path was hardly clear on his route to the council chambers. He had run into half of the council on his way, and they had decided to tag along, instead of awaiting the servant's summons. It was nearing midday, so Queen Sansa was likely in one of her usual haunts, the godswood, the great hall, or her solar.
The maid that had come to fetch her had finally found her, sitting in the small sept. Her mother's sept. It was usually a place she avoided like the plague, however, something drew her into it, mayhaps the visiting spirit in the castle of the dead. Sansa kept her head up, holding her eyes a little too widely open to be comfortable, attempting to dry the water away. She had a country to lead, there was so much to do, and so little she could do but yet so much. A paradox of life and ruling. She frowned. The red haired woman cleared her throat and sniffed, eyes turning at the creak of the door to lock on the servant girl, Eliza. "My Queen, the Maester requests an audience. He is at the council chambers, and is able to meet when you are available."
