━ 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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The wind was chilling as it blew into his face. Tendrils of short, dark curls billowed like a cloak from his head. The horses that had been gifted to them by Ned Umber at Last Hearth, at the request of Lady Mormont. He had said, he had refused to meet Jon's eyes for most of the interaction. The Umber boy had not displeased with him, had he? For what could he of possibly done? The memory had haunted Jon for near weeks.
The horses snorted beneath him, and his accompaniment of wildlings. His was a great, shaggy bay, the horse was short and fluffy, a thick coat of fur as well as a blanket of backs. Jon Snow sighed into his hand. The snow drifts were still thick, even beneath the wall. The Kingsroad was treacherous, hardly any food to prey on along its' path had left them half starved. He had been offered the title of King beyond the Wall, although the Wall did not quite stand anymore, Jon had refused. He had been king once, near twice. He did not need to be king again, Tormund had taken the position with all the grace the large man had, albeit, not much. He had clapped his shoulder, "No hard feelings, Snow?" he had asked, huddled by the fire in what remained of the near abandoned Castle Black.
The winter was too harsh to attempt to traverse further North, so he was luckily able to respond to Sansa's call to return. The raven had sent a reply and he had set off with a small party, Tormund and Ghost at his side. Ghost trotted along at his side. As did a few other of the Free Folk, though they were not as comfortable on horseback as he himself was. Tormund had taken a two others out of their ten west into the wolfswood, hoping to catch enough to sustain the the group. Winterfell was approximately a day of hard riding away. The landscape, capped in more white than ever, was familiar, and without the looming darkness and threat of death it seemed familiar.
When they had reached the small keep of the Arnhold, a mere two weeks ago, the wooden and stone walls, barely larger than the Inn at the Crossroads, along the frozen shores of the long lake, an aging couple, Lord Arne and his wife, Lady Nettles, hosted a refugee camp, all the livestock they owned, as well as other tenants living within the building with them. They had passed on a message, a raven sat with a roll of parchment on it's leg. It had been Lady Mormont, once more speaking in Sansa's stead. It had been alarming for Jon, Sansa had left Winterfell in search of Arya, she had chosen him as her regent, Lady Mormont as her hand. Bran had joined too, a swifter arrival by ship, a mere week on the speeding current and winter winds on the southern seas rather than the two-month journey on horseback, if not longer if the gods decide to unleash another blizzard.
