━ 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 sky had slowly darkened, the ever constant daylight drew dull behind the clouds. Grey eyes stared at them, they did not contain the same grey-blue as the ever looming markers of snow, nor the same weight as rainclouds. The woman noted to herself. The air was cold, still quite the chill, although it lacked the same merciless bite compared to how it had been when she had first left.
Arya Stark wandered the battlements, her footsteps were as light as a bird, quieter than a sept mouse. Dark grey eyes scanned the fields of pure snow to the west of the castle. The ambiance of the wind carried a small howl. She closed her eyes and imagined it was Nymeria. Travelling the riverlands, through the homeland of her mother with her own pack and litter of half-direwolves. Sometimes, in her dreams, she was her, the great golden eyed she-wolf and hunting, Nymeria was present all the while. She could feel her too, the presence of someone so familiar and yet not.
Voices called to one another and there was the slight sound of metal clanging, whether it be from the forge or training grounds, both were close by. The numerous lines of farms and Wintertown were all to the east. The glass gardens lined the southern entrance to the castle. The west was silent, open and serene. The woman stared out, unblinking at the fields of white. If she strained her eyes, the blurred haze of nothingness on the horizon was the sea, was England, was the ships. Perhaps on the horizon, a figure would stumble forth, tall and willowy, teeth chattering and crimson hair tangled yet flushed and alive. Lead by ravens, doves and wolves, unyielding like a weirwood tree. She was alive. Bran had said so. She was and she had to be.
Arya spun on her heel. The wind was too soft, the cold bit too gently, a cold comfort rather than a punishment. It was her fault. Of course it was. She could not be happy staying in a home she barely recognised despite having fought and wanted so badly to return to. To come home and find it empty of nearly everyone she had known and loved. It was not the same. She was not the same. She had left and gotten herself into trouble, she had left and had dragged her sister into it. Sansa had never wanted to leave Winterfell again, yet Arya had made her. Her hands trembled beneath her gloves. She had made her go, and now she was gone. Another wolf lost to the water, like Robb was in the flow of the Trident, Sansa somewhere far across the sea.
"If you keep brooding, you'll look like your brother." Gendry stated. Arya's head shot up, glancing across the battlements at him. When had he gotten there? She wondered. He was speckled in a light dusting of snowflakes and leant comfortably against one of the stones. He turned his head and offered her a small smile. "You alright, m'lady?"
"Oh shut up." She looked at him. Of course he had to call her that, he had since he found out she was highborn.
He held his hands up in surrender whilst cracking a grin. "Sorry, Arry."
