"Of Snow, Sea, and Shadows: Book 1" One Woman Keep [GoT]

Traveling South

Halfway through our journey and the land starts to change, brown dead grass buried beneath snow turns into rolling emerald fields that meet the sky. We stop for a break; at this rate we will reach Winterfell just before sundown. I easily slide off and lead Midnight to a small watering pool just at the edge of a sparse forest. I in turn pull out an apple from his saddle bags for me and a carrot for him. Making myself comfortable on an oddly shaped and sharp rock I ignore Snow who is standing on the opposite side of the pool tending to his horse. The lands around us are empty and quiet except for the lapping of water made by the horses and the occasional bird flitting by. If only everyday in the Seven Kingdoms were like this. Peaceful. I almost laugh at the thought, in all the hundreds and thousands of years of this lands existence there has never, and probably ever will be, a moment of peace. Peeling back my slightly bloody bandage I look at the scar left across my palm, it’s one I will have forever though it hasn’t healed completely yet. As I reach for some new linen I had placed on a higher rock next to me I nearly drop it, in panic my injured hand shoots out and grabs it but not before tearing the newborn skin once again. I swear, definitely not under my breath and Jon looks up.

“Alright?” he asks, although he turns his attention back to his horse. I rip a small piece off the bandage and hold it out for him.

“Dip this in the water will you?” I say still looking at my hand. He obliges and silently moistens the cloth and brings it back. I gently wipe away the blood slowly pooling in my palm, wincing from the rough texture of the cloth. I can feel him looking at me, still standing there inspecting my cleaning of my wound.

“Am I fascinating?” I ask without looking. He snaps out of it and again goes back to his oh-so-interesting horse.

“I suggest we start moving again,” he says putting his gloves back on

“Why the rush? We’re going to arrive there well before sundown anyway. Besides, where’s your wolf?” just as I say it, a white flurry bursts out from the wood near us and nearly knocks Snow off his feet and into the pool as he bounds to me.

“There’s a good Ghost,” I say petting him and standing to retrieve a piece of dried meat.

“Shall we?” I say using a stone as leverage to drag myself onto Midnight. In response, he gets on his horse too and as we walk, Ghost falls into a casual trot by our sides. The silence is far from comfortable, but speaking would be more so. I can tell we both have much on our minds and I am sure Snow is worried.

“How long have you been away?” I ask. Riding in front, I don’t turn but I know he’s heard my question.

“A year and a half,” he replies.

“I’m sure Bran would love to see you again,” I know I’ve made him smile at the memory, but I can tell as much as he would love to see Bran again as well as Robb, he’s concerned still about Lady Catelyn. His sisters are safe, but not with them at the moment. Lady Arryn of the Eyrie holds them both at the Vale, for how long, no one will know. We ride on only an hour away from Winterfell now and I continue to think about the Starks. Lord Eddard is gone, after the betrayal of Joffrey to Sansa, and Robert Baratheon though a King, quite fittingly killed by a pig. The hour passes in quick silence and we are greeted into the walls of Winterfell by two footmen who are clearly expecting us, as we ride towards the central courtyard, people part like a dark sea, staring not only at the mysterious and equally shadowy visitor, but also the return of the bastard son. As we turn the corner to see the courtyard, they are waiting for us. Bran clutching onto a behemoth, one I know as Hodor and a wilding woman, Osha, her hand resting protectively over Rickon’s shoulders. Lady Cat as powerful as ever stands with a towering guard next to her. Brienne of Tarth, she is brave, ruthless, and powerful, just what The Lady of Winterfell needed. I push back my hood to get a better view of the man standing in the centre. Still in armour and a cloak, his hands placed neatly on a drawn sword whose point rests in the hardened dirt, stands the King of Winterfell. Robb Stark has a small smirk on his face as I dismount from my horse and walk to stand before him.