THE NORTHERN AIR bites at his skin, dragging sharp fingers of ICE across his face as he rides, but THE MOUNTAIN keeps his stony silence. he cannot fight the coming winter (though he might try). his horse carries him DUTIFULLY, though it trembles beneath him, legs weak from the journey and WEIGHT of its rider. it will expire soon enough, and it will be time enough for another. there are several good mounts in his travelling party, BIG enough and STRONG enough to carry him some distance, if not all the way back home. and it will be some time before they return home, some time before they have carried out lord tywin’s orders. gregor reins his horse up in front of the SMALLER man, a face he doesn’t recognise. he senses no THREAT from him, and no duty to answer his question. instead, he returns one of his own ------ ❛ the FUCK are you? ❜