the return of the stark brothers, eira the direwolf in tow, brought great calm tot the northern region. banners holding the sigil of the wolf flapped in the wind, edges stained by mud and smoke, whipping as weary men rejoiced with armor dulled and faces blackened with soot and sweat. yet, beneath the exhaustion, the rebels shone with pride ; the glint of hardened triumph was unmistakable, even beneath the grime. and that was when he saw them, a beauty standing sentry like the strong trunk of a weirwood. stable, assured, unfelled. he recognised them somewhat, but was unsure of their name — in that moment loras promised that he would not leave again without learning it. “perhaps i am merely drunk of victory, but i cannot shift you from my mind.”