LOCATION: Winterfell, atop the walkways near the Hunter’s Gate at dusk.
STATUS: open!
When she was a child, her mother had oft told her a fanciful story – that the waves had carried her ashore one day, a little girl made of sea foam and driftwood, her hair a tangle of seaweed. A runaway treasure of the merling king, she had said. It had taken her mother a full three days to brush the seaweed until they were curls, to polish the coral set inside the driftwood skull until they were eyes. She had believed it, ardent and wide-eyed with the giddy wonder of a girl not yet ten, and even now, that story stayed with her. Maybe that was why she felt so restless, staying inland for so long. Like she would never quite be the same without the sea there to whisper in her ear, sweeping salt across her lips. Perhaps she was just a driftwood woman, sea foam given legs; one who would not know rest until she was out on the open ocean.
Still– she felt comfort knowing it was much the same for the rest of her iron brethren, even those of them that made their homes on the isles, and not upon the waves. To be so far from the sea felt strange, especially here, tensions pulled taut. They all felt the pull.
It had driven her up on the walled walkways that overlooked the keep and its many courtyards – and, most notably, the wolfswood to the west of Winterfell. With dusk painting the world in shades of blue and violet, the northern sky gleaming, she found herself wanting to hear the howls– but the faraway forest remained quiet. Instead, she heard the sound of someone joining her up on the would-be outlook, and she turned to face them. Below, people continued to mill about through the courtyards, light spilling out from the doorways, candelight flickering from behind frosted glass.
“Have you come to listen for the wolves, too?”
“– Or did you come up here for solace's sake?”
