Ned has been very quiet, of late. His days are spent looking after his children, those who've grown and those who've yet to be born.
But this morning, his mind is on Westeros, and those children still unaccounted for. Bran. Rickon.
Snow falls slowly, covering the land, flat and hilly alike, and he whispers to himself, winter has come.Nostalgia
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A visit from her father would be welcome.
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Ah, Sansa.
"Off for a walk?" he'll ask, by way of greeting.
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"Aye, though would that it were summer still," he says, and because he will always worry about his little girl, he might fuss with her cloak, if she has one.
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"Yes, I think I prefer the warmth, but the snow...it's so pretty."
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"It is, aye, but pretty as it is, you and all your brothers and sisters must learn to fear and respect it," he says softly. "Come now - what does the pretty snow tell you, Sansa?"
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"It tells me to not linger too long in it," she says. One could freeze to death out here, she thinks, but doesn't say. The thought startles her a little, actually.
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As with Cersei.
Old wounds.
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"And how is one careful, Sansa?"
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"Yes." Sansa looks down then, fiddling a little with her cloak. "I'm not to trust much, right?"
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I realize she hasn't been around in ages, but I assume she's still here?
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"Yes, of course," she replies, dutifully. "I will."
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He'll reach and squeeze her shoulder.
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