The sea of clouds rolled beneath their feet, like a frozen ocean of milky white.
Occasional gaps in the clouds offered glimpses of the boundless snowfields below, and the Kingsroad winding through them like a black vein.
Arya's screams and excited shouts as she left still echoed in their ears.
But now, Arya was no longer on the dragon's back.
Myrcella clung tightly to the handholds of the specially made saddle on the dragon's back.
Her sumptuous golden gown snapped in the biting wind, and her golden hair had long since been blown into disarray.
Her cheeks were red with cold, her lips tinged purple, but she kept her teeth clenched and made not a sound.
There was fear in her green eyes, but even more than that, an inborn resilience.
She was like a golden rose forcibly transplanted to the Wall, struggling to preserve the last of her dignity and pride in the bitter cold.
Ygritte, sitting beside her, presented an entirely different picture.
She had shed the ladylike gown that had made her uncomfortable all over and changed back into her familiar leather armor and furs.
The fire-kissed Wildling girl was like a hawk freed from every shackle.
She spread her arms, letting the fierce wind whip through her fiery red hair.
She laughed aloud, her laughter clear and wild, brimming with the joy of regained freedom, only to be torn apart by the howling wind.
She even stuck out her tongue to catch the windblown snowflakes, savoring the North's biting chill.
"Now this is fucking living!"
Ygritte shouted, turning to look at the calm-faced Lynn.
"It's ten thousand times better than holing up in that warm, shitty room in Winterfell, learning those southerners' fussy fucking rules!"
Lynn merely smiled and said nothing.
He unfastened the thick Bearskin