The clamor that had filled Winterfell for days gradually faded as the vassals departed.
The North's war machine had begun to turn.
In just seven days, it would roll south with the force of a thunderbolt!
In the Main Keep's courtyard, Arya held Needle and diligently practiced her thrusts.
Snowflakes settled on her hair and shoulders, but she paid them no mind.
Her gray eyes, however, kept straying involuntarily toward the courtyard entrance.
"Stop looking. If he's leaving, you can't stop him."
Myrcella's voice came from behind her.
Wrapped in a thick white fox-fur cloak, she held out a steaming cup of milk to Arya.
Arya did not take it. She merely lowered her sword in irritation.
"I wasn't trying to stop him."
"Your eyes say otherwise."
Myrcella gently blew on the steaming milk.
"He needs to prepare his army. That's important."
Of course Arya knew it was important.
She just... she had only just become Lynn's wife. Before she had even had time to truly take it all in, he was leaving again.
Just then, a tall figure appeared at the courtyard entrance.
It was Lynn.
Arya's eyes lit up instantly.
But she stubbornly turned her head aside, pretending to study the snow on the distant battlements.
Lynn approached her and could not help smiling at her little expression, which all but said, I'm not angry, but you'd better hurry up and make it up to me.
He said nothing, merely reaching out to stroke her hair tenderly.
"I need to return to the Gift," Lynn said.
"Mm."
Arya gave a monosyllabic response through her nose.
"To bring my army here."
"Mm."
"Would you like to come and see?"
Arya whipped her head around, disbelief shining in her eyes.
"I... can I go?"
"You're the mistress of the place