The morning starts off as any other would for Ned, with him waking close to first light, getting dressed, having a simple breakfast, tending to the Weirwood Sapling, and setting about to check on the traps and food stores in the Inn. On some occasions, he goes to visit with his sister, other times he checks in with Margaery and her livestock, sometimes he wanders by the river's edge. It's a relatively simple life, he thinks. The kind he had wished to have back in Winterfell. Sometimes, he takes longer than required at the Weirwood, silently conversing with the Old Gods - if they can hear him here - about his family, about his home, about everything. It helps him start his day centered and calm.

He's not noticed anything wrong until he walks back through the door of his cabin and suddenly has the air sucked from his lungs from the cold of the air around him. No, it isn't air, it's ..

Water?

In his confusion, Ned twirls around, suspended in the water, over and over, trying to make sense of where he is and what's going on. He realizes almost too late that he's somehow back in the fountain, using a last burst of energy and air to force himself towards the surface. With a desperate gasp, he clamors for the side of the structure, his memories of his arrival strong and vivid in his mind's eye. Although his hair's always been on the longer side, he feels the sudden weight of it on his scalp, and reaches up to touch it. He brushes his hand against the wiry shrub of whiskers that's somehow sprouted from his face.

He hoists himself out of the fountain, sitting on its lip, before extending a hand to the person nearest him.

"Here, let me help you."