Eddard's beginning to map out the layout of the place in his mind with each step - thirty paces between the edge of the fountain and the tree to the north of it (or what he believes to be the north, judging by the angle of the setting sun), perhaps fifty or so to the door of what appears to be some sort of inn based on the sounds from behind the door. He'd gotten near it, pressed his fingertips against the door, but had decided to return to it once he'd had a better understanding of the topography.
Blue eyes survey the horizon as he slowly moves in a circle, keen ears picking up on the sound of an approaching figure. The cadence of it is deliberate, purposeful. If it were only a bit faster, it would cross over into being a threat - but there's no hostility that he can hear. No, it isn't violence driving the person forward - it's determination.
He turns enough on his heel to see a figure approaching - the black curls deluging from the top of the lad's head the first thing he sees.
His words feel like a sword to the heart - sharp and strong and driven. Ned's eyes furiously scan the man's face and it's only moments later, when his mind has had a chance to dissect what he'd called him - Father - that he puts together the boy he remembers in his mind and the man who stands before him now. Gods, he's grown.
"Jon?" he asks, voice dry and hoarse, his tongue feeling thick and dry and heavy. You may not have my name, but you have my blood. "It can't be," he murmurs as the pack slides off his shoulder, arms outstretched to wrap his son into an embrace when he's near enough.
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Blue eyes survey the horizon as he slowly moves in a circle, keen ears picking up on the sound of an approaching figure. The cadence of it is deliberate, purposeful. If it were only a bit faster, it would cross over into being a threat - but there's no hostility that he can hear. No, it isn't violence driving the person forward - it's determination.
He turns enough on his heel to see a figure approaching - the black curls deluging from the top of the lad's head the first thing he sees.
His words feel like a sword to the heart - sharp and strong and driven. Ned's eyes furiously scan the man's face and it's only moments later, when his mind has had a chance to dissect what he'd called him - Father - that he puts together the boy he remembers in his mind and the man who stands before him now. Gods, he's grown.
"Jon?" he asks, voice dry and hoarse, his tongue feeling thick and dry and heavy. You may not have my name, but you have my blood. "It can't be," he murmurs as the pack slides off his shoulder, arms outstretched to wrap his son into an embrace when he's near enough.