When the weather had begun to turn warm again before it had barely gotten cold, Robb had wondered whether it was a false spring. There had been one of those years ago, not long after he'd been born -- All the citizens of Westeros flinging open windows and airing out the lighter linens, only to have the weather snap back on them with such ferocious intensity that supposedly the smallfolk had gone ice skating upon Blackwater Bay in King's Landing.
He'd been informed by more than one source that the seasons were simply brief here, that winter and summer resided almost entirely within the same year, which might have seemed beyond belief had he not had the evidence clearly before him daily. He was wary yet of the change, waiting for a sudden burst of frost, but glad enough for the warmer weather on his daily treks through the village and into the woods for hunting. The temperature might have seemed uncanny, but it certainly made it easier to aim a bow or field dress a deer.
This day his hunting was done, his bow dutifully returned to the depository in the inn and a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder as he crossed through the park -- A habit picked up months ago now on the chance that someone might pull themselves unwittingly from the water and into a strange place. He hardly remembered his own entrance into this world, and Sansa would be a more deft hand at comforting someone distressed, but it was the honorable thing to do, to check.
It wasn't altogether unusual to find someone else lingering about with the same sort of thought, and the pervasive fog that had lately settled over the area made it difficult to immediately determine whether the pale figure ahead of him was new arrival or well-intentioned welcomer. Hefting the rabbits higher upon his shoulder, he stepped forward with mouth open to call a greeting, and then abruptly stilled.
Mouth dry, his stomach sloshed sickly, and a stray thought darted wildly through his mind of how shamed he'd be were he to be ill here, now, as he'd been upon his arrival.
His hands were shaking, tiny bodies quaking against his back, not against the fine cloak Sansa had gifted him but his wool coat, buttoned in a neat row almost to his throat.
He was on the ground before he realized what had happened, knees given way and posture almost supplicating, his right arm shaking over a hand splayed across the cold pavers, the only thing keeping him upright.
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He'd been informed by more than one source that the seasons were simply brief here, that winter and summer resided almost entirely within the same year, which might have seemed beyond belief had he not had the evidence clearly before him daily. He was wary yet of the change, waiting for a sudden burst of frost, but glad enough for the warmer weather on his daily treks through the village and into the woods for hunting. The temperature might have seemed uncanny, but it certainly made it easier to aim a bow or field dress a deer.
This day his hunting was done, his bow dutifully returned to the depository in the inn and a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder as he crossed through the park -- A habit picked up months ago now on the chance that someone might pull themselves unwittingly from the water and into a strange place. He hardly remembered his own entrance into this world, and Sansa would be a more deft hand at comforting someone distressed, but it was the honorable thing to do, to check.
It wasn't altogether unusual to find someone else lingering about with the same sort of thought, and the pervasive fog that had lately settled over the area made it difficult to immediately determine whether the pale figure ahead of him was new arrival or well-intentioned welcomer. Hefting the rabbits higher upon his shoulder, he stepped forward with mouth open to call a greeting, and then abruptly stilled.
Mouth dry, his stomach sloshed sickly, and a stray thought darted wildly through his mind of how shamed he'd be were he to be ill here, now, as he'd been upon his arrival.
His hands were shaking, tiny bodies quaking against his back, not against the fine cloak Sansa had gifted him but his wool coat, buttoned in a neat row almost to his throat.
He was on the ground before he realized what had happened, knees given way and posture almost supplicating, his right arm shaking over a hand splayed across the cold pavers, the only thing keeping him upright.
He could not breathe.