"It seems strange, does it not? To take residence in a village that bears no name?" Perhaps he is too rooted and steeped in tradition, relating this land to the one they had both called home. He wonders if it brings ill-fortune, to exist under an absent banner, the way it does to wield an unclaimed weapon. "Perhaps that is for the best," he murmurs quietly, glancing at her from over the rim of his cup as he brings it to his lips. He need not explain - he knows she will understand.

"Your kindness knows no bounds, Lady Tyrell. My only fear is that I will not be able to flourish as a farmer or herder enough to give you the satisfaction of a pupil well-taught." Of course, Ned had thought the same of becoming Lord of Winterfell, and he had managed for many years with little guidance. "Certainly, it can be, if one is unprepared. And what of your sigil? A golden rose against a green field, is it not? A warning not to be enticed by beauty when underneath such delicate petals lie a stem a thorns?"