A week since whatever-it-was, Jon Snow thought, looking around the near empty courtyard of Winterfell. It was quiet now, with the hundreds of bannermen inside and thousands more camped beyond the castle having moved on towards the Wall.
Wind bawled and swept across the stone and pushed the clouds north, their grey bodies hanging low and threatening heavy snow. The smell somehow stung in the nostrils, beneath the scent of pine from the weirwood and the mossy aroma of ancient rock. He looked at the sky, blinking as an eagle absently drifted with the wind, and suddenly realized, "I may never see the Wall again."
It struck him harder than he'd have thought; to never again stand atop the greatest structure of the world and see the world stretched out below him like a giant map.
He had awoken early this morning. Dawn had been gray and cold, but the noon sun had finally broken through the clouds making it possible to have a warm day. Jon shook his head and blew absently on his hands as he walked around the courtyard and spied Tomard, better known to some as Fat Tom – a guard sworn to House Stark -, messing around with a cart he'd spent the morning unloading. It had a half ton of raw iron sitting on either side, and Tomard was underneath it now, looking at the tires and checking to make sure nothing was broken.
Tomard glanced up and smiled as his son, TomToo, as the boy chased a castle-cat around the yard. Absently he wondered if he would ever have a child of his own, and then shook the thought from his mind with a small effort.
As Jon watched the cat run and leap, he heard a drumroll of hooves and turned to look west. A hundred yards away Dacey Mormont had twitched her horse into a hand gallop lengthwise along the stable, tensing her thighs on the saddle and shifting her balance. At a run she raised her bow and drew to the ear. The arrow flashed out towards a target the master-at-arms had rigged from poles. It missed, but not by much, sinking half its length into the mud and dirt just short of the target.
Dacey shouted angrily, stopping her horse with the same smooth combination of leg-signals and shifting seat. She turned, trotted back to the target, bent out of the saddle to snag her fallen arrow, and then set herself back upright and cantered away back to the other end of the stables.
"A year ago she had never seen a horse. Now she is maybe one of the best in the North." Tomard declared, whistling. "Better than you or I, that's for certain."
Dacey is damned good with that bow, to have come anywhere near hitting a target from moving horseback. But she's also acting strange. Or stranger than normal for someone from Bear Island. I guess that is to be expected.
Jon had seen what happened to people exposed to the sudden, violent death of friends. It had to be worse for a new wife seeing her husband cut down in front of her just hours after their marriage. Of course, Rogers still being alive must help hold the pain at bay. He had been one of the first to reach their room when she cried for help, and he saw Dacey use Steve's shield to decapitate the smoke-like shadow that had put half its ink-black arm though her husband. Maester Luwin tended to him, wrapped his torso in bandages and cleaned the whole left behind with boiled wine, but no one expected him to survive the night. Even Old Nan had been shocked when Luwin said the wound was healing, but the longer Steve slept the old Maester thought his chances of ever doing so grew worse.
He laughed a little to himself. Steve was strong, and stubborn. He would wake up when he was ready. The laughter in his mind sobered as he walked towards the archer range to where Arya was practicing. From the way she drew, he knew the events of the last week were wearing on her.
King Eddard couldn't wait any longer and had to leave the next morning and take his force to the wall, so with only a few guards left at Winterfell, no one seemed to notice for several days that Bran, Hordor and the Reed children and a wildling woman were missing as well. Along with several of the few remaining horses. Search parties were constantly out, he would be joining them shortly, but he also felt that there wasn't anything to worry about. Bran had been acting strange these last few days, taking about flying and ravens, but as odd as it sounded he knew in his gut that whatever was going on his little brother would be fine.
"Jon?" Arya asked, lowering the bow as he approached.
"I'm a bit worried about Dacey," he said, only telling her part of the truth. "The problem is I don't know her well enough to know if she is alright or not."
Arya looked at her feet. Steve's wife didn't leave her husband's side very often, but everyone knew that when she did it was Arya who would slip into the room and sit by the bedside. Jon found it odd that they were both out here now, but thought it polite not to ask.
"She a she-bear, all of the Mormonts act weird." Arya finally said, her face smiling slightly.
Jon grinned, "You act weird too."
"She had some bad dreams again last night." Arya offered, her hand letting the arrow slide off the string and come to rest. "My bedroom is right above hers." After a shrug she added, "I couldn't sleep either, so I just laid there, listening. He's my friend…"
"Yeah," Jon said, wincing slightly at the memory of what happened. Of the blood sprayed across the wall.
"She and Steve are close." Arya said, fiddling with the bow. "She is the sort of person who only has one or two friends, and then he comes along and…"
"You're jealous of her?" Jon asked, incredulous. "I thought you didn't like boys."
She shot him a look as sharp as the arrow she held, "I don't like boys." More quietly she added, "But I do like him."
Jon put a hand on his sisters shoulder, "I know. He's my friend as well."