Bad things come in threes

Morning broke cold and gray and damp; a somber day for a somber affair such as a goodbye.

Arya had said she didn't recommend it. But he could feel it, echoing along his bones. He needed to see, so he could finally let Bran's revelation settle in his mind. If such a thing could. Within an hour of waking, Jon was so insistent on getting up, he had Ghost scratching at the door to play walking-aide despite protests from Arya and Sansa to Luwin and Father. * Robb glowered between his changed sisters and his changed best friend. "I want you to tell me what really happened. Now."

They had been wrenched from this world soul-first, a blood-price to be paid to the Old Gods. The sacrifice. It had to be three.

Eddard barely managed to push all the lords and relevant attendants (his or otherwise) into the smaller-yet dining hall, insisting, that yes, he meant this one, not the official Small Hall, because he didn’t want more people piling in on them to hear the gossip of blood and death and magic and his green-seeing boy just yet. * Jon felt like the room was spinning slightly. It was done. For the most part. Their tale was told, their secret was out, and now all the North knew: Winter was coming, and the dead with it.