Starter for @ofthemark. 

          The cold was unimaginable. It seemed wrong somehow that a girl raised in the north couldn’t stave off the ice, but this was much farther north than she had been in her life, let alone in the last fifteen years. Lyanna leaned forward and turned her face against the direction the wind blew. It was important to ration their provisions. There wouldn’t be many places to stop and replenish the further away from Winterfell they got. The last leg of the journey, she had been told, was just a white road that wound into eternity. 

          The long lost wolf cast a glance sidelong, studying her companion for a moment. He was so quiet, it was difficult to know what he was thinking. She reached out a gloved hand holding the last portion of brown bread, an offering to the northman. She waited for him to accept it or waive it off, knowing he might say nothing at all, her arm steady despite the freezing wind. 

“      such is a gift among your kin ,      ”      words punctuated with a smile  –  slight ,  but lingering.  it’s an attempt ,  noble in cause ,  to lay forth a foundation easy to  BUILD  upon.  comfort and lightness seldom come in days of late ,  when cast on the horizon is a darkness no light has yet pierced.  but ,  the shine of one solitary star is dim in light of many.  is fellowship not where their hope now lies ?   in standing together  /  not apart.     

his palm runs evenly along the length of his horse’s neck ,  from shoulder to ear ,  as his other pats once the back of his steed.  attention settles once again on the man of rohan ,  and though his smile has faded ,  the kindness in his eyes remains steadfast.      “      —  wisdom handed down through the passing of ages.  bonds formed with beast ,  i find ,  can be as strong and lasting as those with man.  ‘tis no small feat to find yourself an inherent scholar of that which we depend upon so utterly ,  elfhelm ,  son of winfrið.      ”

                    ‘ There we are, Garulf. ’ 

               In response to her gift ( a modest half an apple ), her steed whinnies, nudges her now-empty hand with his nose. Freda grins, simply glad to spend such a quiet time after all that has passed. Hand rested now, upon trusted friend’s cheek, forehead gently rested against his muzzle, she speaks again ------ because it is what she needs. To keep her mind occupied and far away from the horrors it still is processing, and the uncertainty that threatens to swallow her. Threatens only, however, for she cannot allow herself to give in. For Éothain, for her mother.

               She is in the midst of telling Garulf just how handsome he is, even compared to all the King’s horses that surround them, when footsteps ( quiet for a time, but unmistakable ) tear her from her childish and dreamy state. Freda stands upright, skirts disturbing the hay upon the floor as she turns, and almost immediately drops her gaze. Colour flares her cheeks, pink for her embarrassment.