The weather is not as unbearable as she expected, but Meda still feels hot and uncomfortable. She’s used to being bundled up in at least three layers, and she feels exposed even in this conservatively fashioned dress, not used to showing even this much skin. Ignoring the weather, however, she feels a thrill of excitement run through her body, from her scalp to the tips of her toes. This is what she has waited for for years, a chance to meet the key players in the game, to forge alliances necessary to see the North thrive and united under the Stark banner once more.
The situation also possesses the unfortunate caveat of requiring her to share a roof with treacherous Bolton’s and Greystark’s, but she tells herself that she won’t let that get in the way of her duty. She can ignore the memories of being fourteen and terrified, locked in her chambers and clutching her little brother tightly in her arms, as the sound of screams and metal slamming against metal filtered into the room, of the look on Alaric’s face when he’d come to retrieve them and informed them that their parents were dead. No, she will not think of any of that now. The time for justice will come soon enough.
She finds herself in the High Hall, running a hand along the blue-veined white marble. The clearing of a throat signifies that she is not alone and she remarks without turning around, asking, “While one would hope we’ll have no cause for it to open during our time here, I must admit I have quite the urge to see the view from the Moon Door. Do you think it’s as impressive as they say?”
