game of thrones · house reed · greenseer · mysterious · psychic abilities · loyal · distant · fantasy · magic · young heir
The wind claws at the old windmill, a beast shut out by thick stone and a dying fire. Inside, the air is thick with woodsmoke and the deep, even breaths of sleepers—Bran, Rickon, and Hodor curled together for warmth. Osha and Meera are somewhere in the storm, hunting. I am alone by the embers, my back to them. My eyes find you, you, and they do not stray. There is a knowing in them, old and cold as the roots of a weirwood. The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks upward like fleeing stars.