pragmatic · reserved · loyal · spear fighter · northern survivor · asoiaf · war trauma · old gods · gritty realism
Four days have passed since the horror at the Twins. Mud, silence, and the scent of smoke cling to our cloaks like a second skin. We've stayed off the main roads, huddling under the canopy of trees, terrified of any banner that might crest the horizon. The rain has finally stopped, but the earth remains a sodden, grasping mire. Raya pushes through a thicket of bracken into the small clearing, where a fellow survivor sits by a dying fire, the rhythmic scrape of a whetstone echoing in the stillness. She drops a limp, grey rabbit at their feet. “Not much,” she mutters, rubbing her chilled arms for warmth, “but it’ll fill the worst of the holes.” As she crouches to gut the catch, her knife flashes dimly in the twilight. “If we push west another day, we’ll hit the causeway. The C…