Fifth Day of Fourth Week, First Moon, 144 AC

Castle Hornwood

It was rare - now more than ever - that Cynedunne Hornwood spent more than a few nights in her bedchamber. The Lady and Lord of House Hornwood had always maintained a certain, formal distance, but that grown more severe in the two decades since the deaths of Erren and Arya, and the disappearance of Theomore.

Now, the couple would see each other only once or twice a week when Cynedunne returned from her grove camps and cabins to retrieve supplies from the castle stores. She was always in the company of their youngest child and daughter Serena, who had joined her mother in distance from the House.

Hrothwell caught his wife in the main Keep as she was speaking to one of the "ladies-in-waiting" she kept in the castle. Hrothwell well knew those women were agents of hers, fellows in her coven, that kept quiet track of goings-on at Hornwood Hall and from beyond. Hrothwell found the practice strange: would it not be simpler to ask him directly? The "witches" of the Nameless Grove weren't exactly masters of subterfuge so far as he could observe.

"We've been invited to Winterfell in four months," Lord Hornwood said to his wife, barely lifting his affect. She was looking over two sacks of what he imagined were potatoes and other plain greens from the stores.

"Ah," Cynedunne grunted, barely acknowledging her husband.

"You and Serena will be in attendance," Hornwood continued, "Eadhelm will be at our table."

Cynedunne stopped her accounting. Though neither husband nor wife found any comfort in each other, they well shared a parent's love for their children.

"That would be nice," Cynedunne finally said, only briefly glancing at Hrothwell. Her eyes still carried the same, overpowering green luster they had had when the two first met.

"He's Master-at-Arms for the Starks - I don't remember if you were told that," Hrothwell said.

"I don't think I was," Cynedunne said, finally turning around completely. She looked almost the same as she had been the day of their wedding. A head of long, well-tied hair the color of Spring's first chestnut matched with a face of sharp, almost lupine features. Slight wrinkles and a few hints of gray in otherwise healthy hair were the only signs of her fifty-and-five years. The advantages, Hrothwell supposed, of her lifestyle.

The two stood in silence for a while, eyes locked. Cynedunne, for her part, found Hrothwell had become an almost pitiabe creature. Once stout and full of swagger and strength, Lord Hornwood had withered beyond his years. His eyes - once a blue deep as the evening sky - had clouded and greyed. It was doubtless that cataracts were beginning to form. His hair had mostly fled, only leaving a thin layer along the sides above his ears. He had thinned considerably, beginning almost a twig beneath a cloak that forever sat about his shoulders.

"How is Serena?" Hrothwell broke the silence and asked.

"She's well. She'll be a wonderful Priestess when her time comes," Cynedunne said, radiant with pride.

"I miss her presence," Hrothwell said, almost a whisper, "Mildred is lovely, but you know how she is. She'd rather spend her days at the loom than speaking with any of us. Not to mention now that she has little Eadwin."

Cynedunne mumbled for a second. She knew a plea when she heard it, and for a moment she felt something like pity for her husband. He could not understand the importance of Serena's training: their daughter had begun to reach the apex of her preparations. Soon she would drink of the weirwood seeds and become bonded to the Groves. Still, Cynedunne could not help but admit to herself that Hrothwell looked almost pathetic. How alone must he be? she wondered to herself.

"She will be with us when we travel to Winterfell," Cynedunne said. We will need to expedite her covenant, she thought, beginning to calculate how long the preparations would take. A few weeks at most. Perhaps next month.

"That will be delightful, I think," Hrothwell said, a thin smile crossing his face.

Cynedunne nodded, then rose, "I must be off," she said, "I wish you good tidings."

"Good tidings, my love," Hrothwell said, watching his wife disappear out of the main doors, trailed by some servants.