The Hornwood, 8th Moon, 144 AC

Mad Hal

The open gates rose, and in their wood, Hal almost saw a smile. The woods had parted well enough for him, and his memory took him home with a natural, thoughtless ease. The sky above was dull, clouded like sickly waters, and the wind blew low and constant, cold. He had stood before the gates for almost an hour, unsure of how to hail himself. It had been so long since he last truly used his name and titles.

Hal, Mad Hal, Hallis the Northerner, nicknames the color of a life after war. Some knew the moose badge on his chest - though few outside the occasional noble had said more about it than it was "from Stark's lot." He touched his hand to the badge, then sighed. Once he had tried to explain it, early on, "House Hornwood, of Castle Hornwood, sometimes called Hornwood Hall, Lords of the Hornwood," when spoken out loud, Hal realized how silly he sounded.

Inside the walls he found the castle humming with as much life as it could withstand. The Hornwood lands were a curious place: populated by far more than would expect, although still short of the Boltons to the north or the Manderlys to the south. The castle had a "town" - nothing like Winter Town for the Starks or Barrotown for the Dustins - that hummed with the quiet processions of seasonal residents. Hunters and small merchants; smiths and herbalists. Among the latter, Hal knew, there were members of the Grove Coven. They were always here, always watching. And some wondered why he was paranoid.

The inner wall stood taller than the outer. It had been built in the model of the Dreadfort: all toothy tops and dense stone - practical, intimidating. The central keep was an arrangement of squared, austere stone hauled in from the hills. Warmth was scarce in that place even in summer: kept in corners with hearths and stoves, beneath blankets and furs.

Hal walked to the inner gate and cleared his throat. The guards at the gate's base stood armored in the livery of his house: spears and large oak shields adorned with a moose's head. Half helms and hauberks topped over boiled leather. Positively plain compared to what Hal had seen in the south.

"Hallis Hornwood has returned home," Hal said, reeling his cloak back to show his badge. The guards stared, then one spoke, "A badge doesn't mean anything. Could have been looted."

Hal sighed, "Fine. Tell Hrothwell that Hal is here. When I was fourteen, he gifted me a sword that I named Antler and broke the next morning trying to spar with some armor on a stand."

The guard huffed but sent a message to one of the castle runners.

A short wait later and the gates opened.

Home, Hal thought, and wondered at the thought, Home.

Serena

Rarely did Serena Hornwood spend her time in her family's castle. It was not that she uncomfortable there, nor did she lack for honors and attention. Just a few years before she might have enjoyed the attendance of the maids and the flirtations of her father's knights. But that was before her mother took her to the Hornwoods to commune, before the Dreams. Now it was a strange occurrence is Serena appeared in the castle more than twice a month. Especially since her Communion. She had spent the months since then contemplating what she had seen, trying to understand it. In the dark, in her bed, she still saw the falling embers and the smelled the burning wood.

In the past she had discussed the dreams with her Sisters and Aunts, pulling apart each detail and spinning it every direction it could go. But, as her mother had said, this dream was Serena's alone.

A chill passed through her chambers, carried on the back of the wind. Outside the clouds were gathering again, doubtless preparing for another round of snow.

Was it her brother? If so, was it the living or the dead? Theomore was nearing thirteen years since his disappearance and was doubtless passed on, and she could not imagine it had been about her. Eadhelm had become, in many ways, more Stark than Hornwood, although perhaps when their father passed, he would fall back into the mold. The figure was certainly male, although such things could be well enough uncaring - so perhaps Matilda? Or her son Eadwin? It must have been from among the House of Hornwood.

Of course, that was assuming it pertained to the present or perhaps the future. Time in Dreams was always unpredictable, unsure. Perhaps it was a call to the past.

Serena sighed. Days and weeks spent considering had yielded so little progress. She had considered speaking with Maester Rickard, although she knew he would be of little help. Men of Oldtown rarely seemed interested in the mystical.

Matilda

For the first time in a very long time, Matilda Hornwood was alone. Her son Eadwin was out playing with some of the peasant boys who had come in with their families after winter's arrival and her husband Errol was with the other knights on patrol. The keep was quiet as ever. She had spent the morning at work on patching some of Eadwin's clothes - he ripped and scuffed them as much as a boy of elven ought - and found her work complete before lunch, leaving her with several hours to herself.

Perhaps a walk? she thought, moving to her window. The Godswood was beautiful, snow-coated and empty. She considered it and memories began to surface. Years spent playing in those trees, staring at the Heart Tree. A smile crept across Matilda's lips as she remembered Eadhelm - who was then perhaps six years old - telling little Arya scary stories at the base of the Heart Tree. They had all felt safe there, under the watchful eyes of the Old Gods.

Those idle joys had stopped when Arya died. A girl of six did not deserve to die slowly. A year after that, Eadhelm was gone, and their mother absconded off with Serena to begin the girl's "training." After that, Matilda had been alone. Her father discouraged writing letters to either of her siblings and she had obeyed. She missed them both dearly.

Then, an idea.

Matilda returned to her bedside and found paper and ink.