Castle Hornwood, 12th Moon, 147 AC

[CW: Memory Loss, Death, Grief]

Hrothwell

Letters sat untouched on the table as Lord Hornwood sat, slumped in his seat and gave an empty stare to the sky outside his chambers. Grey, again. Always grey in winter. The cold bit through the four layers of furs piled atop him. His mind drifted, as it had these last few years. What had once been Hrothwell Hornwood had steadily faded away into something less than. Yesterday and today and all the years and decades of his life came and went in his thoughts.

There were his parents, who stood distant always and watched, impassive at best. In their eyes was judgement. Of me? Hrothwell thought Whatever was it that I did? he couldn't recall. His mother had reigned hard and loomed over all the Hornwood, House and Woods, with an almost terrifying and impossible level of presence. What had he done? Ruled ably, but unremarkably? Lost one son to King's Landing, and another to the clutches of Cregan Stark? Lived a life married to a woman who he found little but contempt for?

"A man," Eadhelm heard his father say with the same, cold voice he had always possessed, "Should pass into the next life with his family at his side." Where were they? His wife was in the woods, no doubt, transforming his beautiful Serena into a witch and divesting her of all decency. Matilda was still at Winterfell with Eadwin. Eadhelm was there too, serving Cregan. How long had it been since Hrothwell had properly spoken with his remaining son? He could not remember.

Where was Theomore? They had never found him when the dust at King's Landing had cleared. He was dead, that was clear, but even now as Hrothwell sat and faded, he could not see the boy in the faces that emerged from the dark corners. Faces of men and women, of family and old friends and loves. They grew ever more and stared, expectantly.

Then, she was there. So small, sitting on the windowsill. She was dressed in the same way she had always been: trousers that her mother hated and a loose, dirty tunic and bore on her face non of the marks of illness that had ravaged her in those final, cruel days. Her hair was still long and beautifully braided. Her eyes shone a deep hazel and betrayed only affection. Cynedunne had chosen her name and Hrothwell had thought it fitting. How he missed those days. In them, he found gentle recollections of children who could not help but smile and of warm days and good men, of days before blood and fire and politics.

"Gods," Hrothwell muttered, "Oh," he could not find the words. Arya Hornwood, forever beautiful, smiled and nodded.

And Hrothwell Hornwood, alone, passed.

Serena

Maester Rickard had found him. At first, the old Maester had simply thought Hrothwell to be sleeping, but when he could not find a breath, nor the beating of a heart, he sent messengers throughout the castle and into the woods. Serena had been with her mother, refining an old poultice used to treat malignant infections and poisoned humors.

They rushed to the keep, finding Hrothwell moved to his bed. He was still wrapped in his furs and clothing. Serena did not know what to make of it. She had loved her father, though not as deeply as her sister. But she found no tears. It was strange, then, to turn to her mother. Cynedunne Hornwood, who had always conducted herself with a powerful, ancient dignity, sat beside the bed, weeping. Not with sighs nor moans nor cries of pain, but in the way of someone who has loved deeper than can be known. Serena cast her eyes downward.

Ead she thought, looking over to Maester Rickard, who stood beside the bed, across from Cynedunne, and whispered a prayer. "We," Serena started, catching herself, "We should send letters."

"Aye," Rickard said, and moved from the bed side, "In the meanwhile, shall we send for Sisters?"

Cynedunne cut in, in a voice full of fury, "No."

Rickard turned and looked at the woman, then sighed, "I assume you and yours will perform the preparations?"

"Aye," she said, looking back to her husband.

Serena and Rickard left the room together, making their way towards the castle roost, "I wonder how Eadhelm will react," Serena said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

"I couldn't say," Rickard responded as the two rounded up the stairs towards the ravens, "But I imagine he will like some time with his father," he looked briefly over to Serena, the implication clear: His body will not be interfered with until Eadhelm arrives and assents. Serena nodded in a rare moment of agreement with the Maester.

"I should like to send the letters across the North. I feel it would be best to do so," Rickard said, and again Serena nodded, then she cut in, "I'd like to write the one that goes to Ead."

Rickard shrugged, pulling out paper and placing it upon the small writing table that sat in the middle of the roost.