9M, 231AC

Northern winters are the thing of legends south of the Neck, and though Flint’s Fingers was among the southernmost of the Northern holds it was not spared from the cold that was the hallmark of the North. Lord Asher Flint looked over the waters of Blazewater Bay, as grey as steel with chunks of ice bopping on the waves. The cold salt air was bracing, even under the furs of his coat. So close to the Sunset Sea, the bay did not freeze, even in the depths of winter. His breath hung in the air in a cloud before him, floating in the air like the mist from the breaking of the waves. He found himself coming here often to gather his thoughts away from the keep, away from the weight of his duty as lord and from his family. Even this place seemed fraught with the perils of the world, for news of Ironborn raiders in the Sunset Sea meant their longships threatened the horizon.

Why would they raid the Night’s Watch? It makes no sense. Asher muttered under his breath. He walked back from the cliffs to his waiting horse, shaking his head.