The wind, transformed into a sore breath, settled in their lungs, like a thousand knives into some dirty wood. The climb was harsh, and there had been no way to stop, exept if they wanted to die the white death - prisonners of the snow, between a stone and a grey wall. As if on cue, the sun hide itself from the lives beneath it. The solar phenomenon kept the light from the soil, for three hours. So for three hours they waited, knotted to one another by a thin trail of red wool. They could not go back, they could not stop, so they looked forward and walked for three hours, hoping their feet would not freeze in the process.
The wind stopped, but snow fell on their heads like ashes in a firehouse. The temperature did not raise, even when the sun came back to indicate them that they were, indeed, in the right direction.
Somehow, none of them seemed to be completely alive. The tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed young man, had his mouth tightenned forming a frozen sculpture of what seemingly were two lips. On his right, after the poor horse, wich lifetime seemed reduced by three generations, another two figures appeared. One was quite grande, elegant even covered in snow, her red hair contrasting very vividly with her fair and pale skin. Altough she wore trousers, and a pair of dagger at her side, she would have never looked better in her life, and few would held the comparison once there. At her left, a slighlty darker silhouette stood, the feet smooth and light in the crumbling weather. She bore a hood like the other two, but left it on her face. It was only possible to recognize her by her looks, her deep brown eyes, and her hair, so much like her father's had been. She was, in comparison, far from a beauty, but something about her made you wish not to cross her path in any way. She was fearless, but not a fool, with that she was a loner, in the woods, capable of anything and everything. She was bearing your worst nightmares in her luggage, and your death at her side. No one would dare try anything with that young women around.
Yet, behind the two, there came a giant with a boy on his back. Well, not a boy anymore, as it is. With his 15 years, he was quite an adult now. He was fully trained in the art of the Ancient Gods, transferring from one body to another, without any difficulty. He was a powerful sir, even though he looked pale and skinny, and the fact that he was called a cripple. Every time someone would injure him, his companions would altogether make a simple move, all indicating to the personn concerned to go somewhere else before they had the chance to mouth another word. They were a recomposed hord of sort, and no one would touch him, even if they tried really hard.
The daggers Sansa was wearing, were called "The Sorceress' Prisoners". They had been made specially for her, by the blacksmiths of High Sparrow, when she finally arrived there. First, she entered as a domestic in the Palace, but soon, the nieces of the Prince recognized her breeding and confronted her. She was made prisonner, but in front of her stubborness and her silence, they let her go and waited, waited for her to speak.
So, she spoke. Of her travel. Of her escape off of Littlefinger's hands. They decided to take her in as one of the many bastard born child in the city, for trainning in the hands of the Princesses. She did well. She left after the war happenned, being covered as a women, and as a bastard. No one trusted her, in any way, by any low or high-born breeding she could have had. The only thing the sisters ever gave her were those two poisonned daggers. She had learned that beauty can be put at your advantage more often than your fists in this world, this explainning the daggers names. That is all she told Arya.
After all, they were never close. That fact changed when she came back from Braavos, tided up by a strong tall man, named G. S. did not knew him, and when they crossed path, she could have killed him on the spot, for even being at this crosspath. He explained, and showed her her sister, nose burried deep in red wool, seemingly sleeping. He told her, how she had been trained by the Faceless Men to kill. She did not even remember who she was. Exept for some parts. Some that were reluctant to leave her memory. He believed that, somehow, she could be saved. "She is all I have left behind. She is all I have from now on." is what he thought, "We all have our issues. I'll take her as one of mine" is what he said. S. agreed, and they all walked back to Winterfell, or the ruins left of it. On their way, Sansa questionned both, her sister ceasessly, and the young man about rumors, about traces left behind of a crippled boy and a giant travelling south in direction of the new queen to swore allegiance. Bran and Hodor, were seen first by Arya, screaming and forming unpronouncable words in some other language, none could understand. Apparently Hodor did, and despite Bran best efforts, he came to them not knowing if they were ennemies or foes. When they met, Summer recognized Arya and Sansa, for Nymeria, she had been following in the woods, hidden from sight. She would not be seen before the full recovery of her mistress, and even then, the Stark's youngest princess was the only one to approach her withouth being chased after or bitten. None of the other wolves of the pack ever returned home.
As an added part, Gendry did not have a word to say about anything it seemed. At least to Sansa. And later to Arya. He was an added part to an already heavy armour with parts which were broken, parted to pieces, roted and wore the scars of infinite battles. But he was a part of something, which felt really good. After Arya left, he had his fair share of adventures, alone and battling not to get killed, he was enroled, he fought, and then was graced by the Queen Daenerys. The years had pass by and he did not even felt them flew. He was a loner again, and the only personn he knew, had disappeared, so he searched, but in vain. Until one night, he opened his lids to a heavy knife on his throat, and brown hair on his nose. She was straddling him, and could already have killed him very easily. He shut down his mouth, and she spoke. She asked why he was searching for an Arya, or Arry nearby. She asked about where he came from and who he was. He answered to all. Then she lifted the knife, sat down near him, between his outer thigh and the edge of the bed, and begun to cry. She repeated a list of names, he could not make out in her trembling voice. Her hands were clunched to the only piece of tissue she had on her. Her entire being fell down at that moment. He watched her sleep, perhaps the first full night of sleep she had after killing all those people. The reputation of the Faceless Men became global when she finally finished her training, and started working. Murders happenned all around the city for reason of jealousy, and for inheritance. She lost count. That is what she told him. But the list that night was far too long to be the prayer it was when he left her. He watched her sleep, in the bed he rented for the night, in that filthy brothel, hoping some rich inhabitant would show up, and her along with them. He sat down in front of the dirty window, the bed on his right, and his feet cold.
When they gathered all, the tension and emotion was in the air, but it was soon collapsing under the renewal of melancholy they all felt in their bones. They were tired. They needed a way home. So here they were, climbing back north, to a home they never knew or a home they longed to find again. The road was still frozen, but winter was beginning to wear off leaving the trees, and forming some mud under their shoes.
From afar, some banners were planted into the castle. Roses. Sansa was the first to react. "Let's go. Roses have thorns, but they never have hurt me."