Finished with the help of KidWinTinker who I hope is reading this chapter. Hey good job helping. And it is another chapter like the chapter with the lady who dropped coins in a river. It's called foreshadowing. And if this is going to be a Game of Thrones fanfiction it needs to happen a lot.
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"Her wounds are fatal" the maester assured them. Honesty was such a prevalent trait in Winterfell that even the gravest of news was rarely sugarcoated. Learned men such as maesters would be looked down upon perhaps shunned if they resorted to falsehood even in the face of death. Perhaps the diplomats that Lord Eddard Stark used some amount of moderation and tact in their dealings, but that was unlikely as well. The Lord of Winterfell had earned a reputation all over the seven kingdoms and that would have unlikely have happened if his representatives did not represent his ideals. His son, Robb Stark now being hailed as the new king in the north had not departed from those ideals.
And so it was that the Maester found himself telling Henry Solembum and his fifteen year old daughter that Angela Solembum, a kind hearted and generous lady of the north was likely to perish within the next few days. An outsider might have been surprised at such bluntness being uttered before a young and impressionable girl, but Henry knew she was not going to remain fifteen forever. And Winter was coming.
Oromis Shadeslayer, Henry's closest (and perhaps wisest) friend was present as well. He placed a comforting hand on his friends' shoulder and nodded. "I would like to be with her for a while. Alone, if you don't mind" said Henry. His tone was controlled. The entire gathering nodded in assent and moved out of the room.
Elva moved along with them. She found herself holding on to Roran's arm as she moved out. She didn't notice Brom looking at the two of them, a mixture of approval and concern flickering violently across his face.
"It was one of the Mountains' men wasn't it?" asked Elva.
Roran nodded. Everyone knew the sigil of house Clegane. Three black dogs, possessing highly exaggerated jaws, looking alternately in opposite directions set in contrast to a dull yellow background. The man responsible for the heinous act had been apprehended a few hours earlier. But not before he had stormed into the village criticizing the quality of the whores in the north, claiming he wanted something more to his tastes.
Angela had the ill fortune to have been wandering around the outside of her abode. She was in fact shopping for groceries, haggling for prices and wondering how she could manage a large meal with her current stock of limited resources. It was a trait of hers, Elva would later remember. She always wanted to get the most out of anything she used.
She noticed the hulking stranger, but he didn't seem particularly dangerous from a distance. She didn't notice when he followed. Henry Solembum was not at home. He was sparring a few miles away with Brom Stronghammer, considered the most dangerous soldier one could pick as a sparring partner. Henry was in particularly good form on this day and was feeling confident about his abilities as a soldier. He was oblivious to the events that were transpiring at his abode.
As Angela went inside, she closed the door and bolted it as was her habit. She went inside the kitchen and set the vegetables down in a heap. She exhaled slowly with the relief that comes with setting down a heavy load. She pulled out the knife and set it next to the vegetables, deciding to wash her hands before she began the process of chopping the vegetables (another habit she had picked up over the years). The routineness of life in Winterfell had made things comfortable, enjoyable, bearable and above all else- safe.
When she heard a crashing sound come from outside the kitchen, Angela was washing her hands. She assumed that a fight had broken out somewhere in the village. Fights were not uncommon in Winterfell, but the good folks always became the thickest of friends afterward – a trend she had witnessed manifest itself several times in several different forms over the years.
As she came out of the washroom back into her kitchen to wipe her hands, she noticed the stream of light entering the kitchen – the same stream that was present whenever the house door was open. That was odd because she clearly and distinctly remembered closing the door. She strode the requisite number of steps that would take her out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
As Angela strode out she saw a man and recognized him instantly. It was the stranger that she had spotted a short while earlier, standing inside her house. Behind him her doorway was smashed to smithereens, resembling the scrap that was commonly found in a carpenter's workshop. Even then Angela felt merely curious. It was when she saw the sigil embroidered on his shirt sleeve fresh with the blood stains still on it, that the horror came crashing down on her.