MOTHER , [ II ].
Dearest Mother,
I don't mean to concern you with writing again so soon, things are still well within the walls of Winterfell. Lord Cregan was most gracious and kind with the feast he held in my honor, a fine meal with finer drink. The Northeners are a warm folk despite the chill of the temperatures outside . . .
It is that which drives me to write again.
I have found myself unable to sleep, thus I have managed myself to find the library here, a spare piece of parchment, some ink and a quill to begin to attempt to place the words which swirl around my head onto this sheet before me.
I cannot stop thinking of her. Each time I close my eyes, I see hers, sharp as Dark Sister's blade, watching me with the utmost intensity and curiosity. The way she had felt in my hands as we'd danced, the chill of her fingers in mine – Mother, I write to you now to tell you that I fear I may love . . .