[Her hair, still silver. He does not expect that seeing her will feel like a blow, but it does. Even the simple cottage is still so familiar, like something he's seen in every dream he's had since he was a boy -- better than the true ones, which usually involve being lost and unwanted in the crypts at Winterfell, or fighting endless waves of wights with the faces of everyone he's ever known or loved.
Everyone but her. He has loved her. He's lived whole lifetimes with her. He hardly knows her.
When he comes inside, he has the ghost of an impulse to sit in a chair and kick off his boots and put his feet up and pull her into his lap. He does none of these things, pushing them aside. This is not your place, no more than those crypts are. Instead, he inclines his head to her, a gesture of respect.]
-- I still don't know what to say. Saying I'm sorry, that's a place to start.
[He stands far enough into the room that she can close the door behind him; he stares at her sadly.]
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Everyone but her. He has loved her. He's lived whole lifetimes with her. He hardly knows her.
When he comes inside, he has the ghost of an impulse to sit in a chair and kick off his boots and put his feet up and pull her into his lap. He does none of these things, pushing them aside. This is not your place, no more than those crypts are. Instead, he inclines his head to her, a gesture of respect.]
-- I still don't know what to say. Saying I'm sorry, that's a place to start.
[He stands far enough into the room that she can close the door behind him; he stares at her sadly.]