Soren

        The wind bit at him as the column rode over the hard packed dirt, tearing at the sable cloak as the Lord of the Dell sunk his shoulders in from the cold.

        It was always cold, this far north. South it was summer, but here, in his home, summer frosts came and went, and the mountains that rose around them always carried snow on their shoulders.

Soren sighed as he looked over the train of men, women, supplies and spoils. Banners flapped from poles, purple and green fluttering above the crowds. Many had returned from their march, but not as many as he had hoped. He would house them for a few days to be sure; it was the least he could do for what was asked of them. War was hard business, and Soren had never felt he was up for it.

        When he was born his father had rejoiced. He’d had four older sisters and a brother that hadn’t lived past his third name day. But, his father felt, Soren was made of stronger stuff. He’d always felt the pang of disappointment in his father’s eyes whenever they would cross paths. He wasn’t the knight his father had hoped of him. He could never match his father’s grander in physique, no. Soren was a thin man, a waif some might say. His father Alexander had hoped that being fostered by the Umbers would help put some steel into him, but the Jon’s of house Umber had spent most of their time teasing him of snarks and grimalkins. He’d hated his time there and even with the cold that came with it, longed to see his home again.

        But that was long ago, he’d seen a few winters between then and now. He was Lord Aren, Lord of the Dell. He tried to sit up straighter in his horse as it cantered along.

        The road here was littered with hard clumps of dirt, almost like stones. Any one of them could turn a horses or man’s ankle. The latter would put a man on his back, and the former could lead to the latter. The pace was slow. Depressingly slow. Dreamingly slow. Light a drawn out nightmare what you’d wish would just end. The train wound around a hill, two great stones stuck out from its grassy surface. It was called the Kingstones, from back in the times of the First Men, when the Starks of Winterfell were the Kings in the North.

        No Stark lay there, however. Their dead were always brought home, their bones laid with their families. Here, it was said, was the first of Soren’s family, Aren the Ice Breaker. All northmen claimed to be of the First Men, but the Aren boasted of being the only noble wildling house in all the lands south of The Wall.

        The tale went that, when Bran the Builder first started the wall, one family of wildlings attacked them, and broke the wall open and spilled past the Nights Watch. Through some act of valor, none of the tales seemed to be sure what, they were granted lands just south of the Gift on the eastern coasts, and thus House Aren was born.

        A few sell swords had stopped in front of the stones, giving a silent prayer to the Old Gods. Thanking them for seeing the men through the war, he hoped. They had all been a year away from home.

        Home.

The gatehouse could just be seen miles ahead and it seemed to Soren that thousands of banners flew o'er its ramparts, some in House Aren’s purple and green, others flashed in all shades of viridian and crimson and gold. It looked just like this, Soren remembered, when he left. Cheers ringing out as they marched off to war.

        News must travel fast when a king dies. King Aerys was dead. Long live King Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name.

        Soren had joined Eddard Stark when he called his banner men, rising up against the mad king. He’d been there when they finally joined the Baratheon and Arryn hosts nearly missing the Battle of the Bells. He’d led his men against a van at the Trident, holding back an attacking front and keeping supply lines to the main force clear. He’d even seen King's Landing after the sacking by the Lannisters. Even now there were rumors that Eddard Stark had fought Jamie Lannister for the throne, keeping it in the hands of the Baratheons.

Those rumors and the Lannister late declaration to the war had bred some trouble in the ranks, especially amongst the sell swords. Men had left to join the Lions, why not work for those that had more money? Thankfully there was little love lost between the north and the westerlands. Besides, the gods, both old and new, would see to the fates of men like the Kingslayer.

        The wind blew another chill through his cloak, shaking the Lord Aren from his thoughts or war.

It was another hour’s ride to the gatehouse, and then a second hour’s ride to the small town that bore the name of their lord, Arendelle, and the seat of his family. It was a small town, a handful of people huddled inside the walls. The place was oft forgotten in maps, especially against large towns like Gulltown and White Harbor. Still, it was home.

        And he was glad to be home. As he dismounted a cheer went up from the house hold, and the large doors to the main hall opened. Three young women stood in the portal.

        “Daddy!”

Soren grinned and knelt down, catching his daughters in his arms when they collided with him.

        “Welcome home, my Lord,” came the dulcet tones of his wife. Soren stood up, his girls keeping close.

        “It is good to be home,” he returned.

 

        The hall was filled with heat and smoke, and the smells of roasted meat and bubbling soups and slops. Dogs ran along the benches yelping for food and bones, men cheered at jokes, or ate their trenchers in peace. Each person dealt with the return home in their own way.

        Soren told his little girls of King’s Landing and the Red Keep.

        “How big was it?” Elsa asked.

        “The Keep? Larger than the whole town at least,” Soren said. Elsa’s eyes lit up at the thought. Elsa was a beautiful girl, thirteen now and looking to be every bit the woman her mother was. Soren had hoped to try and marry her to little Eddard. Sorry, Lord Stark. Send her to Winterfell where the young lord would be enchanted by her. It was a stirring thought, his grandchildren sitting as head of Winterfell, Wardens of the North.

        But after the Bells that hope was dashed. Maybe the Karhold would be a better place for her. Or maybe further south.

        Both his girls, Elsa and Anna, were at the same time his greatest joy and fear. He couldn’t say how many nights he’d been woken from sleep because of dreams of either of them being stolen away, or fading in the night. Maybe the Smalljon was right and he did really believe in snarks and white walkers. The sooner Soren found families for them. Strong men to keep them safe, give them children, and families of their own, the better.

        Anna tugged at his arm for attention, she asked him something but her spritely voice was drowned out as the guests started to bang their horns and wooden mugs against their tables.

        It was a tradition at a feast in Arendelle, this cacophony of sound. It always happened at a different point every time, some organic feeling by the revelers on when best to raise their voices in the song.

        Long before the Rains of Castamere fell, there was a song echoing along the coasts and mountains of the Gift, even the eastern mountain clans could sing it by heart. The gathered men stamped their mugs until a solid rhythm was found and then raising their voice in a chanting song.

        “Born of cold and winter air and mountain rain combining,” their voices rung out as more men stomped their feet to a counter rhythm, “This icy force both foul and fair has a frozen heart worth mining.”

        Soren smiled to himself as the chant, inspired by his house words,  echoed off the walls. It was a warning to other families of harshness of the north, both its climate and its people that weathered it. But it was good to be home. The rebellion was over, summer, for what it was worth, was still with them, even after so long. With luck he wouldn’t have to leave his hearth for many years.