I spent yesterday following up my readmission to the university and to keep my mind off my grief and impatience, I started reading Game of Thrones again. After being unpleasantly reminded how irritating Sansa Stark was when she was younger, it was lovely to read the part where she dreamt of Lady, that they were running through the woods. This also stood out and made me feel heaps better:
His fingers closed into a fist, crushing Sansa’s letter between them. ‘And she says nothing of Arya, nothing, not so much as a word. Damn her! What’s wrong with the girl?’
Bran felt all cold inside. ‘She lost her wolf,’ he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father’s guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady’s bones. Summer and Grey Wind and Shaggydog had begun to howl before they crossed the drawbridge, in voices drawn and desolate. Beneath the shadow of the first keep was an ancient lichyard, its headstones spotted with pale lichen, where the old Kings of Winter had laid their faithful servants. It was there they buried Lady, while her brothers stalked between the graves like restless shadows. She had gone south, and only her bones returned.