He comes to Nocwich every month, when they let him. He'll not admit it, but the truth of the matter is he has an unspoken standing appointment with her brother. They've begun to meet up for an evening in one of the local taverns — likely precisely for this sort of reason. In case there's news, in case either Stark sister were to show up in either of their factions. He had not imagined it would be her he wound up meeting first tonight, instead. Frankly, hadn't been altogether that convinced she'd ever turn up at all.

But there she is, looking healthy. Looking older than he last saw her, far more a woman grown, but otherwise very much the same. The same pretty hair, the same porcelain face, and the same wonderment over the beauty of a useless flower.

From behind her comes an armor clad arm, snaking by to drop a fistful of coins onto the counter before the shop keep. The armor's new, he's only just put in enough good will with the settlement blacksmiths for them to have seen fit to grace him with it. It's not the finest he's ever owned, and the style seems to err more toward the Northern sort if they're comparing it to back home, but it's dark, and it's heavy, and it fits him just fine.

"She'll have that," he informs the merchant gruffly — then redirects his attention to her. "And if they ask you to pay in hair or blood or spit, tell them to go fuck themselves. Gods only know what magic they're weaving with that shit, I've no interest in finding out."