Lyanna likes Gazin. Likes how free it is, how irreverent. How easy it is for its people to celebrate. It reminds her a little of home, but it’s... good. Helps ease the ache of missing Ned. She still spends a lot of time out of town with her wolves (they’re currently sleeping in her room in the inn), hunting and exploring and taking advantage of the freedom this world has given her.

She doesn’t know the young man (young man, as though she’s so old; she’s only just celebrated her eighteenth nameday. She thinks. It’s difficult to be sure, so far from Winterfell), but she’s seen him flitting about the celebration. Heard him butcher what was attempting to be a song on some poor musician’s instrument. His question is a good one, and she has NO answer. Several guesses, though. “Someone’s nameday, maybe? A holiday of some kind. A wedding. Or death. I don’t honestly know,” she tells him, taking swallow of her drink. “But those who live in Gazin know how to celebrate, whatever it is we’re celebrating.”