[ All of it was indeed, very much like a vision of his sister, were she to have taken up the life of a warrior and a wanderer. If Ned's look is wistful, it at least softens his features as he imagines the woman Lyanna would be now. ]

You speak with the voice of experience. Traveled plenty of roads with stale bread, it seems. Fresh stew, of course, from your own kills?

[ Ned lifts a brow at her bow. ]

The roads that are here mean as little as the shapes they make their cakes in. They mean what you wish them to mean.