A Game of Thrones, Tyrion II
West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits.
To the east the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see.
Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were rude inns to be found.
Three days’ ride from Winterfell, however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely.
The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth days they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders.
When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of icy crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
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Well that has just been the most ridiculous couple of hours of my life witnessing the most beautiful, vibrant and mesmerising Aurora Borealis literally a 5 minute walk from my front door.
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Night Spectacle, Iceland by Paweł Uchorczak
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A Game of Thrones, Tyrion II
With the mountains a wall to the west, the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than any Tyrion had ever seen.
“The wolfswood,” Benjen Stark called it.
And indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant.
Jon Snow’s albino direwolf pricked up his ears at the nightly howling, but never raised his own voice in reply.
There was something very unsettling about that animal, Tyrion thought.
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Valley of Romsdalen by Johan Fredrik Eckersberg
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