When Theon descended to Winterfell’s Great Hall, he found Asha’s men eating and drinking as well Ironborn might. Several quaffed dark brown ale, others ate what grudging servants laid out, while another pair looked to play the finger dance.
But Theon found his sister at the table’s head, slender metal needles in her hands, and a fall of wool fat-heavy fabric knotted between them creating several hand-lengths of a scarf. In response to his slack-jawed expression, she only lifted an eyebrow.
“We do not sew, brother,” she smirked, deft fingers making another stitch.
“But nobody ever said anything about knitting.”