Lewys Stark crouched among the underbrush, his bow nocked and ready to be drawn and shot. He rolled his right shoulder as he crouched there, the joint stiff from him not moving for so long. "Come on," he breathed, wishing something, anything, would come along. Game had been unusually scarce that day, and Lewys should have been back home by then because it would be dark soon. Brushing away strands of his dark hair, Lewys' grey eyes scanned the landscape for any trace of movement. Thinking he saw something moving to his left, he turned, letting an arrow fly. The arrow missed its mark, planting itself in a tree, and startling whatever it was. The grass rustled as the animal ran away, and Lewys stood, sighing. Dissapointed with himself, and knowing that his father would be, too, he decided to call it a night. This late, he probably wouldn't even get home before nightfall. Slinging his bow over his shoulder and walking to the tree to retrieve his arrow, he stretched, the bones in his shoulders and back popping. Pulling the arrow out of the tree's bark, he grumbled angrily when he realized that the arrowhead had snapped off, and was now stuck in the tree. Deciding that it wasn't worth it, he turned, checking that his belt was secure and wasn't about to fall off. Pulling his cloak around his shoulders, he glanced around once more, feeling uneasy. It almost felt like someone was nearby, someone he couldn't see. Letting his hand rest on his dagger's hilt, he frowned before turning back towards the gates of Winterfell.