It’s a lot. Stephen doesn’t expect a dead man to be instantly okay with any of it. So he just nods, says, “My handwriting’s shit, but I’ll mail one to you.”

There’s an awkward beat. A silence which sits heavy and stifling between them, because they never actually managed to make their way to friendship — everything had been slapdash, panicked, in the middle of a fight, with the apocalypse breathing down their necks. But he’s still so indescribably, inexpressibly relieved to see a familiar face here.

The pause lingers a bit too long.

Then, because he’d heard the title floated around and Stephen’s finally connected the dots that he knows the local Stark after all—

“So. ‘Provost’?”