The great hall of Winterfell rang with the clamor of celebration—laughter, tankards clinking, and the warm roar of the hearthfire. The North had won its war, and the air was thick with relief and pride.

Robb moved through the crowd, offering smiles and nods, but his mind wasn’t on the victory. Across the hall, his gaze locked on a woman he did not know—yet somehow, she felt achingly familiar.

She stood near the shadows, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that sent a strange chill down his spine. He had seen those eyes before. In his dreams.

Robb crossed the hall, his steps purposeful despite the unease curling in his chest. “Forgive me,” he began, voice low enough that only she could hear, “but… are you a witch?”

Her brow furrowed, lips parting as though to answer, but he continued before she could speak. “I’ve seen you before,” he admitted, a rare vulnerability in his tone. “In my dreams. For weeks now. But never here—never in Winterfell.”