The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the warmth of fire and the murmur of voices. Lords and warriors feasted alongside Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, drinking to new alliances as snow drifted against the high windows. At the head of the hall, Cregan Stark sat in quiet conversation with the prince, their words lost beneath the roar of laughter and the clatter of tankards.

Beyond the hall, in the godswood, Sara Snow sat beneath the ancient heart tree, the red leaves rustling in the cold wind. She traced patterns in the frost-covered roots, listening to the distant echoes of celebration. Cregan asked her to not be in the hall tonight as if her presence would remind the people of the rumours of the his disputed heritage.

Let them drink, she thought, drawing her cloak tighter. Jacaerys was a prince of dragons, his place among the fire, while she belonged to the cold and the silence of the North.

She exhaled, watching her breath curl in the frigid air. She then heard a crunch behind her and turned around to see who had come into the forest.