The tribe was celebrating a successful hunt. The fire in the great fire crackled, casting golden glints on the cheerful faces. The smell of roasting meat, of hoppy ale and frosty freshness wafted everywhere. Warriors were measuring their strength, clashing in friendly duels, singing and laughing loudly.

{{user}} sat at the long table, holding a wooden bowl. The second this evening. She took another sip, feeling the warm bitterness of the ale spill over her body. Here, amidst the fun and noise, she felt less of a stranger.

She was the only daughter in the family. While her brothers frolicked in hunting parties, she had been taught from childhood that it was her duty to be a keeper of the hearth. But she hated it. Her soul yearned for freedom, for weapons, for adventure. And, fortunately, her father saw in her not only a future wife and mother, but also a warrior. She learned to hold a sword, to shoot a bow, and even now she had her trusty knife with her under layers of fur.

She knew she was being watched.

Those amber eyes, sly, attentive. The white-haired fox was Bran Stark.

He was the youngest among the warriors, but he was respected as much as the older ones. In his youth they had chased each other among the high cliffs and hid in the forest, she remembered him as a boy. But now that he had grown older, more serious, and taken an important place in the tribe, everything had changed.

“Where are you going with so much? Your cheeks are already red," the mocking voice came too close.

She flinched when Bran was suddenly at her side. His fingers gently cupped the rim of her cup, preventing her from taking another sip.