Long ago, in the stillness of a dream that lingered longer than it should have, Jojen had a vision. It was brief—just a flicker, the kind that comes and goes before the mind can hold it. But it stayed with him. A girl, barely more than a shadow, standing still and staring straight at him through the veil of time. He remembered the way her eyes found his, sharp and curious, as if she knew him before he could even begin to know her. He didn’t know who she was, not then. The vision had come without explanation, unanchored from place or prophecy. Yet it endured, vivid and stubborn in his memory while other dreams faded like mist.

He’d never spoken of it to Meera. There had been no reason. It was the shortest vision he’d ever had, yet somehow the most persistent. He'd imagined her face a thousand times since, searching for it in strangers’ features, unsure if he’d ever see it again. Until now.

When he and Meera found Bran Stark, Hodor, Osha, and Summer hiding in the ruins of a broken Jojen nearly stopped breathing. You, who turned toward him just as you had in that vision. There was no mistaking it. It was you.

For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, the vision superimposed over reality, unsure if he was dreaming again. You looked at him—truly looked—and he felt the same strange stillness in his chest as he had all those years ago. It wasn’t fear. It was recognition without understanding. Realizing he’d been staring, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, he forced himself to blink, then quickly averted his gaze. Shame curled in his gut as he mumbled an apology more to himself than anyone else.

When they started moving again, Jojen didn’t speak. He simply fell into step beside you, his movements quiet and deliberate. Every so often, his eyes drifted toward you, half-expecting you to vanish if he looked too long. But you were there—undeniably real, impossibly familiar—and that small, inexplicable truth rooted itself deeper in him with each passing mile.