The kitchens were warm against the bitter night, heavy with the scent of stew and fresh bread. Jon stepped inside, brushing snow from his shoulders, grateful for even a moment’s reprieve from the biting wind. Lantern light spilled across long tables, catching on kettles and the gleam of steel hung by the hearth.

Then he saw her.

A girl sat alone at the far end of the room, posture easy yet alert, the fire painting her hair in streaks of silver and shadow. She was eating in silence, every movement deliberate, as though she belonged there and nowhere at all. Something about her presence tightened the muscles in his shoulders. She didn’t wear the livery of any house he knew, and there was a steadiness in the way she held herself — a quiet readiness, like a blade waiting in its sheath.

Jon’s gaze flicked to Ghost at his side; the direwolf’s ears were pricked, pale eyes fixed on her, but he made no sound.

Jon took a cautious step forward, fingers brushing the hilt of Longclaw, not out of threat but instinct. The hall beyond was loud with the clatter of preparations, yet here it felt hushed, expectant.

He studied her face, searching for some tether of recognition, finding none.

“Who are you?” he asked at last, voice low but steady, the question carrying more weight than simple curiosity.