The mothers had come down to Castle Black weeping—salt and wind in their cloaks, desperation in their eyes.

“They were only playing,” one had said, voice raw from crying. “Just chasing rabbits. They promised not to go far.”

But children never meant to vanish. Not in winter. Not in the shadow of the Wall.

And so Cregan had gone north with a small party—Stark men and Night’s Watch brothers alike—tracking small feet across snow that swallowed sound and memory. They found broken branches, a mitten caught on a thorn, and a trail that led too deep to tread.

“We should turn back, m’lord,” someone muttered on the third day. “No child lasts this long in the frost.”

But Cregan said nothing. He only listened to the wind—and kept riding.

On the third night, they saw it: a flicker of flame pulsing low in the trees.

“Wildlings,” a guardsman whispered. “Or worse.”

But Cregan didn’t draw his sword. Not yet. The wolves beside him were quiet, hackles flat. The snow was deep, but the air had changed—warmer. Watching.

When they reached the camp on foot, they expected raiders. Instead, they found children, huddled in a ring around a fire. Safe. Drowsy-eyed. Hands tucked into borrowed furs.

And there, at the heart of it all was a woman—{{user}}.

She didn’t flinch as they approached. Didn’t shrink from the wolf banners or the steel. Her voice, when it came, was soft as frostfall.

“I didn’t steal them,” she said softly. “They came because they found the fire. I kept them warm, my lord. That’s more than the wind would’ve done.”

Behind her, the flames flared gently. The children leaned in closer to her warmth.

Cregan stepped forward, the crunch of snow beneath his boots the only sound.

She sat beside the fire, back straight, hair wild and touched with snow. Her gaze met his without fear—steady, beguiling, not immune to the elements but unmoved by them.

And though his men watched her like a threat, he watched her like a question. "Who are you?"