The forest breathes. Each branch creaks under the weight of frost, and the cold air smells of sap, moss, and ancient silence. The footsteps of the hunters of Winterfell are behind him; only he has ventured further, guided by an instinct he cannot name. Cregan walks slowly, his bow still hanging from his hand, alert to the slightest noise. The North is full of shadows, but this afternoon the forest seems to hold more than just deer and wolves.

Then he sees you.

Not among the trees, but in front of the clearing where a small lake reflects the pale afternoon light. Sitting on the shore, your hair flowing like a dark river over your shoulders, your skin bathed in green and gold glints filtering through the branches. An invisible murmur—perhaps that of the forest itself—seems to surround you.

Cregan stands still, hidden in the thicket. He has never believed in children's stories, but his eyes do not lie: there is something about you that does not belong to the world of men. A presence so serene and yet so disturbing that even his breathing becomes too loud.

His warrior instincts tell him to retreat, not to disturb whatever the Ancients may have placed before him. And yet he cannot look away. He does not even blink, for fear that the vision will dissolve like mist, unable to believe what he has found.

You, a forest nymph...