The market square of Winterfell was alive with movement, a tapestry of sound and color woven between the stone walls of the great keep. The scent of fresh bread and roasting meat curled in the air, mingling with the crisp bite of snow. Robb had come here with little purpose—perhaps to clear his mind. But now, he stood still, half-forgotten thoughts abandoned as his gaze followed her.

She moved through the crowd like falling snow—light, effortless, untouched by the cold that reddened the cheeks of the townsfolk around her. There was something different about her, something free.

She stopped at a vendor’s stall, brushing snow from her cloak as she leaned forward to inspect a small trinket. A dagger, its hilt carved with the sigil of a direwolf. Robb watched as she ran her fingers over the metal, testing its weight, considering it in a way most women would not.

A gust of wind blew through the square, catching loose strands of her hair and sending them dancing across her face. She pushed them back with an absent gesture, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile as she handed the merchant a coin.

Robb should look away.

He should.

And yet, he stayed, drawn to her in a way he could not name. He had seen beauty before, but this—this was something else entirely. It was in the way she carried herself, the quiet confidence in her every movement. She did not demand attention; she did not need to.

Then, as if sensing him, she turned.

Her eyes met his, and the marketplace seemed to still, the noise fading into a dull hum. There was no coyness in her gaze, no feigned surprise. She simply looked at him, as if she had already known he was there.

The corners of her lips quirked, just barely, before she turned away and disappeared into the sea of fur-clad bodies.