Ciri found herself standing on the stone steps. She turned her head to see a castle. A castle like she has never seen before. She stepped down and heard a roar. It was not like any other beast she has ever heard before. Not a basilisk, not even a Royal wyvern. The closest she could compare it was something between a griffin and a golem. The roar did not scare her. It was heard in the distance and seemed almost friendly. She walked, enjoying the view that the dream offered. The sea, the shoreline, the castle, it was breathtaking. She could taste the salt in the air. The soft breeze tickling her face. Ciri saw a man in furs standing on a cliff, watching at the distance. She kept walking. She recognized Jon. He was standing there in furs, though, not a snowflake in sight. She stood still, watching him, as he seemed not to see her. A lion started to approach Jon. It was a lion, half the usual size. Jon did not seem to be bothered or frightened. Ciri saw a lion stopping a few steps away from Snow, looking at the shoreline. Cirilla woke up. It was a peaceful dream, one of the few. She enjoyed it while it lasted. Ciri had to wake up in chill. A band of smoke coming from the burner. The room that was given her was small and remote. The size was a plus since it would warm up faster. Her swords were resting near the bed. The silver one was given to her by Geralt, her first witcher sword named Zireael. The second one was made in Toussaint as a special order. People think that the steel sword is for humans. They are wrong. The steel sword is made of dimeritium. Some monsters cannot be killed by silver. She bought her second sword after completing three dangerous yet well-paid contracts. First one was a garkain. Next was a basilisk that decided to hunt on some lord's land. The third was an ekkimara. Vampires, low and high, were fond of Toussaint. Geralt recommended her to write an old witcher saying on it. The flash that cuts the darkness, the light that breaks the night. And she did. It was a sign that Geralt was fully acknowledging Ciri's abilities as an independent witcheress. He was so worried when she told him about slaying ekkimara. The woman smiled at sweet memories of her family.

Cirilla saw a man sitting next to her door. He had red hair and beard. Both were unkempt and bushy. He was wearing white and grey hides. Simple hides that were cut and put together, without much skill, to protect from harsh weather of the North. My guard. He was not there to protect Ciri, but to protect others from her. She was sure somewhere nearby a second guardsman was hiding, but she did not care about it.

"Grey hair," he greeted her smiling.

"Red hair," she replied in the same manner.

"Grey hair is for old and wise. You are but a wench!"

"Red hair is more attractive on women."

"Sharp one, eh?" the man stood up. Witcheress knew exactly what he was doing. Testing her, trying out her bite. They looked each other in the eye for a few moments. Then a smile appeared on the face of a red-haired man.

"Heard you are some kind of monster slayer," the man said. "Do all monster slayer carry swords on their backs?"

"Yes," Ciri pushed the man aside. Not that she disliked the company that much, she just wanted to see the king. She felt like they had much to discuss. Also, she disliked being stared at for a long time. It made her tiny bit self-conscious about the scar on her face. Though, the man seemed to be much more interested in the colour of her hair and her sword. She could not walk far as a white wolf appeared before her. It was a big white wolf, bigger than those she was used to, with red intelligent eyes. It looked at her curiously while Cirilla was mesmerized. It was a beautiful beast, beautiful and dangerous. The man did not seem to mind the best before them at all. He knew it would be there. The woman made a step, the beast growled. She stepped back.

"Ghost!" Ciri heard a familiar voice. Jon Snow appeared around the corner. The wolf obeyed and came to his master. Cirilla looked at the charming couple. A northern king named Snow and his frightful beast colour of snow. A match made. She crossed her arms:

"Is this yours?" she looked at the albino wolf.

"Name's Ghost," Snow nodded.

"Quite large for a wolf."

"He's a direwolf."

"That explains it, I guess," Cirilla looked at the king. Who do you remind me?

"Do you wish to prove yourself as a swordfighter before or after you break your fast?"

"Let's do it now so I can enjoy my meal."

"Grey hair!" she heard a man's voice behind her. She turned around, though she didn't really want to.

"Good push," the red-haired man grinned. Jon and she left together, a white wolf walking between them. They walked in silence, only Jon's footsteps echoed. The wold was stepping gently so did Ciri. She was a witcher, after all, she knew how to move without making a sound. Snow stopped at some point, the direwolf followed his example. Ciri had to stop as well.

"Ghost, go," he commanded. The wolf understood so much with so little words. It went on its way, knowing exactly where and why. Ciri was impressed by the beast, it seemed magical.

"Pick up a training sword and we'll fight," said Jon, pointing at the courtyard down below. "I'll be back soon."

Cirilla bent over the handrail and looked down. It was early in the morning, people were waking up and gathering together. Yet it still seemed emptier than it was yesterday when she came. Good, more space for them to practice. Wait. We? As of yesterday, Jon Snow was a King in the North. Kings do not fight, they tell their subjects to. She highly doubted that someone overthrown Snow during the night. She heard soft steps approaching her, but not Jon's steps. His were heavier. She turned her head to see a beautiful lady with auburn hair. She was pretty, to say the least. The auburn hair was loose except for two braids on the top of her head. Ciri had her ashen hair in a bun behind her head. If she was on the road for a while, she would cut it herself. When she came home, Yennefer would take care of it. Right now, she could not guarantee her hair to be evenly cut. The woman, no, young lady, almost a girl, was wearing a black dress, mostly hidden under the cloak with furs.

"Lady Ciri," the lady with auburn hair politely smiled. "I am Sansa Stark, Jon's sister."

Cirilla looked at the girl again. Auburn hair and blue eyes didn't quite match the description of Jon Snow. Lady Stark was a beauty, not a single feature to distort her fair face. Well, maybe for her eyes. Blue as they were, there was something behind them. Anger and hurt, Ciri thought. I know these eyes.

"Cirilla," the ashen-haired woman introduced herself, "but Ciri is more than fine."

"It is," lady Stark continued her attempt at conversation, "nice to meet you in person, lady Ciri."

"It is nice to meet you too, lady Sansa. You are Jon's sister? How come you are Stark and he is Snow?"

"My father, Lord Stark of Winterfell, was married to my mother… Jon's mother was not married to my father," answered Sansa. Ciri could hear the anxiousness in her words, the discomfort it brought her to speak about it. That's why, Cirilla thought. Jon Snow was a child born out of wedlock. He did not have his lord father's name, he carried a name much simpler and much more ordinary. That's why he decided to fight her himself. Because he fought his battles. He is a child born out of wedlock, without titles, without the name. Even the stables of Winterfell weren't his birthright. And he became a king. He ought to know how to fight his battles, he ought to know how to lead people. The boy with eyes of an outcast. Eyes of an unwanted child. Cirilla respected Jon for his strong will of overcoming many obstacles to become a king. Yet by looking at the King in the North she could not tell he wanted it. The crown seemed rest heavy on his head.

"You are not from here, are you?" Sansa asked gently.

"No, milady, I am not. Your customs seem…" witcheress paused, choosing a better word than the one she had in mind. "Old."

A smile appeared on lady Sansa's face. Not the polite one, a genuine one. Ciri could tell why as she heard Jon's steps behind her.

"Come along, monster slayer," he called Ciri. She could not tell if he was mocking her or not. Looking at his face, probably not. But the witcheress did not object. She came downstairs right after him. He grabbed a wooden sword and tossed one in the air for her. Cirilla caught it. Jon's eyes were watching her closely, she knew. Every step, every movement was observed. Ciri undid the harness that carried her real sword.

"You move like a cat," Snow noted, pointing at her feet with his training sword.

"Can't say the same about you," the woman shrugged. She saw what she thought was impossible for the King in the North. She saw a smile on his face even for a second. Jon grabbed his sword and prepared himself:

"Ready when you are."

They didn't need to talk. Ciri tightened the grip on the hilt and rushed forward. She jumped, swinging her sword at Jon. He blocked. Another blow, but he dodged. Cirilla turned around swinging her sword with her. Jon parried but was forced to turn around as well. His sword flew over ashen-haired head. He made his first blow but the opponent parried. He succeeded at blocking Ciri's next blow. There was no clash of steel, but the dull sounds wood would make on a hit. The woman was fast, incredibly fast. Snow barely escaped her sword this time. He dodged back, their swords met again. Jon had to make her lose her momentum. Cirilla stopped for a second but quickly changed her position to gain the upper hand again. She jumped, turned around and hit Jon's sword as he was blocking. Another blow from below, but he parried. Ciri whirled, gracefully, with her sword flying, silently cutting the air. He parried again, yet this time he was ready to strike from above. He did but hit the ground. Ciri swirled, escaping his blow. Jon felt as the flat side of the wooden sword tapped on his chest. Snow looked at the ashen-haired woman and saw her smug smile.

"That was good," he admitted.

"Do you want a chance to reconcile, Your Grace?" Ciri bowed. There was a thing about men fighting. They tend to put their chances at the strengths of their blows, not at the speed of their movements. She was trained at Kaer Morhen to be as fast as the human body without witcher mutations would allow her to. It gave her a certain advantage.

"Alright," Jon agreed. He enjoyed the swordplay, it relaxed his mind and gave him the blood rush to warm up the muscles. He knew that Ciri was fast and skillful with a sword. He would not underestimate her again. They walked in a circle. Ciri lifted her sword to be in line with her eyes. Jon was holding his sword with two hands in front of his body. He watched her footwork. Careful, silent, confusing. She moved forward, so did he. Snow refused to give away the first blow to her. The sword met. And again, to no avail. They both decided to step back. Jon decides to strike. She blokes. He strikes again. Blocked. They dance around. Ciri turns around, aiming for Snow's neck with her sword. He barely escaped this one. Before Ciri could position herself, he strikes again. She parries elegantly. He blows again and misses her just by an inch or two. The woman rushed forward with her sword at him. Jon blocks. She moves to the other side, he moves with her. It's not swordplay, it's not a sword training, it's a dance. Cirilla lowered her sword and ran at him. He moved aside, expecting a blow from below, and raised his sword to crush from above. She did not try to hit him when she was close to him. Instead, she whirled, swinging her sword. Jon dodged, seeing Ciri's sword inches away from his neck. His sword crushed just a moment away from the woman's shoulder. She tricked him, otherwise, he would have gotten to her. Their swords crushed one last time. They both lowered their weapons.

"Another good one," Jon said with a smile. "You are a monster slayer."

"You are not so bad yourself, Your Grace," Cirilla returned a smile.