Ciri agreed to help with training women. Negotiation was very simple, as her choice was either do it or, well, find something else to do and be useful. She has never done anything like this before, but she did remember her training at Kaer Morhen. Nothing would be quite like Kaer Morhen. Repeating what she was taught by others isn't that difficult, is it? Most of the day she spent with Ser Davos Seaworth who was telling her everything she needed to know about the castle, the North. She asked her questions carefully, without giving much to go on. Customs she wasn't familiar with, built it seemed nothing she would be in a serious chance of encountering. And when the evening came, Ciri found herself to be invested in a long conversation with Davos and wine. Seaworth was telling her about the Iron Throne, The Wall, the Dead. While the northern lords were uniting to fight the death itself, lords of the south seemed to be fighting among themselves. She could not support conversations about politics simply because she was oblivious to the current state of affairs Yet she didn't mind listening at all. He told her a little bit about everything. The Wall and Night's Watch, the Iron Throne and the Lannisters, Winterfell, and Battle of Bastards, Lords of the North and wildlings. Davos went as far as to explain the geography of Westeros and naming all the important parts of Westeros, where they start and where they end. He told Ciri where he had been before and whom he served. Ciri disclosed some parts of her life as well. She told him she travels a lot, hunts monsters for coin. She told him about the griffin she slew. She told him about her "brotherhood" and that they name themselves witchers. She could not help but notice how careful Davos was forming his questions. He was not interrogating her, he was reading her.

"Why come here?" asked Seaworth, leaning forward. The woman looked at him, studying. The wine started to influence them both.

"Definitely not to enjoy the weather," Cirilla shrugged. "I am a witcheress, I kill monsters. You have…"

"I meant, my lady, why come to Winterfell?"

"This is where the King in the North sits, isn't it?"

"You don't belong to the North."

Ciri sighted. She knew exactly why Davos was questioning this. He was studying her, reading her, trying to fish out as much as possible. But the truth was ever so simple and yet so impossible to understand. She wasn't simply outside of Westeros, this world was foreign to her. She had no personal, deep interests in the riches of this world, the lords that ruled it.

"The chain is shorter this way," the woman with ashen hair said. "I could come to any other northern lord, but all of them serve the King in the North anyway. If they didn't send me here, we would still be getting orders from the king. And I heard some things on the road. Some say there's magic in those castle walls."

"Do you believe it?"

"It would be nice if it was true."

"It would," ser Davos nodded. "You are not here to serve the king."

"N-no. If we survive the dead and win, my job is done. What would you need a monster slayer for when there are no monsters?"

"Why did you become…. a witcher?" the man asked hesitantly. Cirilla nodded to support that it was the name of her brotherhood:

"It's my destiny, yet I chose it," she took a sip. The onion knight looked perplexed by such answer, but she did not mind leaving it at that. After all, didn't she tell them that she can't tell much about the brotherhood? I need to change the subject.

"What can you tell about your king, Ser Davos?" Cirilla asked, putting down her cup filled with wine. They didn't have glasses or chalices, but it did not matter. She enjoyed listening to Davos, he was a man of age, certainly, he had something to say about the world.

"Jon Snow is an honorable man," Davos answered, "much like his father."

"And that awfully gloomy face?"

Seaworth did not answer, he just smiled. There was something he did not wish to say. Ciri could understand that. After all, there were things she did not wish to make known. At least for now.

"You agreed to serve him," Cirilla murmured, remerging what Seaworth has told her. "It's hard to win the loyalty of a good man as my father would say."

"I am no good man," calmly protested Davos.

"I can see by the lack of fingertips that you are no saint, Ser Davos, yet here you are, ready to fight a battle you can very well lose. You are here not for the gold, not for the glory, titles or land."

Jon was standing in the doorway, watching and listening to these two. He was looking for Ser Davos, and he found him. Yet not in the state he would expect. Ciri was sitting with his back to him, so he shouldn't worry about her noticing him. The darkness also favoured his unnoticed presence. Even if Davos did see him, he did not acknowledge it.

"And your father?" asked Davos. Jon could tell that the wine was getting at onion knight's head.

"What… what about my father?" Ciri asked. The wine was getting at her even harder. For some reason, it amused Jon. Two people that have nothing in common and had barely knew each other were drinking and sharing stories. As if they knew each other in a long time, but he was not deceived. Davos Seaworth was a wise man.

"Is he in the brotherhood too?" as a matter-of-factly asked Davos.

"Aye," nodded Ciri, "he is. He is my father by choice. He took me in, cared for me, trained me. He…" she suddenly went silent as if she was about to say too much.

"He seems like an honorable man," said Davos with a smile on his face.

"Name's Geralt and he is honorable. To the bones."

A woman's laugh filled the room. Snow, who was standing in the doorway, was just as surprised by the sudden outburst as lord Seaworth.

"And he does wear a gloomy face quite often," she said through her laugh. Davos suppressed his laugh. Whether it was because Davos knew he was here or because he thought it inappropriate to laugh at your king, but Jon noticed that.

A white wasteland. A snowy desert. White snow as far as the eye could see. Ciri was standing there all alone. The sun is above her head. Not a howl, not a whisper. It was quiet, terrifyingly quiet. She turned around and saw it. The Wall. The icy wall was shining in the sunlight. She started walking towards the massive structure. The wind was growing stronger every step she made. Suddenly the shadow has fallen. Cirilla lifted her head and saw only the darkness of the sky. The Wall, however, was glowing like a distant candle in the dark. She kept walking, the wind was turning into a storm, dancing and whirling around her. A strong push from the back makes her fall on the snow. Her hands, though, covered in gloves, feel frozen. She tries to get up but cannot. Her whole body is frozen stiff in fear of sudden realization. In the wind there were whispers. Men, women or children, she couldn't tell. There were so many voices and they all were whispering the same thing. Bosys bantis amāzis, se morghor zijomy amāzis. Ciri got up, her hands feeling abnormally cold. She made a few steps and heard the changes in voices. They sounded louder and more… fearful. Bosys bantis amāzis, se morghor zijomy amāzis! Darkness and snow surrounded her. She had to keep going. BOSYS BANTIS AMĀZIS, SE MORGHOR ZIJOMY AMĀZIS! A roar in the distance, nothing like she has ever heard despite hunting basilisks and forktails. She had to look back and saw it. The White Walker that was leading the army of the dead stood in the distance. It was looking at her with its blazing blue eyes. It didn't have the hungry eyes of wights, it didn't have that mindless gaze. It had horrifying yet intelligent blue eyes. A cloud of smoke was hanging above the White Walker. Ciri woke up with a scream. She was cold and sweaty. The dream. Ciri could not forget the cold and fear she experienced in the dream. Triss Merigold once said Cirilla was a Source, a transmitter. Every time the girl fell into a trans, she was as if possessed by something. Something wanted to get in touch with her, to take control over her and tell her something. It took years for Ciri to fully understand the meaning behind sorceress's words. Whatever she was transmitting this time, she did not like it. The feeling that the dream brought her was of fear and cold. And whatever it was… it was powerful. The words, however, didn't carry any meaning to her.

"Bosys bantis amāzis, se morghor zijomy amāzis," Cir repeated under her breath. "Just a drunk dream," she said to herself, looking for comfort no one was there to offer her. It did not work. She could not reassure herself it was just a drunk dream, a nightmare. Nightmares don't talk to you, don't make your hands cold. She could not go back to sleep, so she did what she did best and what would help her to forget about the dream.