She was sitting in the armory, caring for her sword. The shining of the steel calmed her mind. A witcher never forgets to care for his sword. As time went by, Cirilla started to hear more people outside. The day was breaking, the castle was coming to life. They were walking, talking, running, shouting. More people were coming in the armory. A war needed soldiers, soldiers needed training. Ciri knew she had to go soon, her peace was disturbed. But she would appreciate another five minutes of peace and quite to come down from her dream. She wished to dream of home. Of warmth and things that make it all worthwhile.

For Winterfell was not at all like Kaer Morhen. The witcher's castle had, surprisingly, more life to it. At least, it used to, in her memories. The great structure must be abandoned now. Vesemir died, Eskel and Lambert came to Covo Bianco, where Geralt was residing now. The castle was living its timid life among the forest and the mountains like it belong there, a part of the natural world. And if it remains untouched, the winds will turn it into dust. The stones of the tower will settle on the ground. And the circle will complete. Something ends, something begins. But Winterfell stood like a stone giant, a rock troll among the snow, waiting for something. It felt like halted death. Kaer Morhen was quiet, but the sounds were there. Mice in the walls; the winds traveling in between the wooden pellets. It was talked to. In spring the birds would be heard. Kaer Morhen was alive because outside the tall walls was life. Winterfell was harsh and dreary. It didn't talk – whispered. Those whispers were of secrets and ghosts.

In the courtyard, girls and women training, trying themselves at sword fighting. There were many of them, women, mothers, young girl and children forced to grow up fast. Cirilla watched. Some were too young to hold a sword yet. Some were too weak, knowing needles and kitchen knifes their whole life. Servant girls, Ciri knew the type. Some girls were simply terrified of the sword. Not surprising, considering what Ciri has heard about the castle. What she saw around the castle. There was a siege not long ago. Many of the young ones must have witnessed it. There was no point in training those who were too feeble or too scared. Time sure could kill the fear and strengthen the body, but time was little to spare. They had to be directed somewhere else. The fighter who was training them was not giving up though. The girls were shown how to do it again and again, but not many repeated it.

"I'll make you a deal," Cirilla said, approaching the warrior, "you can take them as your pupils and train them all you want if we live to see another year. But no all of them can learn to wield a sword, not with the time we have."

The warrior turned to her, a steak of short blonde hair falling on the right side of her face. Her face. It was a woman. Tall, with broad shoulders, covered in armor that would suit a knight. And it was her.

"They all should learn how to defend themselves," the woman replied. She measured who was before her, it was a very deliberate, studying gaze. The witcheress was used to curious eyes, subtle examinations of her. People wanted to know, no blame there. Yet this woman didn't try to hide it. And there was a flicker in her eyes as if noticed something important but Ciri could only guess what it was.

"I agree," witcheress nodded, returning the favour of an open examination. The blonde woman was a head taller and probably twice her frame. She didn't look or speak like other women around the castle. Wrong accent, fair hair that wasn't common among the servant girls. An outcast here just as she is.

"But look at them," witcheress continued, pointing at the group of young girls who struggle the most. The smallest, youngest girls who struggled with the weight of training words. And among them those who shook, loosely grasping the hilt in fear.

"Time could help shape them but there isn't much."

"Alright," the armor-clad woman nodded. There was no sincerity in her voice, but neither was she lying. She was resistant, that's all. The warrior woman gestured the group of girls to store their training swords and step closer.

"You will follow…"

"Ciri."

"Brienne of Tarth," the female knight nodded.

All of the girls followed her, but none seemed at ease by the change. It wasn't hard to miss where the archery training has been happening. You could find it with your eyes closed. 'Nock, draw, lose!' They must be progressing quite fast. And they were. Boys were trained as a military. Nocking, drawing, losing in synch. After they all picked their only arrows and the same would happen again and again.

"Hey!" Ciri shouted, approaching the man who was giving out commands.

"You have a new flock," she gestured at the group that was watching archers. The man in command was tall, lean and old. Dark hair, dark eyes and long, narrow face with hollow cheeks. Long, broken nose, a missing tooth, patchy beard.

"All yours," the man replied. "Those boys already know their way around the bow. Sons of hunters, archers, guards… Easy job."

"Well then, pair them and let them help each other."

"And why should I do that?" he crossed his arms in defiance.

"They can't fight with a sword."

"You better teach them then!" A loud, mocking laugh from the master archer. It was so loud it attracted attention from everywhere. The man was taunting, smirking in the face of a woman.

"They can't," Cirilla spit, emphasizing her words. He was deliberate in his slight, and Ciri was quick to sense it. What mattered to him is that she was a woman and a stranger in this place. Powerless, ostracized. A stranger. And if she touched her sword or laid a hand on him, there would be guards. There would be King to serve justice to someone who didn't belong and took up a sword against one of them. She didn't belong and neither was she important.

"Then why are you making it my problem?" he shooed her away with a gesture. "Unless the King in the North says so, they can break their back for what I care."

Her first instinct was to punch him in the face and pair up his missing tooth. But he would likely to fight back, and, thought the temptation is strong, she decided against it. She shot daggers at the man, puffed and walked away in cold rage. A man who listened only to a man. This world so strangely familiar in all its flaws. They fight with swords, they eat bread and drink wine. There are lords and ladies, the poor and downtrodden. Their language is so familiar yet so strange. Words that are bound only to this world, to express the thing that could happen only here. And of course, men that accept only the authority of a man. She will find the King in the North if she could find Davos. She told the girl to stay there and not move an inch even if told to. She walked around the castle, listening to the whispers carried through the walls. She caught find of Ser Davos near the North gate. And with him was not the King but the wildling. They saw her coming, to be precise, the wildling did.

"Grey hair," the red-haired man said with a grin on his face. He was too happy to see her, and she completely didn't understand why. Another man grinning at her today.

"Red hair," Cirilla responded, weary of wilding's ways. Perhaps Ser Davos was perceptive, or he found it unbecoming, but he decided to step in. He coughed, drawing attention, and stopping both from talking.

"Ciri, you must have met Tormund Giantsbane," Seaworth spoke.

"Acquainted."

"Ciri Monsterslayer, is it?" Tormund asked.

"Just Ciri," she shook her head and turned to Davos, intentionally excluding the wildling man from the conversation. "I'm looking for His Grace."

"I have not seen Lord Snow since morning," the older man answered.

"There aren't many places he could be," red-haired man interfered again. It seemed to Ciri that the man was intentionally ignoring all the signs that she wasn't particularly fond of his ways around her. But he seemed to know something.

"If he's not seen, he's brooding somewhere," he continued, "the woods, the Underthing…"

"The Crypts," Davos corrected.

"I guess I'll try there," the woman was ready to leave.

"You wouldn't advise going down there," Ser Seaworth said calmly. "The Crypts of Winterfell are… for the Stark family."

"And the woods?"

"A sacred place for those who believe in Old Gods."

"If you see him before me, tell him there's a problem with a few archers."

Cold rage was wrapping its clawed hands around the young witcheress. Lord Snow knew how to hide when he wished to not be found. A place where only those of faith could go, but that would mean that not many would dare to speak of matters unpleasant in the place of Gods. And the Crypts where the members of his own family were buried. Not many would dare to step in a place like that. Dedicated to Lords and Ladies of the past. Full of ghosts and death. indeed designed for brooding alone. She would not search the woods. Ciri practiced no religion, believed on no god, but she could hold respect for those who did and the rituals that came with it. Also, the woods could take much time. But the Crypts would have one door, one stairway. She was not familiar with the castle, but Davos spoke a great deal about it. She knew that it was in the oldest part of Winterfell. It wasn't hard to figure out the oldest part of Winterfell, it stood out for everyone to see. It wasn't even a long walk. The only problem is that she was more than reluctant to go there. The oldest part of Winterfell felt abandoned and tragic. The Broken Tower, Davos called it, was silent yet melancholic. Green eyes watched the top of the tower, collapsed and untouched since then. One could say the tower was brooding too. The great black door was the way to the Crypts, she figured. But under the gaze of the Broken Tower, the witcheress didn't wish to go down to the Crypts or even as much as touch the black, heavy door. It didn't feel wrong or unwelcoming. It felt dangerous. The tower cannot scare her away. The tower cannot look down on her. She stayed there, waiting because she knew Jon Snow was underneath, in the Crypts, with the dead.

"What are you doing here?" the voice asked, pulling her out of the trance. She only closed her eyes for what seemed like five minutes or so. The woman opened her eyes and looked at the man before her. Jon Snow, in his black furs and leather, brooding expression has not yet disappeared. His loyal beast beside him, watching her with blood red eyes. Funny how the wolf seemed to be a much joyful creature when beside his master. Lord Snow stood there, towering above her, with an expression that Geralt would wear often. Only in a place like this, one could understand that Winterfell was wrapped in melancholy more than in fear.

"Waiting for you, Your Grace," the ashen-haired woman replied sternly, getting up. "There's a problem with a few archers."

"What's the problem?" he asked, looking away from her.

"They aren't being trained."

"Alright," he sighed, defeated, tired. The woman with a scar smiled and a wicked fire flickered in green eyes.

Witcheress walked behind him, starting to feel sulky as well. Perhaps it was a contagious state within those castle walls. But she didn't sulk, she was jittery, delighted almost by what was about to happen. She was ready to savour the moment. They were approaching the archer's range, as Ciri heard the man who slighted her shouting the same commands, but now he was giving them faster. But when Lord Snow walked, it seemed all the voices died. He carried a certain silence about him. He commanded silence. And he did it most appropriately – without words. Cirilla stood beside him, spotting the girls. They obeyed her order word to word. They seemed to not have moved a step.

"Your Grace," the master archer spoke with a slight bow. The boys stopped their practice as well, lowering the bows and greeting the King. Snow stopped in his tracks – too far from the man Ciri took no liking in – looking around, calculating the situation.

"Why aren't the girls training?" Jon asked plainly.

"They are supposed to learn sword fighting," the man replied.

"They can't fight with a sword," Cirilla spoke loudly, challenging.

"Why can't they?" Jon asked much quitter, urging her to lower her voice as well.

"Some are delicate, the others are scared," she replied in a whisper. "They can't wield a sword. But you can't just dismiss them."

Her eyes caught his dark gaze. Eyes so dark, they seemed black but calm and surveying. Those dark eyes, much like his face, betrayed nothing.

"You train them," Lord Snow spoke, composed and cold. "Those who show no improvement will be taught aiding the wounded."

"Yes, Your Grace," the man vowed in compliance. Cirilla smiled, victorious and impish was the glint in her eyes.

"You," Snow fully turned to her, "go back," he commanded. Yet there was a glimmer in those dark eyes that wasn't there before.

"Yes, Your Grace."

They had to start from the very bottom, from theory. How to hold a sword, how to use the body to make a blow. And what is the center of gravity. Ciri is not the only one involved in training women. And Brienne of Tarth. Cirilla took a liking to her. The female fighter was strong, knew how to fight with honor and was very patient with her teachings. For now, their mutual efforts have succeeded at stopping the girl from dropping their swords on a hit, parrying, and striking. But all those movements were slow, unpolished and lacked confidence. But that could be worked on with time that they have. Brienne nodded in approval of the overall success. Some girls smiled, some nodded, some did nothing at all. It's strange how younger ones were more eager to fight than those who were approaching adulthood. Older ladies and mothers acted like they had no choice but do it. They paired them, by age and height, it was almost perfect, only one group of three was training together. Ciri felt somebody's eyes on her briefly. A fleeting look. She looked up and saw Jon Snow. He was standing above the courtyard with Sansa and Davos. They were standing above the courtyard, opposite of where they were training, and it looked like they were discussing something. The ashen-haired woman could not tell if Jon was still looking at her, but she nodded to let him know she was aware of him. Snow did not react.

"We should give them a break," said Brienne. The other woman agreed without speaking. The command was given for them to stop and catch their breaths. Ciri was doing the same. Teaching was harder on her mind than she would have guessed. She understood Lambert's scathing nature during her training. He wasn't without humor but none of the witchers expressed great leniency when it came to training.

"Are you a knight?" the ashen-haired woman asked her partner. Yet her eyes were flickering back and forth between the armored woman and the people above. Their conversation was still going but, based on the little movements they displayed now, it was coming to an end. Each party was readying themselves to leave. What were they discussing? Here, in the open?

"A woman cannot be a knight," Brienne replied evenly. She must have heard and said it often to not be swayed by it. It was too flat a response to not be bothering.

"The man who is training archers," Brienne spoke again. "He will neglect the girls."

"I don't think so, I think he would be too afraid," she answered. "His Grace gave orders himself."

The last detail was unnecessary, but the witcheress could not resist adding it for the smug effect.

"But we should check on them every now and then," she added.

Brienne's blue eyes watched her and again, the familiar recognition obvious in them. They all see it in me, yet none speak of it. As if she reminded them of something, maybe even someone, but none dare to speak their name.

"What is it?" she prompted. If there was someone who would tell without deceit, it would be this woman.

"You all seem to recognize something in me," the woman pushed, frustrated.

"Your hair," Lady of Tarth said, slowly, carefully. "Targaryens are famous for their silver. Yours comes close."

"I know very little about the land. Ser Davos told me some things. Is that the royal family that people rebelled against?"

"House Targaryen ruled Westeros for three hundred years. And your eyes are green like Lannister's."

Cercei Lannister. Ser Davos mentioned current Queen of Westeros. Unloved. Disliked. Mistrusted. Despised, even.

"Is there anything about me that people here would find likable?" Cirilla laughed.

"I'm afraid not much. Only the way you carry your sword."

"What do you mean?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne, a great knight, carried his sword Dawn slung across his back."

Ciri was ready to say something but saw that Lord Snow, Lady Sansa, and Ser Davos left. Each went their separate way. Asking would not give her answers and the castle doesn't speak. But it does whisper. That brief second of her distraction cost her greatly. Brienne turned around and told the girls to pick up their swords and start practicing again. Ser Arthur Dayne, a knight who carried a sword on his back. She might just ask for a good night tale from Ser Davos.

The ashen-haired woman was training alone at the courtyard in almost silence. The sound of steel cutting the air, an occasional crunch of the snow under her feet. She could not help it, if she had to jump or leap, the snow would crunch in betrayal. But in between, there were moments that it was quiet enough to hear woman's breath. The sword was cutting through the air with a whistle. Pirouette, swing, dodge…The sword was signing in the air. Out of breath, she stopped. Quiet and empty the castle stood in the dark. She lowered her sword and looked down. Snow. A strand of ashen hair fell on her eyes. I should get some sleep. She was getting physically tired, but her mind was not ready for sleep at all. She feared to fall asleep again. Because the nightmare will return, she knew. The world would speak to her, the magic or perhaps, the ghosts of this castle. But they would speak, and she didn't know how to listen to them. Her mind was drifting to different places, different things, different people. Especially one person. The King in the North. Jon Snow. Snow.

"Training in the night? "said a voice from above. Familiar husky voice with a strong northern accent. She was getting used hearing people speak this way. Ciri shook her head. Jon Snow was standing up there, on the ramparts, watching her. She did not like it.

"Aye, Your Grace."

Jon was in his usual brooding mood, wearing his frown face. Yet now he seemed more troubled and tired than he was in the morning. Something happened, concluded Ciri. Jon said nothing else and neither did she. Ciri was looking at him from down below, but Snow wasn't looking at her. He was looking straight ahead as if Cirilla's presence was never acknowledged by him. Witcheress sheathed her sword. The King still seemed more invested in his thoughts. Ciri decided to go up to him and... well, she did not know what for yet. But she felt like she needed to thank him for his help and ask him for a favour.

"Your Grace," the ashen one started. "Thank you for today, but I must ask…"

Ciri stopped talking abruptly. She talked to him and Jon seemed to listen. Yet he did not look at her once, did not recognize her presence. Cirilla did not appreciate when her words were treated with silence. She looked at Jon. His hands were placed on the rails. He wore his usual attire. The white hilt of the sword could be seen hanging on his left. Ciri walked behind him, watching him from behind. His dark curls tied in a knot at the back his head. Geralt has been keeping his hair in a similar way as of late. Only now did it strike her. The resemblance. The brooding and frowning, the eyes of an outcast, the weariness. They all seemed familiar because she knew someone who has all of it.

"Snow," Ciri said, coming from the other side next to Jon, placing her hands on the rails. Jon turned his head at her sudden words:

"What?"

"Snow," the woman lifted her head slightly. She did not look at the man beside her, she was looking straight ahead. Jon followed her eyes and understood. It has started to snow. It was a light snowfall, almost invisible in the dark.

"Aye," he nodded, "snow, my lady. She was surprised that he addressed her so formally."

"I am not your lady," the woman chuckled.

"Ser Davos is no fool. And I grew up among noble lords and ladies," Jon looked at the woman beside him and chuckled too. He knows. But if they knew all along, why only now does he acknowledge it?

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," she said, turning around and resting against elbows on the rails. Jon gave her a meaningful yet gloomy look. She was surprised by his reaction. It wasn't anger, it was not irritation. Snow was not offended. He was confused.

"What?" she asked, turning away from him. "I am a strange woman with a scar on my face and a sword on my back. Not so many people talk to me."

"Many are wary of a monster slayer."

"But you are not."

"I am not. Also, if you say something I do not like, I can execute you without any consequences. No lord will be offended, no family will seek revenge. What was it you were going to ask for?"

"The man refused to train them because they were girls. There are many women in the castle, who speaks for them? They need to be encouraged that someone will listen to their plight, and someone will do something about it."

"Alright," Jon agreed, "I shall look into it."

"Thank you, my lord."

She knew she would antagonize His Grace with her formality. And it worked like a charm. Lord Snow showed her the way, very literally, showing her to walk to the courtyard and leave him be. Ciri bowed and politely left, deciding that it was time to return to her room. The nights in Winterfell are cold. And full of ghosts.

She was running. Feet sinking in deep snow, slowing her down. And she is terrified. The Wall is ahead of her and she is running towards it. But it is not the Wall she saw before. This one is not made of ice. This is dark and smoky. It's not just wall that she is running to. It's a castle. It smells like salt air and smoke. Large and fearsome, yet it grows warmer the closer she is to the castle. The snow disappearing under her feet, melting away. This is not Winterfell that she is running towards, she knows. She must continue to run for if she stops, they are lost. Gone forever. Who are they? The answer comes in a roar. Loud and gruesome but she is not afraid of it this time. It only reassures her that she must be getting close. Green and soft is the grass under her boots. The castle stands before her in its might. Something is inside it and she must find it as soon as possible. Inside the castle, echoes ran ahead, making her presence known. But the stone floor of the castle fell through. The darkness swallowed her whole. And then came pain she's never known. Ciri, please. A plea was falling from cold lips. Ciri. Please. Cold lips are begging her to leave. She wakes up instead. She wasn't terrified as she was last time. No, she was, but not for her life. She knew she was dying in there, in her dream. But the fear didn't get her there. It's their lives she was fearful for. And she didn't even know who they were. She knew one thing: dreams of castles and towers were never a good sign.

Brianne greeted her warmly this time. Or perhaps the northern treatment makes any other treatment warmer in comparison.

"Lady Sansa took it upon herself to see over the training," Brienne informed. "She asked for any aid we can provide."

The lord had been acting fast upon request. Ciri admired that about both of them. Lady Sansa caring about her people, her women, handmaidens, and seamstresses that needed to pick the art of war. And Lord Snow listening to a strange woman with a sword on her back. She is not his subject, not a northerner. But he listened.

"That's good," she replied unswayed.

"Yes," Lady of Tarth stood herself right in front of the female witcher. "No one would dare to mistreat those girls," she was looking right into Ciri's eyes. The shorter woman could only nod in agreement. But the blue eyes of the knight were not letting her go.

"I came to ask about it in the morning, unwanting to burned my lady with so many concerns," the taller woman continued, "but Lady Sansa already knew."

Reply never came. The younger woman kept to her silence, but her eyes were not afraid of the blue gaze.

"Let's begin," Brienne said, easing her gaze, paying respectful nod of her head. Ciri could have easily missed it. Before the girls would all come to the courtyard, the women decided to demonstrate a few things that every swordfighter would know. How to make your opponent lose their balance. One way to win a fight – make them lose their footing. Once they are not standing firmly on the ground, it's time to strike. They would repeat it, ask a question and then go on helping other girls. It would be another long day of training. But today they'd need more break. The girls were not as active as yesterday, their bodies were tired, muscles torn and tired. But it was needed, Ciri knew too well. Brienne was correcting mistakes, Ciri overlooking no one started to make them. And today they needed to be reminded of their breathing. Fighting is no different from running or dancing, there must be rhythm, she said, and there must be breathing. Next few days would be the hardest. They mustn't break them nor could they go easy on them. But above them was walking Lady Sansa with her auburn hair catching an occasional ray of sunlight. A lady of her word.

"Wrong," Cirilla shouted and stooped two girls sparring, "wrong. Breathe out when lading a strike."

Young girl with large golden-brown eyes was barely above Ciri's waistline. She walked behind the girl and grabbed the training sword, placing her hands above the smaller ones.

"Breathe in," witcheress said, guiding the sword up, "And breathe out," she did so as the sword was coming down. The girl actively nodded to show that she understood her mistake. Ciri stepped aide, letting them continue. Perhaps they could turn this into a very militarized training. They would command them when to breathe, when to land a strike and when to parry. But that would not benefit the older ones who were progressing faster. Or it would neglect the needs of the younger ones. Lady Sansa past them already, but in her place appeared a man. A man Cirilla hadn't met before and better for it. The man she saw above… Shorter than many, slender. He moved like a cat, a shadow among men who were taller, stronger. She didn't know him and she didn't want to.