In her room, in the night, she barred the door and placed her sword near the bedside. And as she was falling asleep, for a moment, she thought she heard steps outside and a slight push against her door. But she fell asleep soon, dreaming again. Dreaming of a place that smelled like salt and smoke. She dreamed of warm air and wet sand beneath her feet. She dreamed of sea waves and another dark castle. She dreamed of a door and endless stone steps. Of echoes of steps on the polished floors and dust floating in the sunlight. She didn't dream of Winterfell or the North or White Walker. She dreamt of something warm and dark and far away. She didn't know what she dreamt of.

Cirilla rested her head on her hand, looking into her bowl of soup as if it understood her plight. When is going to happen? In a matter of minutes, or, perhaps, hours? Perhaps, the man got scared or even ashamed of losing to a woman. But something within Ciri didn't accept that as an explanation. The room was filled with whispers and chatters and loud proclamations. Noise and nothing else, until the commotion simmered down, moved closer and one of proclamation put every other conversation to a stop.

"The King is going South!" someone shouted in disbelieve. The man was large, hair dark and untamed. His first shook the table hard enough for the mugs to shake and spoons rattle.

"We know what happens to Starks that go South!" a woman supported. Her hair was just as dark and kept in a thick braid. She was picking up empty bowls and forgotten cutlery.

"He goes to see a dragon queen," an older man said begrudgingly. "And we know what Targaryens are."

Cirilla looked around, aimlessly, not a single familiar face. They wouldn't dare to speak so of their King in his or his family's presence. The men looked angry, the women concerned. Some men would have to leave their home and follow their King. Some women might not get to see their husbands, brothers, and sons again. Such is the way of war. Cirilla dropped her spoon on the table, unwilling to give the food a try. It would be lukewarm by now anyway. Amidst the number of northerners, plenty of noises and steps and figures, it was near impossible to spot an ally.

"How did you call it? Awfully gloomy face?" Ser Davos asked. The older man sat in front of her with his bowl. She glanced at the man briefly, noting how guarded her looked.

"It's probably the weather." Ciri couldn't manage to smile. It was crowded here, wooden spoons on wooden tables, shallow speeches of nameless men around her. Hollow sounds dulling her senses, souring her already spoiled mood. And the lukewarm food…

"Heard you've been busy," Ser Davos noted after his first spoon. He didn't express great appreciation but neither did he express disgust.

"You did the right thing," Seaworth sympathized, "while some might not like you for it, the King appreciated it."

The woman scoffed at this. It wasn't appreciation she was seeking. Justice would be a better word. Justice for the defenseless; peace and quiet for herself. That would be ideal. None would put an effort to make her comfortable.

"He announced you to be a royal guest, of sorts," Ser Davos pressed.

"What?" Her words loud, her actions drawing attention. The folk in the room watched her carefully, untrusting and testing. Davos's hand reached across the wooden table to grab her. It's not his strength but the gesture itself made her sit back down. He knew them just a little better.

"You aren't well liked here still," he said, almost whispering. Ciri's eyes travelled past him to watch a man of large stature moving across in their direction. Her expressions must have been telling as the old man didn't try to speak again. The larger man's hand dropped on the table demanding attention already given in abundance. Cirilla not once averted her gaze.

"Outsider," the man said meaningfully. Just like so many northerners, he had dark brown hair and dark eyes. And yet Ciri couldn't see animosity in those dark eyes or even anger. Distaste, disdain, but not enmity.

"Get out of here, outsider."

Cirilla didn't believe his anger so untrue it was.

"Go back from whence you came." The man placed another hand on the table, towering above Davos Seaworth. He was a boulder of man, with two minor battle scars on his face, and yet when he towered above the older man, Ciri knew that whose anger she would dislike most.

"There's a war coming, outsider, and we don't fight side by side with the likes of you," the northerner finished. His hands were still resting in the table next to Ser Davos's spoon. The witcheress spared only a second to think about the words, but someone else spoke for her.

"She's a guest here," Seaworth said flatly. He sank his spoon into the sick, lukewarm soup and blew on it as if it was still hot. The man exaggerated his appreciation of the food this time.

"Lady Ciri was named a guest of Winterfell," he continued nonchalantly. "Do guest rights still hold value in the North?"

"Of course, they do," a woman's voice spoke. Cirilla wanted to look for the woman who spoke among the people, yet she didn't want to turn away from the man who was intimidating her. The woman with a familiar thick braid stepped behind the large man, only her head and shoulders could be seen behind the crunching male figure. She gently pulled the man away from the table by his shoulder. He gave in. He straightened, hiding the woman behind him completely but her pale palm resting on his shoulder. He spared them another look before turning around to face the woman behind him. She whispered a few words too low for Ciri to catch them. As he walked away, the braided woman's face didn't betray a single emotion.

"The King is sailing South," Seaworrth said. His voice turned serious, dreadful even, pulling the witcheress into the conversation.

"To meet with a dragon queen."

"You are monster slayer, are you not?"

"Are you asking me if I can kill a dragon?"

"Can you?"

"Depends on a dragon," she shrugged. Most times "the dragon" was some royal wyvern or a very lucky, overgrown forktail. But if it was anything like the golden dragon Geralt had met, that could prove more problematic. Do dragons posses consciousness in this world?

"So, it's possible," Ser Davos spoke cautiously, fishing for a more definitive answer.

"I'll need to see it."

"You will."

"Excuse me?"

The answer was in the eyes.

"I am not leaving," she said simply, shaking her head. It wasn't a question of enjoyment or comfort. But she arrived in this world with a purpose. She would leave fulfilling it or loosing but not running.

"You aren't liked much here," Seaworth observed. "And we might need you."

"The King doesn't know, does he?" she asked, amused. The answer was in the eyes.

"I heard what the people are saying," the witcheress smiled, "I heard their fears. You want to use me."

"I want your help in case we need it," he corrected. "And I want to help you. There are men who are looking for blood."

"What if I can't kill a dragon?"

"Then pretend you can."

This is stupid, Ciri concluded.

Just like rainfall turns to snow due to cold, her rage had turned ice-cold as well. It was searing yet not all-consuming. It was cold but never fainting. Under the Broken Tower, the witcheress was alone seeking refuge from the thick plots of Winterfell. It seemed if she were to mingle among people, some would try to hurt her – which she didn't fear but didn't wish to antagonize just yet – or use her. Lady Stark in her, hopefully, noble pursuits. Lady Brienne in her undying loyalty to Lady Stark. And last, there was Davos Seaworth. The man couldn't possibly think that his idea could work. It was stupid and incredibly presumption. She has the last dragons...

Quick and nimble steps approached her, too light even for a woman.

"You again," Ciri greeted the little girl. She tried to contain her sour mood behind the sweet tone of her voice, she doubted that she was successful at that. Yet the girl didn't seem swayed by the tension. She offered an apple with her two hands, "Thank you. For helping."

The witcheress took the fruit from the young girl with a nod of thanks.

"You came to me," Ciri spoke, "on your own," she put the words out there. She bit the apple. Sweet and sour and surprisingly ripe.

"Why didn't you get Lady Brienne?" she asked the girl after having no response.

"I'm scared of her."

"I have a scar on my face," Cirilla noted, two fingers sliding down the scarred tissue. Brienne, despite being tall and broad-shouldered, clad in armor, didn't have a scar that would be so noticeable on her face.

"Many women have scars, some from work, some from…" her eyes travelled somewhere far. For a moment, she seemed to be out of it. She was remembering something that Ciri could never know of.

"But Lady Brienne is so tall and strong and… and scary," she finished. She sounded as if she confessed some horrible deed. The little girl was ashamed fearing a woman.

"Don't be afraid of her," Ciri said with a short laugh. She hoped her light tone was helping to comfort the girl. The woman reached out her hand to place it on the small shoulder, "What's your name?"

"Arra," the girl answered.

"I'm Ciri."

"I know."

"You should go home, Arra, it's getting dark and cold."

The girl submissively nodded, uttered her thanks once again, and ran away. Light was her step, with a spring in it, despite the cold and darkness that was surrounding her small frame. Ciri was staring at her hand – the one she placed on the girl's shoulder – questioning the feeling flowing into her. A familiar feeling that she didn't welcome.

*Author's note*

Hello dear readers,

Believe it or not, the email ate all the notifications about followers and comments.

And the website doesn't have an in-yo-face-notification-system either.

But!

First of all, I appreciate all of you! Thank you!

Second, I promise to get to your comments in two weeks of this posting!

*holds two fingers crossed*