Jocelyn sat on the cushioned window seat of Sansa Stark's chambers, gazing out at the snow-covered courtyard below. The warmth of the fire crackled in the hearth behind her, and the room smelled of lavender and fresh linen. It was one of the most peaceful places in Winterfell, untouched by the weight of war, politics, or fear—at least for now.

Sansa sat beside her, carefully stitching a delicate pattern into a piece of fine blue fabric. Despite the quiet, Jocelyn could tell she was eager to speak, her lips pressed together in thought.

"You don't have to hold back," Jocelyn said with a small smile. "I can see the question on your face."

Sansa let out a soft laugh, setting her embroidery down. "I was just thinking… you've changed since you first came here."

Jocelyn raised an eyebrow. "Changed how?"

Sansa tilted her head, considering. "You seemed so… fragile when you arrived. Like a songbird in a cage. But now, you're different. Stronger."

Jocelyn hesitated, absorbing the words. "I don't know if I'd call myself strong."

"But you are," Sansa insisted. "You chose your own fate instead of letting others choose it for you. That takes courage."

Jocelyn looked at Sansa, surprised by her insight. The younger girl had always been poised and graceful, trained to be the perfect lady, but there was an undercurrent of steel beneath her sweetness. They weren't so different, in a way—both raised to be obedient, to be valuable only in how they could serve others. But Sansa, much like Jocelyn, had begun to realize that there was more to life than playing the perfect role.

Jocelyn sighed, toying with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Some days, I wonder if I made the right choice."

"You did," Sansa said firmly. "You just have to believe it."

Before Jocelyn could respond, a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. The air in the room shifted instantly, tension creeping into Jocelyn's spine as she recognized the familiar, steady cadence of Jon's footsteps.

Sansa rose gracefully and opened the door, revealing Jon standing in the dimly lit corridor, a folded parchment in his hand. His expression was tense, his gray eyes locked onto Jocelyn's the moment the door swung open.

"Jocelyn," he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable urgency. "We need to talk."

Sansa glanced between them, her brow furrowing. "What is it?"

Jon stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He hesitated for a moment, then handed the letter to Jocelyn. "It's from Jaime Lannister."

Jocelyn's breath caught as she took the letter, the crimson wax seal of House Lannister already broken. She unfolded the parchment carefully, her hands trembling slightly as she began to read.

Lady Jocelyn,

Or should I say, the Ghost of Winterfell?

I have always admired a well-played game, and I must say, this one has been quite the spectacle. A tragic accident. A body lost to the wolves. A father who mourns, yet does not search. A Stark family that mourns, yet seems strangely untouched by grief.

It was all so very convenient.

You can imagine my amusement when I began looking beyond the convenient lies. When I started noticing the inconsistencies. The missing details. The little cracks in a carefully crafted story.

And so, I followed the trail.

You see, my lady, secrets are like footprints in the snow. They always leave something behind.

Consider this letter a courtesy. I will return to Winterfell soon. And this time, I won't be leaving without answers.

Ser Jaime Lannister

Jocelyn's fingers tightened around the parchment, her pulse hammering in her ears.

"He knows," she whispered. "He doesn't have proof, but he knows."

Sansa covered her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. "What do we do?"

Jon's jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists. "We prepare."

Jocelyn swallowed hard, forcing herself to steady her breathing. The illusion was beginning to crack, and Jaime was coming back. She had known the game wouldn't last forever—but she hadn't expected the Lannister to be this relentless.

She looked up at Jon, fear and determination warring in her chest.

"If he's coming for answers," she said, "then we need to be ready to lie better than we ever have before."

Jaime Lannister rode hard through the Kingsroad, the bitter Northern wind whipping against his face. His jaw was clenched, his patience worn thin. The Starks thought they had outplayed him, thought their lie had been woven tight enough to hold. But Jaime had spent his life unraveling deception. He knew when a story had holes, when an illusion was meant to distract from the truth. And he was done playing their game.

The letter he had sent to Winterfell had been his warning shot. A courtesy, if anything. He wanted them to squirm, to feel the noose tightening. He wanted them to know he was coming before he arrived—because that was when people made mistakes. And when they did, he would be there to catch them.

His hand tightened around the reins as his horse galloped forward, his thoughts sharp as a blade. Lord Thaddeus Everfair had all but given up. The man was consumed by grief, unwilling to see the possibility that his daughter might still be alive. It disgusted Jaime. He had never known Lord Everfair to be a man who accepted defeat so easily, and yet here he was, mourning a loss that might not even be real.

But Jaime? He wasn't ready to let this go.

Jocelyn Everfair's disappearance reeked of deception. There had been no body, no solid proof of her demise—just a story wrapped too neatly in Winterfell's careful hands. Wolves were clever creatures, but lions were hunters, and Jaime had every intention of tracking this mystery to its end.

The road stretched ahead, endless and cold, but Jaime welcomed the solitude. His anger simmered beneath the surface, his mind replaying every conversation, every subtle inconsistency from his time at Winterfell.

Robb Stark had spoken of Jocelyn with the ease of a practiced liar, but there had been something too perfect about his grief, something rehearsed. Jon Snow, the Stark bastard, had been more reserved, more controlled—but there was an edge to him, a guardedness that Jaime recognized in himself. The bastard knew something. And if Jon Snow knew something, that meant Eddard Stark knew it too.

The Starks prided themselves on honor, but honor was a fragile thing when tested. And Jaime had spent enough time in King's Landing to know that even the most righteous men could lie when they needed to.

The North thought itself untouchable, shielded by its ice and its wolves, but Jaime Lannister was coming back, and this time, he wasn't leaving without answers.

Winterfell had its secrets.

And Jaime was going to tear them apart, one by one.