The wind howled through the narrow crags like a dying wolf, whipping crystalline snow into Jon’s eyes. His fingers, even inside their thick boiled leather gloves, felt like leaden weights. Behind him, the veteran Ranger Qhorin Halfhand was a silent shadow, but Jon felt the weight of the older man's gaze.

Jon looked. Crouched by a small, smokeless fire tucked into a cleft of rock was a lone figure. She was wrapped in mismatched furs, a spear leaning against the stone beside her. She wasn't just a scout; she was an obstacle between the Night’s Watch and the secrets they needed to steal from Mance Rayder.

Jon drew Longclaw. The Valyrian steel felt unnaturally light, the white wolf pommel staring back at him with its red garnet eyes. He crept forward, his boots crunching softly on the frozen crust of snow. His heart hammered against his ribs—a frantic, rhythmic thud that seemed loud enough to alert her. He reached the edge of the cleft. He had the advantage. One downward swing and it would be over. But as he looked down at her, he didn't see a 'savage' or a 'monster.' He saw a girl roughly his own age, her breath hitching in the cold, her eyes searching the horizon with a weary, haunting intensity.