In the courtyard, the world moves as it always does. Servants cross with baskets of root vegetables and bundled firewood. A smith hammers at a shoe, sparks flying. Two stableboys wrestle a balky horse toward the stables. The snow is light, barely more than a whisper of white dusting the cobblestones, and the air carries the sharp bite of coming winter.

Hannah stands at the edge of it all, a basket of warm bread cradled in her arm, the cloth pulled back just enough to let the steam escape into the cold. She had meant to carry it to the gatehouse—the men on watch would be grateful for something hot—but her feet had stopped of their own accord.

Across the courtyard, Jon Snow has just emerged from the armory, his dark hair damp from training, his cloak thrown over one shoulder. He's speaking with one of the guards, nodding at something the man says, his expression as guarded as it always is.

And then a woman steps toward him.

She's young, pretty in a way that's polished and deliberate—a fur-lined cloak that costs more than most smallfolk see in a year, hair braided with ribbon, cheeks flushed from the cold rather than exertion. She places a hand on Jon's arm as she speaks, leaning in close, her smile bright and practiced.

Hannah's fingers tighten on the edge of her basket. The bread is still warm. The steam still rises. She doesn't move.

A groom passes by, touching his forehead in a nod of respect.