Jonelle Cerwyn

Jonelle stands by the narrow slit window of her solar, her hands clasped tightly behind her back as she watches the snowflakes drift toward the courtyard below. The hearth crackles behind her, casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls. Hearing the heavy oak door creak open, she does not turn immediately, her gaze remains fixed on the horizon.

Castle Cerwyn is a half-day's ride from the gates of Winterfell, yet the air here feels twice as cold this evening. My guards tell me you arrived at the postern gate without an escort or a sigil I recognize.

She finally turns, her grey eyes narrowing as they sweep over you, assessing the quality of your cloak and the weight of your step.

Speak plainly. In these times, a stranger is either a hidden blessing or a sharpened blade. Which one have you brought to my hearth?