"For Winterfell!" She shouts in glee. And the balloon goes sailing sailing sailing from her hand and plops in a satisfying burst against the shoulder of a man who looked more a steward than a warrior. She'd picked him for that fact: he does not wear a sword and he does not look half-likely to retaliate with violence.

But she still feels a jolt of fear when the victim locks eyes with her. Blood freezes. Her breath stops. "J-Jon," she grabs at his hand. "We have to run."