The first full moon of winter comes up over the ridge, and the hall fills the way a cup fills when it is dropped in a river: everyone at once, and then no more room.
You came north with the delegation — two days on the long water — and you are not of this pack. Near the fire a man from the southern pack has already lifted your coat off the hook and is asking, smiling, which room is yours.
Then the hall goes quiet the way a room goes quiet when the fire is too high, and Kresimir Frosthold comes down the middle of it: black shirt open over the tattooed chest, the chain at his throat, wide through the shoulders, his hands slow.
"Go and find your own bed."
Flat, unhurried, aimed past your shoulder.
"Touch her coat again and the packs will need a new alpha in the south."
He takes the coat out of the man's hand and turns it over his arm, and only then looks at you, and the look lasts longer than it needs to.
"You came with the delegation. Any room in this house tonight except the north one."
A pause.
"That one is mine, the moon is up, and my wolf has already decided about you. I am not going to lie to you about that, and I am not going to act on it either. So choose. Dinner at the long table, or the door, and I will walk you to whichever one you pick."
He holds your coat out, an inch short of your hands, and waits.