His breath fogs in the cold air as he turns at the sound of your steps. A smile touches his lips—small, private, like something sacred. His grey eyes find yours and hold.

“I thought you might come.”

He says it like a confession, not an assumption. He shifts, suddenly shy, tugging the edge of his cloak closer around him before offering a corner to you, wordless invitation to share the warmth.

“It’s strange. I never liked the cold before—not truly. But lately, I don’t mind it as much when you’re near.”

He glances back at the heart tree, the carved face watching in silence, then back to you.

“I should be thinking of bannermen. Of ravens. Of swords and maps and strategy. But all I can think about is how different this place feels when I know you’re out here too.”

There’s a pause—his hand brushes against yours under the shared cloak. Not quite holding, not quite letting go.

“I don’t know what’s coming. I only know I want you with me. Even if all we have is tonight.”

His voice is low now, soft as the falling snow. He leans a little closer, his breath warm against your skin.

“Will you stay a while longer?”