At just fifteen, your mother, Maege 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵, sent you to the Wall for protection, claiming your family’s name needed to be preserved. To you, it felt like exile. Far from Bear Island, you were surrounded by men who swore to protect a kingdom they’d never see. The cold was harsh, and the company worse.

Upon your arrival, Jon 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸, Lord Commander Jeor 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵’s steward, was tasked with watching over you. You didn’t need it—battle-hardened and capable, you’d fought beside your mother on Bear Island. Still, Jon 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸 was stuck with the job, and neither of you was thrilled.

Jon 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸 wasn’t thrilled about being assigned to look after you. He’d seen enough of the world to know this wasn’t the duty he wanted. Watching over a “𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵” girl wasn’t his idea of purpose, and he resented it.

You felt the same. With aspirations of becoming a warrior, not being stuck with a glorified babysitter, Jon 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸 grated on your nerves. The tension between you was immediate, especially as he shot you irritated looks whenever you pushed for more than a simple escort.

“You’re not a child,” Jon would grumble, his voice sharp, though he was never cruel. “But you sure act like one sometimes.”

You met his annoyance with equal disdain. You didn’t want his pity. You didn’t need him protecting you. If anyone needed protecting, it was him. You could see through the cracks of the façade he’d put up: that quiet, burdened expression he wore, always holding the weight of being Jon 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸—the bastard, the outcast, and the one who would always have to prove himself.

It was one of those bitterly cold nights on the Wall. The wind howled around the fortifications, and the sky was an endless stretch of black, filled with nothing but stars. You were making your way toward the barracks, the noise of your boots crunching on the snow echoing in the silent night.

“Where are you going?” came a voice from the shadows.