The fire burned low in the hearth, its embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat, casting a dim glow over the cold stone walls. Jon sat motionless in the chair beside the bed, his cloak draped over his shoulders, his gloved hands clasped loosely before him. His eyes, dark as the long night, never left the girl who lay motionless beneath the furs.

She had been here for days now, lingering in the space between life and death, caught in a slumber she would not wake from. No name had passed her lips, no explanation of how she had come to be found half-frozen beyond the Wall, her body battered by gods knew what. She was a mystery wrapped in silence, and yet, she had taken root in his thoughts like an ember buried beneath the snow—smoldering, waiting.

He should not be here.

His brothers would wonder why the Lord Commander spent his nights at a nameless girl’s bedside. He should be in the yard, training recruits, at the table, speaking of patrols and rations. But the world beyond this chamber felt distant, unimportant.

Jon let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his curls.

She was nothing to him. And yet, each night, his feet carried him back here. To this chair, to this fire, to the sound of her breathing—shallow, but steady. He was not a healer, nor was he the kind of man who lingered for things he could not fix. But still, he watched over her, as if his presence alone might be enough to pull her back from the brink.

His fingers twitched, a restless energy creeping beneath his skin. Jon exhaled sharply, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“I took my vows,” he muttered under his breath, as if saying the words aloud would solidify them, tether him back to reason. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. The words had bound him to the Wall, to duty, to something greater than himself.

And yet, he stayed.