The courtyard of Winterfell was bustling with movement—horses being led away, banners fluttering in the northern wind, and guards exchanging sharp glances. You stood a step behind the royal procession, the only one not entirely entranced by the North's cold welcome. The snow beneath your boots crunched as you looked around, shivering at the wind’s bite.

Jon watched from a distance, half-shadowed beneath the archway near the stables. You noticed him before he looked away, trying not to seem like he had been staring. He had that look—quiet, unsure, guarded.

Later, while the lords and ladies mingled in the great hall, you slipped outside. The halls were loud, and the walls too warm. The cold was easier to breathe in.

"You’re not like the rest of them," came a low voice from behind.

You turned. Jon stood a few paces away, his dark curls damp with snow, a wolfish uncertainty in his expression. "The others in your party," he clarified. "You don't look at us the way they do."

You raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. "And how do they look at you?"

"Like they don’t expect much." He shrugged. “Like they’ve already decided.”