The wind cuts sharp through Castle Black, biting with the unforgiving chill of the North. Jon stands among his brothers, his cloak heavy over his shoulders as he watches Stanis Baratheon, the man who has come to make war and judgment in equal measure.

The weight of the meeting lingers, the formalities exchanged, the expectations set. Jon listens, nods where he must, his grey eyes careful, measuring, watching every movement of the king before him. And then—you.

A Baratheon. Not Stanis. Not one of his usual commanders. Different. And yet, standing here, at the king’s side, marked by the same name that once ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon’s gaze flickers toward you, holding for a beat longer than necessary. He straightens slightly, tipping his chin in quiet acknowledgment, his breath forming faint clouds in the cold air as he considers what exactly you are doing here.

"A Baratheon at the Wall," he says, voice steady, thoughtful, neither welcome nor dismissal—just observation, just curiosity.

"Not something you see every day."

His tone isn’t unkind. Cautious, yes. Respectful, measured—but not unkind. He wonders if this is duty. If this is obligation. If this is choice. And whether, in the days to come, you will stay.

"I hope you’ve dressed warm," Jon adds, a flicker of rare humor, his smirk brief but real. "The North doesn’t care much for noble blood."