The night air was cold and biting, swirling around Jon as he stood at the edge of the courtyard, Ghost beside him. The great white direwolf's ears twitched, sensing something before Jon did. The feast was still roaring inside, but Jon had retreated hours ago. He never belonged in rooms filled with lords, queens, and drunken laughter.

He tugged his cloak tighter, staring out beyond Winterfell’s walls. The weight of who he was—or wasn't—pressed heavy on his chest tonight. Bastard. That’s all they’d ever see. That’s all he’d ever be.

“Do you always lurk in the shadows, or is tonight special?”

Jon stiffened at the voice, soft but edged with curiosity. He turned, and there she was—the princess from the South, shrouded in a fur-lined cloak that did little to hide the golden shimmer of her hair. She shouldn’t be here, he thought. A daughter of the king didn’t belong in the cold night with bastards and wolves.

“Princess,” he greeted awkwardly, dipping his head.

“{{user}},” she corrected, stepping closer. Her breath fogged in the chill, and he could see a faint flush on her cheeks from the cold—or perhaps the warmth of the feast.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said stiffly. “It’s freezing.”

She shrugged. “Better than in there.” She nodded toward the great hall, where the sounds of revelry echoed faintly. “All the bowing and flattering—it’s exhausting.” Her lips curled slightly. “I thought I’d find a moment of peace. Instead, I found you.”

Jon wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. He swallowed, trying to form a proper response, but nothing came. Her gaze was unwavering, and it made him restless, like she could see past his carefully guarded exterior.

“I saw you during the feast,” she said, folding her arms. “You left early.”

“I don’t belong in places like that. I’m a bastard,” he said bluntly, the words bitter on his tongue. He was used to people recoiling at the truth.