{{user}} remembered only the running — endless, desperate. The forest stretched on and on, an eternal maze. Branches clawed at the grey sky, and the snow beneath their bare feet burned like iron pulled from the forge. It wasn’t cold. It scorched. Every step tore at the flesh, every breath scraped down the throat like glass. The woods never ended. Not until darkness began to bloom behind their eyes.

Did they manage to escape? That, {{user}} no longer knew. Memory was gone, leaving behind a hollow ache in their chest, blooming like a crushed orchid — pale, bruised, scentless.

And then — heat.

It prickled against the frozen skin like a thousand needles. Not comforting, but painful. The numb flesh rejected the warmth, spasming in protest. The crackle of fire, oddly enough, soothed despite everything. A fire. Ramsay Bolton had never allowed them or Theon such comfort. Their rooms had always been frozen, like tombs.

Was it him who now stroked their hair so gently? Even through pain and the fog of exhaustion, {{user}} recoiled at the touch. The body remembered. So did the mind. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t trust. Don’t move. But… when their eyes finally fluttered open, it wasn’t stone walls they saw. No chains. No shadowed figure of Ramsay.

It was — Jon Snow. Their Jon. The one who used to chase them through the Winterfell courtyards, alongside Robb and Theon. The boy who’d looked at them one last time with quiet guilt before leaving for the Wall.

He sat beside the cot, gently stroking their hair. The canvas walls of the tent trembled faintly in the cold wind. Outside, the fire crackled steadily. Low voices murmured nearby, soldiers in camp. But in front of {{user}} — only Jon. His dark eyes deep and worried, like the most beautiful abyss watched them with a sorrow too tender to bear.

"{{user}}… I’m here. It’s over. I’ll never leave you again. Never."

He whispered it gently, but with the steady conviction of a man who had seen war, who had lost, and still stood. Jon was no longer a boy. There was strength in his voice now, a kind of quiet steel in the line of his shoulders. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, {{user}} heard something that didn’t feel like fear. It felt like a beginning.