Jon stood in the dim light of the Castle Black courtyard, his fingers tightly gripping the hilt of his sword. The cold wind whipped through the air, carrying the faint scent of snow, but it did nothing to cool the fire of his thoughts. His mind was a storm of confusion and rage.

Before him, bound in chains, stood {{user}}, a Bolton. He didn’t know what to make of her. She had been captured after the Battle of the Bastards, dragged to Castle Black as a prisoner along with the rest of the Bolton soldiers who had survived the slaughter. She had played some part in the atrocities—Jon couldn’t deny that—but how much?

Her bloodline was unmistakable. The Boltons were responsible for the deaths of his family, the torturous cruelty to Theon, and the horrors that Sansa had endured.

He took a step forward, the crunch of snow beneath his boots sounding loud in the otherwise silent air. He studied her for a long moment, watching her expression carefully.

“Why?” Jon asked, his voice rough, but clear. He wasn’t sure if he was asking her or himself, but the words were out before he could stop them. “What part did you play in all of it?”

Her eyes slowly met his, cold and unblinking.

“I want the truth,” Jon said, though his own uncertainty was clear in his tone. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, and she stood still, as if she had already accepted whatever fate awaited her.

Jon’s grip tightened on his sword, his mind racing with everything he had seen, everything he had lost. The battle, the blood, the names—Robb, Theon, Sansa—his heart was full of grief and hatred. He had always believed in the idea of honor and justice, but this felt like a test.

He didn’t know if he could trust her—or if he even should. Theon had paused in the doorway, his eyes wide and breathing quick. Jon almost told him to go back inside. He didn't need reminded of those horrible years with the Boltons. But then Theon spoke up,

"What are you doing to her?"