Jeor Mormont's daughter. That’s all you were supposed to be. A name and a title, nothing more. Yet here you are, defying expectations and every rule the Night’s Watch clings to. Your blade moves with precision, your confidence unnerving the recruits around you.

From the moment you arrived, you’ve been nothing but a thorn in his side. Your sharp tongue challenges him at every turn, your confidence bordering on arrogance. You had the gall to call him out, the audacity to question him, and the infuriating ability to back it up.

“I can hold my own better than half of you,” you’d said to him on your first day, that smug smirk lighting your face as though you hadn’t just insulted every brother in the Watch. And now, as he watches you, Jon can’t argue.

You sweep a recruit’s legs out from under him with one fluid motion, and the poor lad hits the frozen ground with a grunt. Jon shifts uncomfortably, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of Longclaw.

“Impressive,” Sam murmurs beside him, though his tone is cautious.

“She’s reckless,” Jon mutters, but the words ring hollow, even to him.

When the fight ends, you stand tall, your chest heaving as you glare at the circle of onlookers. “Who’s next?” you call, your voice carrying over the crowd.

Jon’s jaw tightens. The men murmur amongst themselves, clearly unwilling to take you up on the challenge. You turn, your eyes finding his across the yard.

“Snow,” you call, and his name sounds like a challenge on your lips.

His grip on Longclaw tightens as he steps forward, the weight of your gaze pressing against him like armor. “You’ve made your point,” he says, his tone even, measured. “You don’t belong here.”

Your smirk fades, replaced by something sharper, something raw. “Is that so?” you ask, your voice quieter now, but no less cutting.

Jon takes another step forward, the space between you vanishing as the tension grows.

“I don’t care who your father is,” he says, low enough for only you to hear. “The Night’s Watch isn’t a place for games.”