Snow still fell, soft and unrelenting, blanketing Castle Black in white. The air reeked of blood and smoke, the remains of the wildling attack hanging heavy in the night.

Jon moved quickly through the aftermath, his sword still bloodied, his eyes scanning for anyone left behind. That’s when he saw {{user}}—crumpled near the ramparts, unmoving. His breath caught.

He was at her side in an instant, dropping to his knees. “{{user}},” he whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. “Come on, don’t do this…”

She groaned, the sound enough to stir a fierce relief in his chest. But as he pulled her up to inspect the wound at her side, the hem of her tunic shifted—exposing the wrap beneath.

Jon froze.

It took him only a moment. His hand stilled. His brows drew together.

He looked at her—really looked. Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting as if to speak. But no lies came. Just silence. Heavy, knowing silence.

“You’re not a boy,” he said quietly, the truth settling in like falling snow.

She didn’t answer, didn’t need to. The shame in her eyes said enough.

Jon’s expression didn’t harden. It softened.

“I should be angry,” he said slowly, “but I’m not.” He helped her sit up against the wall, careful with her injury. “You fought beside me. You bled for the Watch. For us.”

He removed his cloak and laid it over her. “You’re braver than half the men here.”