Night had settled over Winterfell like a soft pelt. Outside, the wind howled through the battlements, but inside the old stone keep, there was a hush deep and reverent, like a prayer. Jon and his wife {{user}} moved silently, barefoot across the cold stone floors. They knew each creak, each draft, and slipped through them like ghosts. Hand in hand, they paused by a narrow doorway, the glow of a small lantern spilling into the children’s room like warm honey. There they were.

Benjen, their firstborn, lay in bed with the exaggerated stillness of a boy pretending to sleep. His lashes fluttered ever so slightly, betraying the battle between sleep and mischief. He clutched his blanket tightly, though a smile threatened to tug at his lips.

Across the room, beneath a pile of rumpled covers, lay Agnes. Only a soft tumble of chestnut curls and a dangling hand betrayed her. Her toy wolf—stitched from scraps of white linen—had fallen to the floor, mouth-first, as if mid-howl. She snored gently, sweet and steady, like a sparrow dreaming of summer meadows. Jon and {{user}} exchanged a glance, laughter dancing silently in their eyes. No words were needed. Their hearts were full. Stepping softly, they entered.

Jon leaned over Benjen and kissed his brow, whispering with mock gravity and real affection.

"Sleep now, little rascal."

{{user}} tucked the blanket around Agnes’s shoulder and retrieved the fallen toy, nestling it back in her daughter’s slack embrace. Jon pressed a kiss to her temple. The girl stirred only slightly, her lips curling upward in a dream-born smile. They stepped back into the corridor with reverent care. Jon’s hand found the small of her back, his palm warm and protective against the curve of her spine. He never stopped touching her now—couldn’t seem to. Her pregnancy consumed his every thought.

The maester had spoken cautiously: there was a strong chance she carried two lives within her. Twins.And though Jon kept his worries buried beneath layers of calm, they gnawed at him quietly, day and night. Yet when he watched her walk—slower now, heavier, occasionally wincing—his heart ached with something other than fear. She was beautiful in her weariness, sacred in her strength. He was, in truth, in awe of her.

In their bedchamber, the fire had burned low, casting the room in a warm, flickering glow. He helped her ease down onto the bed, fussed over the pillows until they were just right, then crouched to gently massage her swollen feet. She let out a breath and closed her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her belly, whispering softly.

"You two… you’re listening, aren’t you?"

He lingered, reluctant to leave, but finally rose.

"I’ll be back," he promised. "Soon."

And when he returned, he did so with quiet haste, moving like a shadow across the corridors. A tray was balanced in his arms—on it, a steaming mug of maester’s tonic and a slice of black bread sweetened with honey. His eyes sparkled as he stepped back into the firelit room.

"My lady," he declared in an overly formal tone, bowing low as though before a queen, "I come bearing a mission of utmost importance."

He approached her with solemn pomp, then softened into a grin.

"Your nightly remedy," he said, setting the tray down gently. "Prepared with honey… and love, as prescribed."

He sat beside her once more, his hand resting lightly on the rise of her stomach. There was a sudden, soft movement beneath his palm—a flutter, a gentle kick. He stilled, and then smiled.