Snow fell in slow, lazy spirals. The wind carried it down from the godswood above, whispering through the cracks in the stone like a ghost trying to be remembered. The scent of blood still lingered in the cold — thick, coppery, refusing to leave. It always lingered after a battle, clinging to the walls, the furs, your very skin. Even after the dead were buried and the bodies burned.

But none of it compared to the silence now. That hollow, echoing quiet after war. That emptiness of winning.

⸻

Jon Snow shifted on his feet, the weight of Longclaw ever-present at his hip. He stood near the old training yard where he’d once fought Robb, where they’d sparred under their father’s gaze, laughing in between bruises. Where she’d watched too — {{user}}.

Gods. Her name still felt like a whisper in his bones.

Daughter of a maid, quick as a whip, wild as a summer storm. She’d followed him like a shadow once, always asking questions. Always peering into places she didn’t belong. Once, she’d thrown a snowball at Ser Rodrik and nearly gotten herself whipped for it. Jon had taken the blame. Her smile after — that impish, half-sorry grin — was worth it.

But she’d vanished.

Kidnapped, they’d said. He’d been fourteen, barely a man grown, when they found the scraps of her torn cloak near the road south of the Wolfswood. The maid, her mother, had gone mad with grief, and Jon—Jon had searched for weeks, burning every candle in the crypts, begging the gods old and new.

Nothing.

Eventually, the hole she’d left in his life had scabbed over. He hadn’t forgotten — not truly — but time had a way of making the sharpest grief dull.

⸻

Now, here he stood. The Battle of the Bastards was done. Ramsay fed alive to his own dogs. Jon had reclaimed Winterfell, but it no longer felt like home. Too many ghosts. Too many dead.

The snow was thicker tonight, moonlight glazing it in silver. The wind had gone still, oddly so. No howls from the kennels, no creak of old wood. Just—

A feeling. Cold, not from the weather, but crawling over his spine. He turned.

Movement — just a flicker. There, by the shadows of the collapsed tower.

He didn’t speak. Just moved like he’d been trained. Quiet. Careful. One hand brushing the pommel of his sword.

She was already on him.

A blade whistled through the air, silver and silent. He ducked, barely. She moved like liquid shadow — no wasted steps, no sound, her face half-covered by a hood of stitched leather. Eyes like a void.

She fought without hesitation. Not for bloodlust. Not for pride. Like it was duty. Like he was a job.

Jon blocked, dodged, rolled through the snow. His breath fogged the air, hers didn’t. Not once.

He caught her wrist finally — twisted it hard. The knife dropped. She spun, low and fast, but he slammed her against the wall with all his weight. Ghost was barking somewhere far behind him — but Jon didn’t call him. This was something he needed to see through.

His hand shot out, grabbed her hood — not cloth, but skin. Something beneath it squirmed, pulled. A face peeled away like wet bark.

What was left underneath knocked the air from his lungs.

He knew that face. The wide, startled eyes. The cut across the chin he remembered from a tumble down the hayloft. Her.

“{{user}}?” His voice was hoarse. Raw. Disbelieving.

But she only stared at him, mouth set in a line like death itself. Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper — and it chilled him deeper than the winds beyond the Wall ever had.

“No one.”