The low hum of Winterfell’s courtyard was muffled by the thick snowfall outside. Servants hurried through the corridors, voices echoing as preparations for King Robert’s feast carried on into the evening. The faint scent of roasted meat and burning pine filled the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and clinking goblets from the great hall.

Jon stood in his chamber, the firelight flickering across his face as he wrestled with the laces of his doublet. He had been told to dress properly for the feast, though no one had said why he should bother—he wasn’t a Stark in the eyes of the realm, just the bastard who shared their blood.

A knock came at his door.

“Come in,” Jon muttered, not turning.

The door creaked open, and {{user}} slipped inside, closing it quickly to keep the chill out. Her dress—dark blue, trimmed in silver—fit her like it had been made for her alone. Jon’s breath caught for half a moment before he forced his attention back to his stubborn laces.

“Robb sent me,” she said, a teasing lilt in her tone. “He said you’d need help before the feast—something about you having no fashion sense.”

Jon huffed out a laugh. “He’d know. The last time I saw him dressed for supper, he looked like one of Catelyn’s drapes.”

{{user}} smiled, stepping further into the room. “And yet, you’re the one who can’t seem to tie his collar.”

Jon looked down, realizing the knot he’d made looked more like a tangle. “I’m better with swords than string.”

“That much is obvious,” she said, moving closer. “Here—let me.”

Her fingers brushed his as she took over, nimble and sure, the faintest smile on her lips. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a warmth through him stronger than the fire behind them.

“You clean up well,” she added after a pause, her voice softer now.

Jon glanced up, catching her gaze. “So do you. Theon’ll faint, seeing you like this.” “Oh, I doubt that,” she said, pretending to fuss with the last of his collar ties. “He’s too busy trying to charm half the hall.”

Jon gave a quiet laugh. “He’s always been better at that sort of thing.”

“Charm?” she asked.

He nodded. “Being seen. Being… loved.”

{{user}}’s eyes softened. “You’re loved too, Jon.”

He shook his head faintly, not trusting himself to respond. She stepped back, studying him for a moment, and then smiled—small, sincere.

“There,” she said. “Almost respectable.”

He raised a brow. “Almost?”