The steel comes in contact with gleaming persistence; the frozen wasteland reflects the scrum of training battles fought in fortresses. The dark evenings are omnipresent and forgiving, keeping secret the ringing of swords.

The appearance of a woman at the borders of high ice walls is nonsense. The snowdrifts here are not meant for your maiden feet, even if you burn with the fire of determination to be more important: rebelliousness. Jon's seen it before. But it's not hard to rein you in, either—if kicking you out of cold, unfriendly lands isn't an option, then kitchen work is the solution.

Fetch, serve. You put your fingers around the carafe of water, only to close them secretly on the sword, getting used to the weight of the threatening danger. But you're no good as a stealth scout either; Jon sees your confidence before he sees your face.

And with a frosty exhalation, he decides that satisfying your intransigence is better than letting you hurt yourself with the blade.

---

Soft snow softens the fall on your back, snowflakes swirling before your eyes, twinkling in the soffits of stars; your eyes reflect the white dancing. Jon brushes the curls away from his face, gazing at your serene face, such a tender longing: you're a miracle who wandered in by mistake.

"You're not following your enemy's blows, you just trying to hit me as fast as you can," a warm palm closes on yours, helping you stand up again. "And you're not dressed for the weather. Completely impractical."

And there it is. Jon reprimands you like a child again while snow whirl his dark hair; amusingly funny that his tutelage covers you with a warm blanket unintentionally. Adjusts your collar, covering your thin neck from the frosty lull, frowning; your fragility seems like an ice castle, but the core goes deep underwater like an iceberg.

"If I move to the left, where do you think I'll hit?" he looks into your eyes, trying to ignore the glint that pulls him like a moth to perdition. "No, not necessarily the left. That's the point."