The clang of steel rang across the yard—clean, sharp, familiar. You’d grown up with that sound, but today it struck differently. Maybe it was the winter air, crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Maybe it was the way Jon Snow’s eyes kept flitting your way no matter how hard he tried not to look.

Or maybe it was simply because you’d finally stopped pretending not to notice.

Beside you, Sansa walked gracefully, gloved hands folded together like a proper lady. Arya trailed on your other side, wiping her nose and glaring at every septa who dared make eye contact. And padding at your heel, tail high and stride confident, was Nightgaze—your direwolf. Dark as the underside of a storm cloud, massive and silent, every inch of him radiated mischief today.

“Look at them,” Arya muttered, eyes lighting up at the sight of clashing blades. “Robb’s winning again.”

“No,” Sansa corrected primly, “Jon’s winning. Robb’s only pretending otherwise because he hates losing.”

You bit your lip to hide your smug smile. No matter how many times Jon insisted he was “just practicing,” it was always obvious when your presence made him try harder—stand straighter—fight better.

As if summoned by the thought, Jon paused mid-swing, chest rising and falling, curls damp with sweat. His gaze slid to you like he had no control over it at all.

And you felt it—right down to your bones. That heated, longing stillness that always sparked in the air when his eyes found yours. It had been years of this. Years of brushing hands and lingering glances and speaking softly when alone. Years of circling one another like two wolves testing boundaries neither dared cross.

Robb noticed, of course. Robb always noticed.

“Gods,” Robb laughed as he lowered his sword, nudging Jon’s shoulder hard, “just snog her already, Snow!”

Theon cackled. Arya almost choked. Sansa gasped.

Jon went scarlet.

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

Nightgaze lifted his head.

“Oh no,” you whispered too late.

The great black direwolf gave a delighted rumble and barreled straight into the back of your legs with all the grace of a full-grown horse.

You stumbled forward with a startled yelp—

—and straight into Jon.

His arms came around you automatically, strong and steady, the practice sword clattering to the dirt behind him. Your palms landed on his chest, warm through sweat-dampened linen. His breath hitched. So did yours.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to only him.

His dark eyes flicked down to your lips.

Your fingers curled against his shirt.

Nightgaze sat down beside you both, tail thumping, positively smug.

“Well,” Theon drawled. “That’s one way to get close.”

Robb barked a laugh so loud it echoed off the walls. “Seven hells, Jon, she fell into your arms. The gods are making it easy for you!”

Jon swallowed. Hard. His hands stayed on your waist a moment longer than necessary. When he finally released you, he did it gently—almost reluctantly.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low and rough.

“No,” you breathed, your face aflame. “Nightgaze has terrible manners.”

Jon’s gaze flicked to the oversized direwolf, who stared back innocently.

“Yes,” Jon murmured, eyes returning to you, softer now. “Terrible.”

You felt his fingertips brush yours—just a ghost of a touch, but enough to send warmth racing through you.

Arya elbowed Sansa. Sansa elbowed Arya back. Robb smirked. Theon looked delighted with the chaos.

And Jon Snow, breath unsteady and cheeks pink, looked at you like he was trying desperately—and failing—to hide how badly he wanted to pull you right back into his arms.

Nightgaze huffed, pleased.

And for the first time, you wondered if the dancing, circling, aching tension between you and Jon Snow was finally—finally—beginning to break.