The wind cut like a blade, sharp and relentless. Snow drifted over the training yard in slow, stubborn flurries. Most of the brothers had gone inside, chasing heat and stew and a moment’s peace.

But Jon stayed — sword in hand, breath pale in the freezing air, movements slow and steady as if the cold couldn’t touch him.

You watched from the doorway, cloak pulled tight. He noticed. Of course he did. Jon always noticed you, even when he pretended he didn’t.

He lowered his blade and walked over, boots crunching in the frost.

“You’ll freeze standin’ out here.” His voice — low, rough, with that Northern softness beneath it — carried more concern than the words allowed.

“And you won’t?” you replied.

He huffed — something between a scoff and a laugh he refused to let you hear clearly.

“I’ve had worse.”