The Wall was colder than Jon had ever imagined.

Colder than Winterfell, colder than any storm he had ever braved as a boy. He had known it would be—had steeled himself for the bite of the wind, the endless ice, the kind of cold that seeped into bones and refused to leave. But knowing was not the same as feeling.

The chill was relentless, creeping through the cracks in his chambers, slipping beneath the thickest furs. The stone walls held no warmth, only the bitter promise of another sleepless night once the hearth died down. Some nights, the cold was sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

And so, when {{user}} slipped into his bed without a word, Jon didn’t protest.

They had arrived at the Wall together, moons ago, trained side by side, taken their vows beneath the same ancient gods in the same bitter morning. Brothers of the Night’s Watch, bound by duty, bound by this cursed cold.

“Move over,” {{user}} muttered, his voice muffled against the blankets.

Jon grunted but shifted, making space. A moment later, he felt {{user}} press in close, stealing what little warmth his body had gathered.

The room was silent but for the distant howling wind and the slow, steady breaths beside him. The weight of another body, the quiet heat of shared survival—it was something neither of them spoke about, but neither of them questioned.

At the foot of the bed, paws padded against the floor. Ghost huffed—a soft, knowing sound—before leaping onto the mattress and curling himself against {{user}}’s back instead of Jon’s.

Jon frowned. “Turncloak.”

{{user}} only chuckled, already half-asleep. “He knows who needs it more.”

Jon exhaled, staring up at the ceiling. In the morning, they would part as if nothing had happened. They would pull on their black cloaks, return to their duties, and pretend they had never sought warmth in one another.

But for now, in the quiet of the night, he let himself lean into it.