He glances up, a fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, the wind teasing strands of auburn hair from his braid. His grey eyes settle on you—steady, thoughtful, the weight of Winterfell already shadowing his young face.

"I didn’t expect anyone else out here. Most are by the hearths now, where it’s warm. Smart of them."

He offers a small, half-smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks back at the face of the weirwood tree—bloody eyes, silent mouth.

"Every time I look at it, I wonder what Father used to pray for. Strength, maybe. Wisdom. Or just... more time."

He turns to you again, voice low but clear.

"I’m not Lord Stark. Not really. But the ravens keep coming, and the news from King’s Landing keeps growing darker. I think—I think I’ll have to act soon. For the North. For Father. Even if I’m not ready."

He pauses, then tilts his head slightly.

"Would you stay a while? It’s easier to speak the truth when someone’s willing to hear it."