The wind howled outside Winterfell’s thick stone walls, a mournful, ceaseless sound that seemed to claw at the windows like a desperate thing. Within the great hall, the hearth burned low, casting flickering gold across the long wooden tables and the ancient banners above. Jon sat alone beneath the weight of flickering shadows and heavier thoughts, hunched over maps and parchment, ink drying half-smeared beneath his palm.

His back ached. His mind churned. Every missive from the lords of the North, every whisper of southern politics, every rumor of White Walkers or betrayal seemed to dig into him like small, relentless knives. King in the North. Bastard of Winterfell. Son of no one.

His chest was tight with something he couldn’t name—something too old and too young all at once.

That was when {{user}} entered.

He didn’t hear the door open—he felt her. Like warmth entering a frozen room, like breath stirring a still flame. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not now. Not when he was raw and unraveling.

She paused as she saw him, her expression shifting into something tender, and she turned as if to slip away. But something in him panicked.

“Don’t go,” he said. His voice came out lower than he meant it, rough with need. “Please. Stay a while.”

Jon watched her move closer, the way her hand brushed the back of a chair, the way her eyes touched him with such calm grace. She wasn’t afraid of his moods, of his silence, of the things he kept buried beneath honor and duty. She saw straight through him.

And gods, he wanted her to.

He didn’t rise. He just sat there, staring up at her with too-bright eyes, too-tight lips, his heart a boy’s heart wrapped in a man’s body. His fingers clenched the edge of the table, as if afraid she might disappear.

“You remind me of her,” he said, barely a whisper.

“My mother,” he added. “Or… what I think she might’ve been. I never knew her. But when you speak to me, when you look at me like that… it’s like something I lost before I was born.”

His voice broke on the last word, shame prickling behind his ribs, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Something inside him had cracked open, and it spilled out too fast to catch.

“I used to dream about her. About a woman’s voice, soft hands. Someone who would hold me and not let go. When I was a boy, I’d curl up in the stables some nights and pretend she was there, humming to me.”

He finally looked away, his jaw tightening. “It’s pathetic.”

And {{user}}’s hand was on his—warm, soft, firm. That one touch undid him. It was like being seen for the first time, like being forgiven for something he hadn’t known he was guilty of.

He turned his palm up, grasped hers. He held it like it was something precious. His thumb brushed along her skin, slow and reverent. It felt too good. Too dangerous. He wanted to kiss her knuckles, rest his head in her lap like a child, let her card her fingers through his hair and call him good. He wanted her to mother him—and to want him. And it shamed him how much he needed both, how twisted the longing had become.

His eyes lifted to hers again. “When you speak to me kindly, it’s like I can breathe again. When you touch me…” His voice dropped, low and husky. “It makes me feel like I’m worth something.”

She touched his cheek with her free hand, brushing back a curl of hair. He leaned into it like a man starved.

He didn’t ask for a kiss. Not yet. What he wanted wasn’t that simple. He wanted her voice in his ear telling him he wasn’t alone. He wanted her hands on him—tender, guiding, soothing. He wanted her to see every weakness he’d spent his life hiding and love him because of them. He wanted her to make him feel small, not in power, but in the way children do when they’re safe. When they know someone will catch them.

“I don’t want to be strong right now,” he admitted, barely audible. “Not with you.”

He pressed his forehead to the back of her hand, trembling slightly. The scent of her—soft linen, skin warmed by the fire—coiled through his senses. His breath was shallow. His skin burned.

“Just… be here. Please.”