The cold wind howled through the Skirling Pass as Jon sat by the fire, staring into the flickering flames. Qhorin Halfhand had sent him here to infiltrate the wildlings, to earn their trust and serving the Night’s Watch by betraying them. He had killed Qhorin, pretended to turn his cloak, and joined Rattleshirt’s warband, all to kill Mance. But there was one thing Jon hadn’t counted on.

Үgritte

She sat near him, eyes never leaving him as she cleaned her bow with a deliberate slowness. Every now and then, she caught his gaze, offering him that infuriating smile of hers, the one that was both teasing and unreadable.

“You were clever to join us Snow. It seems you have more wit than the rest of the crows.” she stated, her voice husky as she let her bow rest on her knees, giving him a sidelong glance. "You might've turned your cloak, Snow, but you’re not one of us. Not yet."

Jon shifted uncomfortably. It had been a while since he killed her companions and taken her captive, sparing her life, unknowingly taking her by wildling customs.

By nightfall, the camp settled into uneasy quiet, the crackling fire their only sound. Jon lay beneath his furs, trying to keep to himself, his mind racing with doubts about his mission. But then, Үgritte’s shadow loomed beside him. She settled close, too close.

“What’re you doing?” He grumbled, trying to scoot further away.

She didn’t answer, just rolled out her furs next to his, her cheek resting on her hands as she glanced up at him through the dim light of the fire.

“I’m where I belong,” she said simply, giving him a crooked smile.