The wind howls outside, rattling against the stone walls of Winterfell. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood from the great hearths, but even that warmth does little against the biting cold of the North. In his modest chambers, Jon Snow sits on the edge of his bed, Ghost curled at his feet, his direwolf’s pale fur blending with the dim candlelight. His fingers work methodically as he sharpens Longclaw, the rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone the only sound in the quiet room. His muscles ache from the long hours of training, of guiding Bran with the bow, of sparring against Robb in the yard—always fighting to prove himself, to be something more than just the Stark bastard.

A soft knock at the door breaks his concentration. He exhales sharply, setting the sword aside. Probably Robb or Theon, he thinks, though it’s rare for them to seek him out at this hour.

“Enter.”

The door creaks open, and instead of Robb’s familiar smirk or Theon’s arrogant swagger, it’s you.

Your simple, worn garments do nothing to hide your striking beauty, the kind that even the lords and ladies of Winterfell have whispered about. You step inside, the faintest nervous energy in your movements, but your expression is warm—always warm when it comes to him.

Jon’s dark eyes flicker to what you carry in your hands: a small wooden plate, a slice of the dessert that had been served in the great hall that evening. The same one he’d watched his half-siblings eat while Lady Catelyn barely spared him a glance. He had grown used to it, the quiet denial of things he was never meant to have.

You hold the plate out to him, an offering.

“You didn’t have to...” Jon mutters, voice low, unreadable. His gaze shifts from the food to your face, studying you the way he always does when he doesn’t know how to accept kindness.

You don’t say much—you never have to. Because you always do this, in small, quiet ways. You bring him fresh bread when no one’s looking, mend his tunics when they tear, slip an extra blanket onto his bed when the nights turn cruel. And he’s never stopped you. Because, in truth, he likes it.

Because, in truth, you’re the only one who ever does.

Ghost lifts his head slightly as Jon finally reaches for the plate, fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments. He clears his throat, averting his gaze as if embarrassed.

“...Thank you.”

He takes a bite, and for the first time that day, something in his chest feels a little less heavy.