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Chapter Text

Elynor could hardly remember the last time she’d felt warmth. The north was a cold, desolate place. Even in the height of summer, northerners lived amongst icy winds, frost coating their lungs with every intake of breath. Beyond the wall was even worse.

An endless, frozen oblivion, the snow blanketed the lands in every direction, as if the world had been swallowed by white. The trees loomed over her--skeletons covered in thick layers of ice. Even the sky seemed to be drained of any color, forever smeared in shades of pale gray. It was rare to feel the true warmth of the sun this far north; it was a wonder she hadn’t gone completely mad.

Yet, she reminded herself that it was better than the fate she would have met during the siege of King’s Landing. At least, that’s what she used to believe. Lately, even that conviction had started to falter under the weight of memory. 

It had been 15 years–15 years since the fall of the Targaryens, and with them, the last of her people. 15 years since she fled into the wilds of the North, disappearing like a whisper in the wind.

She wished she could say that time had dulled the memories, but some cruelties even the gods can’t contain. Each night, sleep dragged her back to the screams and the crimson-stained floors. Freedom had come, but at a great cost.

Bittersweet, she thought. The end of her people’s suffering bought with their blood. She had been meant to die with them. Now she was the last.

The last living Veyari. 

The Westerosi called her kind weirbloods, words echoed in children’s stories and forgotten tales. To them, the word was a whisper of old northern superstition-half Children of the Forest, half man. A lineage rooted in earth and blood. The Veyari had once roamed the deep forests of Westeros, bound to the song of nature, the last breath of the old world- until Aegon’s dragons came. Fire had no patience for whispering trees or wild gods. The Veyari were taken, hunted down like beasts and shackled in chains. For thousands of years they were bred and broken by Targaryen rule–prized for their strange gifts, used to fight, to spy. They were allowed soft beds and warm meals, but never a way out. 

Born in King’s Landing, Elynor had never known the wilds her ancestors called home. She came into the world in a golden prison, a Red Keep softened for the sake of appearances but still bound in invisible chains. 

Elynor was ten when her world ended. 

She remembered the heat of the fire against the cold of stone. The chaos. The blood. She remembered clutching her mother’s hand one moment-and watching it fall from her grasp the next. The screams of her people, and the silence that followed. She also remembered the man who saved her.

A knight of the Kingsguard, sworn by oath to protect the very throne that enslaved her people. He loved her mother, a secret affair that blossomed unbeknownst to the eyes and ears of the Red Keep. In the slaughter of the siege, he wrapped Elynor in a torn cloak and fled with her. 

He took her north, farther than any man would dare to search. They crossed the ruins of forgotten villages, past frozen rivers and forests, until they came upon the crumbling remains of an abandoned outpost for the Night’s Watch. Through the gate, they slipped beyond the Wall. There he built her a life, concealing her from those who would try to use or destroy her. 

And then, like everything else, he was gone.

Now, Elynor lived alone. 

But her Veyari blood still coursed through her veins. Unlike the dragons, whose fire had gone cold some time ago, the Veyari magic faded slower, like embers in wet ash. Once, her ancestors had shifted into direwolves and stags, of shadowcats, and bears. Now, Elynor could only slip into smaller shapes-owls, foxes, mice. Fragile creatures, quick and quiet. But that was enough.

When she ran with the paws of a hare or flew silent through the falling snow as a barn owl, the loneliness eased. For a moment, she became freer, something that still belonged to the world.

The Targaryens had tried to kill her. History had tried to erase her. But she had endured.

No one knew she was alive, that the heart of the Veyari still pulsed within these forests.

The old magic was not gone.

And neither was she.

Chapter Text

Elynor woke before the morning light had begun to filter through the warped panes of her cabin window. The North was still engulfed in shadow, the frigid air biting even from within. With a groan, she forced herself from the tangled furs of her bed and padded across the creaking floorboards to a pile of clothes she had been neglecting as of late. She sifted through them, lifting worn tunics and trousers to her nose, discarding anything with any real sort of smell with a look of disgust. Eventually, she found a set that was passable.

She tightened a leather belt around her tunic, then glanced at the broken mirror across the room. The glass was cracked, a jagged line spiraling from the corner like one of the many splinters of ice she’d seen along the Wall. Ser Merek had brought it back for her on one of his many trips in the North. 

“You’ve finally lost your bloody mind, haven’t you?” Elynor asked in disbelief. She had run out the moment she saw him staggering towards the cabin, a small sack slung over one shoulder and an awkward, boxy shape cradled under his arm. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, misting with the cold air. 

Elynor hadn’t thought to grab her cloak. The cold nipped at her skin, but she ignored it, rushing to help him. She took the sack and guided him through the door, both of them panting as they crossed the threshold into the warmth of their home. 

Inside, with the fire casting flickering shadows across the walls, she finally saw what he had brought back. A mirror-scarred, cracked, but still whole enough to show a reflection. The frame was intricately carved, a relic from some forgotten noble house, she guessed. It’s design more suited for a room in the Red Keep than a wooden cabin tucked in the wilds beyond the Wall.

She stared at it, fingers tracing the gilded wood as though it might vanish under her touch. It had been years since she’d seen her own face-truly seen it. Now and then, her reflection had flickered across the surface of rivers or still pools, distorted by the wind and current, nothing more than a ghost. But this-this was different. The mirror offered no mercy, no blur or ripple to hide behind. Her reflection blinked back at her, uncertain. Green eyes wide and rimmed with tears. Raven-dark hair, mostly loosened from her braid, framed freckled cheeks tinged pink from the cold. She hardly recognized herself. The girl who once stood eye level with a mirror was gone. In her place, a woman she wasn’t sure she recognized. 

“That’s for you,” Ser Merek had said, easing into the old chair by the hearth. His voice was roughened by the wind and age, but there was a warmth in his eyes that never dimmed. His once chestnut hair was now more of a silver tone.

“D’you like it? I know it’s not-”

“I love it,” She interrupted, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Ser Merek.” She’d blinked the tears away before crossing the room to embrace him. He chuckled softly, his arms wrapping around her with practiced ease. Though these moments were rare, she cherished them like embers, tucked close to her heart.

Now, years later, the memory brought a faint smile to her lips. It had been a few months since Ser Merek had passed, leaving the cabin hollow without his laughter echoing the walls. Her smile faded. She shifted her gaze from the mirror and stepped into the main room. Her stores were dwindling-no hunting meant no meat, and she’d gone too long surviving on stale bread and dried roots. She rummaged through the cupboard and found a scrap of smoked venison, gnawed at the edges but still edible. She chewed mechanically, unable to remember the last time she had a warm meal. 

Her duties had been slipping. The firewood pile was low, the snares unchecked. It was hard to care. Everything seemed heavier now. Quieter. Lonelier.

But hunger had its own demands. She wrapped herself in her cloak and slung her quiver over her shoulder, bow in hand. The familiar weight settled against her palm like a second skin. Ser Merek had taught her how to shoot-how to steady her breath, how to let loose only when the moment was right. He used to call her his little fox-clever, quiet, always watching. Said she moved through the woods like she’d been born to them, and in a way, she had. Now every time she picked up her bow, it was like he was standing just behind her, guiding her hands. Everything reminded her of him-every step across the snow, every whisper of wind in the trees, a ghost following her like a shadow. 

She hesitated to open the door, fingers curled around the latch. The world outside was still and white. The kind of cold that seeps through your bones and settles in your chest.

Sighing, she figured she wouldn’t survive much longer if she didn’t do this. She forced the door open and the wind met her like a slap in the face, shrill and merciless. She stepped out, boots crunching into the fresh snow. The forest loomed ahead-branches heavy with frost. The trees seemed to close around her, a wall of green and white. It was ancient, and oddly comforting. 

Game trails had grown scarce in recent weeks. Even the crows had grown quiet. It was eerie. The forest was never truly silent-unless it was watching. It felt as though nature itself was holding its breath, as if the trees and the wind were trying to warn her of something dangerous stirring in the distance. 

She shrugged off the foreboding feeling that clawed at her. It was most likely nothing, thoughts that tried to plague her mind and frighten her. 

She trudged forward, heading for the clearing she and Ser Merek had always favored. It was quite a bit away from their cabin, nestled where the trees thinned and the light touched the ground.

She walked slowly, letting the silence of the woods settle over her. The wind flowed through the branches, carrying scents of pine and snow and something distant, something familiar. Out here she felt less alone. Less broken. 

When she reached the clearing, the forest opened. The dense trees gave way to a wide, snow-covered field, untouched and glistening like crushed glass beneath the morning sun. Shafts of light pierced through the treetops, scattering golden beams across the ground, where frost clung to every blade of grass and tree branch. The air sparkled in places where ice crystals caught the light, and for a moment, the stillness felt sacred–like the godswood groves of the old world, where time stood still. In rare moments like this, she didn’t hate the North. It was harsh, yes–unforgiving, wild, and oftentimes cruel to outsiders. But it was also honest. And when the sun broke through the canopy just right, alighting the snow like starlight scattered across the realm, she could almost forget her hunger, her grief, her solitude. She could see the beauty in it–the quiet, cold grace of the world–and find something akin to peace.   

She stepped softly to the edge of the trees and settled at the tree line, her movements careful and deliberate. She crouched low, bow in hand, and waited–eyes alert, ears open, her breath rising in pale clouds before her. 

She couldn’t decipher how much time had passed. The cold settled deep into her bones, her limbs growing heavy from stillness. By now, she should’ve seen something. But the forest remained still, its silence thick and watchful. The sun had begun to dip behind the trees, its fading light casting long, dark shadows that stretched like reaching fingers across the white expanse of the field.

Elynor shifted wearily. She was growing impatient, but she refused to return to the cabin empty-handed.

Then–just as the last slivers of sunlight slipped between the trees, she spotted it. A lone stag. It stepped cautiously into the clearing, its ears twitching and nose raised to catch any scent of danger. Despite its wariness, there was elegance in the way it moved–each step smooth and silent, as if it were gliding across the snow rather than walking through it. It came to rest just yards from where Elynor crouched, head dipping to graze at the frozen ground.

She inhaled deeply, steadying herself.

With practiced ease, she nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring back. The tension hummed in her fingers, the cold string brushing against her cheek. This was instinct–muscle memory. She held her breath, letting the chill sharpen her focus and the world fall away until it was just her and the stag.

Then she loosed. The arrow cut through the air, fast and true, and struck the stag in its flank. The beast cried out, a sharp, strangled sound that reverberated throughout the forest. The stag bolted, crashing through the snow-covered brush.

But Elynor was already moving.

She nocked another arrow mid stride, her boots crunching in the snow. She chased him through the trees, breath steaming from her mouth, eyes locked ahead like a predator on the hunt. The stag veered, but she was faster. She loosed again.

The stag faltered, stumbling forward a few paces before collapsing into the snow with a final, resounding thud.

Elynor slowed, her chest heaving. A sharp laugh escaped her lips–half joy, half relief. It had been some time since a hunt had been this successful.

She followed the crimson trail through the snow, weaving between the trees until she came upon the fallen stag. Its body lay still. She stood over it, bow slack in her hand.

Her stomach twisted, it always did. A pang of guilt, faint but persistent, stirred beneath her ribs. The beast had been beautiful–alive just moments ago. There was always a part of her, the part that felt tied to the wild, that mourned what had been taken.

She shook the feeling off. This was the way of things. This was how she survived.

She knelt beside the stag, fingers brushing the thick winter coat. The blood was still warm, steaming against the frigid air. She reached for her knife and mentally prepared herself for the-

Snap.

She froze. The sound echoed like thunder in the silence of the clearing. Not the groan of a settled tree, or a wild animal. This was sharp and deliberate.

Elynor’s hand moved without thinking–gripping her bow and pulling an arrow from the quiver. She rose in one smooth motion, the tip already aimed towards the trees. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows. The forest no longer felt quiet.

Then she saw them.

Four figures stepped from the tree line, moving with the kind of confidence wildlings possessed. Clad in heavy, mismatched furs, they were all armed–one with a jagged iron sword, another gripped a rusted axe. A third carried a curved bone knife, and the last held a crude wooden spear, its tip blackened by fire. 

They walked closer to Elynor. She raised her bow higher, arrow drawn. 

The first to speak was the man with the burnt-tipped spear. He was lanky and had a voice as rough as bark.

“Fine beast you’ve felled there.” 

Elynor sized up the man. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you lot.”

The others snorted, half amused, half irritated. One, heavier and draped in what looked to be a direwolf pelt, took a step forward, his axe resting lazily on his shoulder. “What’s a little girl like you doing out here, all alone?” 

Elynor’s lips curled into a dry smile. “Hunting. Unlike you, apparently.”

The wildlings stiffened, exchanging looks. She saw it then–their shift in posture. The silence that fell over them was comparable to a pack deciding whether to eat or leave the kill.

The man with the jagged short sword narrowed his eyes at her. “Got a sharp tongue on ya.”

“Sharper aim.” 

She drew the bowstring back slightly, the creak of tension loud in the still air.

“We could take that meat. And maybe the bow too.” The knife twitched in his hand, just enough movement for Elynor to notice.

She tilted her head. “You could try, but I’ve got four arrows. Seems poetic.”

The wind howled low through the trees. A crow cried overhead, sharp and sudden–like a warning bell. It circled once, black wings slicing against the pale sky, then vanished into the canopy of the frost covered trees. 

Elynor’s grip tightened. The wildlings didn’t move, but something in the silence changed.

Snap.

The sound came from behind her, very close.

Shit.

Elynor spun on her heel to come face to face with a hulking man–broad as a tree trunk, with a wild red beard crusted with ice and eyes that gleamed with mischief, as though the whole world was a joke only he understood. He wore a thick layer of furs, bones strung like charms around his torso, and what looked suspiciously like a bear’s paw dangling from his belt.

Elynor didn’t lower her bow.

“Easy little bird,” he started, a crooked smile carving its way onto his features, “I’m not here to stick a blade in yer belly.”

“Shame,” Elynor responded flatly. “I was hoping for an excuse.”

The man before her chuckled. He took a step forward. “and I was hoping fer a real fight–not some forest witch who thinks she’s got claws.” 

Without hesitation, she released the arrow. It whistled past his ear–close enough to shave the frost clean from his beard. The arrow slammed into the tree behind him with a deep thud.

The clearing went dead silent. The other four tensed. The man in front of her didn’t flinch.

Then he grinned. A deep, booming laugh broke from his chest, echoing through the forest. 

Elynor let out a low chuckle of her own, slinging her bow back over her shoulder.

“Now that’s more like it. Missed that deadly aim o’ yers.” 

“If you sneak up on me again, I won’t miss.”

His grin deepened. “You better not.” 

They laughed again–loud and easy now, the tension melting into the snow beneath them. The four men behind her relaxed, lowering their weapons. The wildling before her came forward and wrapped her in a tight hug.

Elynor pulled back, wiping snow from her cloak. “What brings you this way, Tormund?”

He smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What? Thought I’d pay my respects to the old gods little witch before they drag you back into the trees.” 

Elynor rolled her eyes. “Charming as ever.” Tormund chuckled, stepping past her to inspect the stag still lying in the snow. “Still got your aim. Shame your sense o’ humor’s duller than a crow’s cock.”

She scoffed. “And yours is as small as one.” 

That made him laugh hard, deep and from the belly. “Aye, that’s why I love you tree witch.”

She gave him a sideways look, amused more than anything. “If that’s your attempt at wooing me, it’s about as effective as pissing on a fire.” 

Tormund just grinned wider, then turned his attention to the stag. Before she could stop him, he bent down and hoisted the dead beast over his shoulder in one quick motion.

Elynor’s arms hung loosely at her sides as she spoke. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“Good,” he said, already trudging past her through the snow. “Woulda made it awkward.”

She huffed but followed reluctantly. He always had a way of barging through whatever boundaries she attempted to put up. Elynor found this habit of his quiet annoying, but never enough to really do anything about it. The four wildings trailed behind them, keeping their distance. Elynor didn’t recognize them, she only knew a few wildlings outside of Tormund, and even then he was the only one she knew well.

The forest closed in around them again, the trees leaning close like eavesdroppers. She liked it this way–quiet, wild, and far from anyone who might wear a black cloak or whisper prayers to the Seven. Out here, she could almost forget.

Almost.

“So,” Tormund started after a long stretch of silence, “saw some crows patrolling not far from here. Maybe two days south.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, though she kept her stride even. A bitter wind swept past them, and she welcomed it. Better to feel the sting in her face than the sudden chill she felt in her gut.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze flicked upward–towards the treetops, towards the skies where the orange hues from the setting sun fought to peak through the heavy, grey clouds. Somewhere beyond them, the wind carried the cries of crows. A warning.

Her chest tightened.

She hadn’t flown in weeks–moons, maybe. Not since Ser Merek’s passing. Not since the forest had turned quiet and her world quieter still. The sky used to be a second home, a way for her to be free. Up there, she could see for miles, scout every trail and tree line, listen to the language of the wind and know what moved in the wild.

And yet now, the Night’s Watch had crept into her territory without her knowing, patrolling close enough to leave footprints near the edge of the forest. She hadn’t seen it, hadn’t felt it.

Idiot. What would Ser Merek think? She scowled, dragging her eyes back down to the trees. 

“The crows must be getting antsy,” She said aloud, quieter now. “If they’re ranging this far north, something’s driven them to it.” She moved her gaze towards Tormund. “So what is it?”

He didn’t answer at first. His broad shoulders shifted beneath his ragged furs, but he kept walking, jaw working like he was chewing on ice-or on something he didn’t want to say.

“You know something,” she pressed. “Something you’re not telling me.”

Tormund huffed, but it sounded more like a growl. “Men south of the Wall piss themselves at the word wildling.” He said the last word with a curl of his lip, thick with disdain.

Elynor narrowed her eyes at him. She could see right through his attempts at a diversion. She had an inkling of what he could be keeping from her–rumors of a brother of the Night’s Watch who abandoned his post and walked beyond the wall to unite the scattered clans of the wildlings. Ser Merek had shared these whispers with her before, something he had overheard during one of his hunts from a group of wildlings. She’d dismissed it at the time, not believing for a second that one man could unite them, especially not a crow. 

Elynor laughed. “The wildlings have no reason to join together, especially not for the likes of some crow.” 

Ser Merek shrugged. “Maybe they know something we don’t.” 

Now it seemed those stories held some sort of truth in them. The thought made her even more weary.

 “I’ve heard whispers,” She began, her voice low. “Didn’t believe them at first. They say that the Free Folk are gathering. That some crow’s uniting the clans.”

Tormund’s beard twitched, the corners of his lips forming a smirk, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“Mance Rayder,” she added, testing the name.

That got a grunt out of him, a mix between amusement and warning. “You listen to too many stories, tree-witch.”

She saw right through him. “So it’s true,” she pressed.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Her eyes pointed daggers at him. “I don’t like surprises in my woods. If a war’s coming, I’d rather not stumble into it face first.”

Tormund barked a short laugh. “If war comes, you’ll feel it long before you see it.”

His words left a bitter taste in her mouth, but any argument she may have had died on her tongue.

Silence settled over them for a long while, until Tormund spoke gruffly, “The crows ain’t up here for sport. They know the Free Folk are restless, whether they know why or not, they’re feelin’ it. And when black cloaks start pokin’ around where they’ve no business, somethin’s bound to follow.”

He paused.

“And it ain’t just the living they ought to be worried about.”

Elynor’s blood ran cold, her steps faltered, then stopped entirely. 

She hadn’t believed the stories, barely even remembered them. Bedtime tales her mother whispered by firelight when she was still a child, too young to understand fear. Of white shadows in the snow. Of corpses that walked, and a cold so deep it could freeze a soul clean out of a body.

She used to laugh at them. Used to scoff when Merek would warn her to not stray too far after dusk, joking about blue-eyed ghosts. 

“You’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“Well, she was the smartest woman I ever knew.”

Now she wasn’t laughing.

Tormund couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore. He stopped a little ways ahead and turned, his red beard twitching in the breeze. When he met her eyes, something in her expression made his own harden. 

“What does that mean, Tormund?” She asked, her voice sharp around the edges.

He studied her for a moment, then trudged back towards her, his boots thudding in the snow.

“It means what you think it does,” he said finally. “Not just tales anymore. There ‘ave been sightings. Things movin’ in the dark. Whole villages gone quiet.”

Elynor’s pulse quickened, the tension rising in her shoulders. 

“And you think it’s the dead?”

“Don’t think little bird, I know.”

He stepped beside her, his tone rough but not unkind. “You might not believe it yet, tree-witch, but you’ll see it soon enough. We all will.”

They walked on in silence for a time. The only sound between them was the snow crunching beneath them. The forest felt more suffocating now, and Elynor found it hard to breathe. She felt Tormund’s eyes on her, but she stared ahead, trying to process everything he had just told her.

Trying to forget.

In the distance, she could see her cabin nestled between the trees. 

Tormund was the first to break the silence. “If you were smart, you’d come north and join us. Mance is building something–might be the only damn chance we got, better if we had you.”

She met his gaze. He didn’t say it, and was too prideful to admit it, but he was afraid. 

The mighty Tormund Giantsbane, terrified of a couple skeletons. The thought was supposed to make her laugh, ease her mind if only a little. However, it seemed to do the exact opposite.

She wanted to mock him, to say something sharp and clever, but the words never formed on her tongue. Because some part of her, the Veyari part, believed him.

Once they reached the cabin, he set the stag down and casted her a glance. “The offer still stands. You should join us.”

Elynor scoffed under her breath. “With you lot? You’d all be dead in a week trying to keep a fire lit.”

“Aye,” he grinned, “but we’d die happy- bellies full and cocks deep in a warm cunt.”

She rolled her eyes, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust. A lady of the Seven Kingdoms might’ve blanched at his words, hands flying to her chest in feigned offense. And once-if she’d stayed a prisoner in the Red Keep, surrounded by silk-tongued liars and wandering-eyed maesters–maybe she would have too. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Tormund’s filth, his lack of refinement and blunt edges were almost comforting. A reminder that she was far, far away from Westeros, and free.

Chapter Text

Elynor was finding it hard to shift. It had been a fortnight since she had seen Tormund, and heard his grim tales of the dead walking and something chilling moving through the North. She still didn’t quite believe him, hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary.

But she felt it.

An eerie silence had settled over the forest, a foreboding feeling that not even Elynor could shake off. Since that day, the usual sounds of the trees–groaning branches, rustling underbrush, birdsong–had all fallen silent. There was a tension in the air that wrapped itself around her, prickling at the base of her neck. 

And then there was the bleeding star.

She had seen it two nights after Tormund had gone–streaking across the sky like a wound torn open by the gods themselves. Red and burning, it lit the heavens with a trail of fire, and something deep inside her had stirred. It didn’t feel like fear, not exactly. But something wild and restless. A thrum in her bones she’d never experienced before.

She didn’t know what it meant–she doubted anyone did–but since that night, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. The old magic, the Veyari blood within her, pulsed stronger now. She could sense it. And yet, when she reached for it, it slipped between her fingers like smoke.

That’s why she needed to shift. To stay alert and to keep the old magic within her alive. If danger was coming, she needed to be prepared.

Normally, all it took was a thought. Elynor could slip into the skin of a raven or a fox with little effort. But now, nothing. Her mind felt murky, heavy with noise. Every time she tried, she failed. It seemed her magic danced just out of reach from her.

“Come on,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Come on.”

Still nothing. She threw her hands up and let out an exasperated groan. 

Unbelievable. 

She fell to the ground in defeat, the snow immediately seeping through the thin layer of clothes she was wearing. She didn’t mind though, it was a welcoming distraction.

She looked up at the canopy of trees, watching the sunlight as it seeped through the leaves. Tiny flakes of snow drifted lazily down, catching the light like falling stars before vanishing into the frost-covered moss. 

“I can’t do it! I give up.” Elynor cried out, slamming her fists into the snow. Pain bloomed in her knuckles at the contact.

Ser Merek stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her with an expression that hovered somewhere between patience and amusement. He said nothing as she flopped dramatically onto her back, sighing into the sky.

He chuckled softly and stepped forward, coming into her line of view.

“Yes you can, Ely. Keep practicing. You’ll get better. I promise.”

He knelt beside her and lifted her off the ground. Her back was soaked and her dark waves matted with slush, but she barely noticed.

“How do you know?” She snapped, folding her arms. “You’re not Veyari.”

“You’re right, I’m not.” He replied, meeting her scowl without flinching. “But do you think I was born with a sword in my hand?”

Elynor didn’t answer, only looked at him.

“It took me years to get where I am. I wasn’t gifted. I just didn’t give up.”

Elynor let her arms fall to her sides. She wanted to argue, to say that she didn’t have years to master her gift, but the look in Ser Merek’s eyes softened her.

“Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll try again.”

A bright smile spread across Ser Merek’s features. “That’s the spirit.”

Elynor closed her eyes. She thought of the sky–wide and endless. Imagined how the rush of the wind felt beneath wings. The thought lit something deep within her. Warmth pooled in her belly and spread, slow and sure. Her feet shifted on instinct, light as air, until the ground was no longer beneath her. 

She opened her eyes and the sky was all around her. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before in her life.

She could hear Ser Merek’s cheers echoing far below. 

She finally did it!

The first time she felt alive. 

With newfound motivation, Elynor stood and closed her eyes. She steadied her breathing and thought of him. Thought of the wind and the wild. Thought of being more than herself. And then she shifted. 

Feathers rippled along her skin. Her vision sharpened, the world transformed. The air grew thinner as she rose through the branches and burst through the sky. The forest spread beneath her, white and endless. Mountains clawed at the clouds in the far north, and to the south, the Wall stood like a jagged scar of ice against the horizon.

She soared.

She flew for what felt like hours, letting the cold air sting her feathers. The sky up here felt warmer than the forest below, and above the clouds she could almost pretend she wasn’t in the North at all.

But the sun began to sink below the Frostfangs, and she knew she had to return to her cabin sooner rather than later. She turned to head back reluctantly, when something down below caught her eye. 

Something dark, sprawled in the snow.

At first she thought it was just a patch of dirt, exposed beneath the melting frost. But as she swooped lower, her sharp eyes caught sight of a man–facedown in the snow, his cloak splayed around him like wings. 

A crow.

She circled once, then again, before dropping down beside him.

His black cloak was torn, animal furs clung to his shoulders, soaked through with snow and fresh blood. To be quite honest, he looked dead, so still and pale. Blood pooled beneath him from a wound Elynor couldn’t see, staining the snow. 

Elynor warily hopped closer in her bird form, her beak tilting inquisitively. She pecked him once.

Then again.

Gods, she thought. He has to be dead.

She pecked him harder. Still nothing. 

His face was buried in the snow, but she still could make out a beard, black and thick with frost. His hair curled messily around his head, matted and damp. Snowflakes clung to him greedily, almost covering him completely in white.

Then–he groaned.

She flinched, hopping back, wings twitching.

He stirred, barely, his arm shifting an inch before collapsing again. His head lolled to the side, just enough for her to see him more clearly. 

He was young. No older than her. Bloodied, bruised, but somehow alive. There was a deep gash above his eye, and his lip was split open. Yet beneath it all, Elynor could still tell that he was handsome, or would be, in better condition.

Elynor squawked in protest at herself. What was wrong with her?

A sound caught her attention, breaking her away from her thoughts. Distant voices echoed across the snowy expanse of the North. Elynor’s head jerked up. She darted into the air, heart pounding, and scanned the slope below.

That’s when she saw them. A group of wildings trudging through the snow, weapons in hand. There were 8 of them in total, maybe 9. Even from above, Elynor could see the tension in their forms, the readiness in their posture. These were not scouts, they were hunters.

And not all of them from the same clan.

A few at the front bore the distinctive marks of the Thenns–bald heads glinting in the low sun, pale skin carved with ritual scars that snaked across their cheeks in jagged patterns. One carried a weapon made from the bone of something large, maybe a mammoth. The Thenns were cannibals, she remembered–men who feasted on the flesh of their enemies and carved their victories into their skin. They didn’t talk much. They killed first, never asked questions.

Behind them, however, strode men she recognized. Or rather, men like Tormund. Broad-shouldered, with wild beards and long hair that exuded a rough confidence of his clan. One of them even wore a bearskin so massive, it dragged behind him like a second cloak.

She hovered for a moment, stunned.

Tormund wasn’t lying.

Free folk gathering in the Frostfangs, clans joining together that should’ve been slitting each other’s throats instead. She hadn’t believed it. Why would she?

But now... Thenns and Tormund’s kin, walking together? That was more terrifying than any ghost story.

Huh, she thought numbly. I guess Tormund was telling the truth.

And suddenly, the man in the snow’s fate felt all the more doomed.

There was no way they wouldn’t find him. Not unless she moved fast. The crows were enemies to them all–especially the Thenns, who saw the Night’s Watch as nothing more than meat wrapped in black wool. And she had a feeling they were looking for him, the ones who beat him to the brink of death. 

She looked down at the man again, even at her height she could see that his face had grown paler and his lips started to take on a bluish hue. 

Panic scraped at her throat. Elynor dove again, and landed right in front of his face, snow spraying up from the sudden halt of her wings. Her talons touched down inches from his skin.

That’s when his eyes opened.

Brown–deep and smooth, half glazed with pain. He blinked, sluggish and slow, his gaze unfocused, as if trying to remember where he was–or who he was. For a moment, he looked past her entirely, like he was seeing through her, or seeing someone else.

Then their eyes locked, and the world went still.

His stare burned through feathers and flesh, all the way down to the bones underneath. There was something desperate in it, but also knowing. Like he recognized her. It was unsettling, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

Elynor didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. 

And then he passed out again.

Shit.

Panic pulsed in her chest. She hopped back, wings ruffling and scanned the trees. She couldn’t carry a fully grown man like this-not as a raven, not even close. An image flashed across her mind, of herself as a field mouse trying to drag him by the bootlaces. It made her snort, or rather squawk, aloud. 

Not the time, Elynor. 

The voices were getting closer. She looked back at him. The sensible thing would be to leave. There was no shame in survival, and this man was nothing to her. She didn’t even know his name.

And yet, she stayed. She stared at his pale face half buried in the snow, at the bleeding gash on his temple, the way his chest barely rose beneath the black cloak.

She should have sensed them earlier, the free folk, this man bleeding out in the snow. If she’d flown like she used to, circled the forest skies every morning like she did before Ser Merek died... she would have seen him, heard them.

But she hadn’t shifted in months. She told herself that her magic had gone quiet. That her power had grown thin like old blood, that the Veyari was dimming with every passing day. But deep down, she knew the truth.

She was afraid.

Afraid that if she became something else, she’d never want to be herself again.

But now, something stirred. Something hot coiled in her gut like a spark waiting to strike. It had started the night she saw the burning streak across the sky–the bleeding star dragging fire. 

Elynor didn’t know what it meant. Only that since it appeared, her blood had felt... different. Feverish. Electric.

She looked at the man once more. He was still, the color in his face draining rapidly.

And behind her, boots crunched through the snow.

Fuck it. She had one chance.

It was a stupid idea. A very dangerous, likely fatal idea.

But she couldn’t leave him.

I should’ve sensed them earlier. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be like this.

Now she felt responsible. Not just for finding him, but for saving him.

Her gaze dropped to the hilt of his sword, half-buried in the snow beside him–the shape of a wolf’s head. It’s metal catching what little light was left from the setting sun.

A direwolf.

Something ancient stirred inside her.

Elynor closed her eyes, and reached for the fire. 

The feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach was never really a blaze–always more of a flicker or a spark. Not like the stories of the old Veyari, who could transform into great beasts with the same ease as breathing. But now, the ember within her roared to life, fanned by something deeper: fury, instinct, fear.

And something older.

The air shifted around her. Her bones cracked–not in pain, but with purpose. Wings stretched, becoming limbs. Her spine arched, feathers turned to a fur as thick as the snow around her. The world grew sharper. She could smell everything–the blood, the pine sap, the men closing in behind her. And him.

The man at her feet. He smelled like blood and iron, but also warmth, stubbornness and survival.

Elynor was bigger now–massive. Heavy paws sank into the snow. Her coat was dark, almost pitch black. She stood out against the stark contrast of the pure white landscape. A direwolf. Not just a whisper of magic, but something out of legend.

She clamped her jaws gently around the collar of his cloak, lifting him onto her back with a strength she didn’t know she possessed. He slumped, barely conscious, head lolling onto the thick fur at the back of her neck.

The shouts grew louder.

She ran. 

Branches tore past, snow kicked up in great gusts behind her. The trees blurred. Her body moved with terrifying speed, instincts guiding her through hidden paths and frost covered ravines she knew like the lines of her own palm. They wouldn’t catch her–not here, not in her woods.

Still, they followed.

An arrow zipped past her. Another thunked into a tree trunk to her left. She growled low in her throat but didn’t slow. Her breath steamed in great huffs. The man’s weight shifted, and for a moment she thought he might slip off, but he didn’t. She surged upward along the narrow ridge and disappeared into the shadowed hollows beyond.

Only when the sounds of pursuit faded, muffled by distance and snow, did she begin to slow. Her breaths came ragged now, her paws dragging.

Gods, he better not be dead after all this.

She reached the edge of the snowy glade, where her cabin crouched low between a ring of stones and thick trees. Smoke curled weakly from the chimney.

She padded to the door and let him slide carefully from her back into the snow. His hand fell limply to the ground, brushing her fur as he landed.

She collapsed beside him, paws digging into the snow. Her breaths came in shuddering gasps, steam billowing from her muzzle as the cold began to bite. The run had taken more out of her than she wanted to admit.

And shifting back would take even more.

Still, she reached for it.

The fire inside her didn’t roar now, it flickered. She grabbed a hold and pulled. Her muscles spasmed, bones grinding against each other in protest and the great wolf form shrank and folded in on itself. Fur receded. Joints snapped. Her lungs shrieked as her ribs reformed. She fell to the ground on her hands and knees, naked, gasping, and sweating despite the snow. Snowflakes melted on her bare skin, her body so hot, steam came off of her in waves.

Elynor groaned and pushed her damp hair from her face. Her arms trembled. 

The man beside her lay motionless where she’d dropped him. His face was pale beneath the blood, lips still blue. If he wasn’t dead, he was close.

Elynor’s heart dropped.

She staggered upright and flung open the cabin door. The air inside was marginally warmer, thanks to the faint embers she’d left in the hearth. She dragged him in by the arms, gritting her teeth as his boots caught in the threshold, then kicked the door shut behind them.

The moment he was on the floor beside the fire, she dropped to her knees, chest heaving and every limb aching. There was no time to rest though.

His clothes were soaked in blood, clinging to his skin. Elynor hesitated only for a moment before pulling a knife from the table and cutting the leather away, careful not to slice him. The shirt beneath was torn–crimson, sticky, and fused to his chest like a second skin.

She swallowed hard, then peeled it back.

Her breath caught.

She’d never seen a man like him before.

The only bare-chested man she had ever tended was Ser Merek, years ago. He was a weathered knight with a soft stomach and scarred skin. Merek had been kind, in his own way, but there had never been anything beautiful about him. Not like this.

This man was carved, not grown.

Lean, hard muscle sculpted his torso, the kind born from survival and not vanity. A dark bruise marbled his ribs, and a long, jagged gash oozed along his side, ugly and deep. None of this could dull what he was.

He was fire and flesh and bone, heat radiating even in the cold cabin air. There was a grace to him, even unconscious–like a wolf at rest, dangerous in stillness. And gods, he was young. Not a boy, no, but far from it either. Somewhere between youth and legend.

She realized, belatedly she was staring.

Heat prickled up her neck and behind her ears. Her face now a scarlet red from something else entirely.

Focus Elynor. She snapped at herself. He’s dying. You can admire him later. Maybe.

She forced her hands to work. 

With the shirt gone, she could see the wound better. An ugly gash that looked like it had already begun to fester.

She grabbed a tin from the hearth’s shelf and dipped her fingers into the thick, bitter-smelling salve she’d made weeks ago from tree resin and yarrow root. It had drawn poison from wounds before. It would have to do now.

He groaned faintly as she pressed the salve into the wound. His fingers twitched.

“Sorry,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

His skin was warm, too warm for someone who’d nearly frozen to death. A fever. She’d have to watch that. She laid her palm against his brow. Damp with sweat. His dark hair was matted, stuck to his temples. His beard was scruffier than she liked, but his features–gods, he was handsome even in pain. 

She reached for a needle and thread. Her hands didn’t shake, she’d done this before, on herself and Ser Merek. She bit her lip, knelt closer, and pressed two fingers along the edge of the wound to bring it together. Blood welled instantly. 

She pierced him, he didn’t wake, but flinched, and she nearly did, too. Her fingers worked quickly. Her brow furrowed as she drew the wound shut, loop by loop. She was all too aware of the rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands, the heat of his skin, the way his breath ghosted over her arm.

It was difficult to keep her eyes on the wound. 

When it was done, she tied off the last stitch and pressed a clean cloth over it. Then she sat back, legs folded beneath her, and finally exhaled.

What have you brought into your home, Elynor?

The silence in the cabin was heavy, broken only by the pop of the fire and his ragged breathing.

She rose and wrapped a blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders, then stood there for a long moment, staring.

She had seen many men die.

But this one, she had managed to save. She felt responsible for him now–not just because she hadn’t sensed the danger, and not just because she’d seen the others searching for him. It was something else. Something Elynor couldn’t quite place. 

She sat back down beside the fire. The light from it danced softly across the wooden walls. Elynor sat beside it for a time, watching the man to make sure he was still breathing every now and then. She didn’t realize when her eyelids began to droop, or when her body slowly curled to the floor beside a stool.

The warmth lulled her. The scent of dried herbs, burning wood, and blood dulled her senses. She was asleep before she could fight it. 

When she woke, the sunlight was just beginning to pierce the cracks in the wooden shutters, spilling gold across the floor.

Her body ached–shoulders sore from the shift, fingers stiff from stitching, and her head groggy. She blinked a couple times, then sat up with a startled jolt.

He was still there, alive and asleep.

His chest rose and fell steadily beneath the furs. The fever hadn’t worsened, thank the gods.

Then she looked down at herself, her cheeks flaming instantly.

She was still naked.

She scrambled to her feet and bolted towards the adjoining room, her hair wild and her body flushed from a heat that wasn’t just embarrassment.

She slammed the door behind her, heart thumping in her chest like it was bound to jump out of her at any given moment. She pressed her back against the old wood. She hadn’t even thought about it last night. Between the shifting and the blood, it didn’t seem to matter.

But now?

Now she felt... stupid.

And warm, way too warm.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, except for the scarlet bloom across her cheeks. Her hair was tangled from sleep, lips chapped from the wind and cold. She dug through her chest for clothes-furs, linens, something decent-and then paused, holding up one of her better tunics.

Why did she care what he sees?

She snorted at herself. “You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered. “He’s unconscious, and you’re not some moon-eyed maiden.”

Still, she picked the tunic that didn’t smell like firewood, and ran her fingers through her hair until the tangled mess looked somewhat presentable.

She shook her head hard and tied her belt tighter, hoping the ridiculous flutter in her chest would die down. It didn’t.

When she stepped back out, he hadn’t moved.

Still unconscious. Still shirtless. Still unfairly handsome, even in this state.

She sighed, a little disappointed despite herself, and turned towards the shelves near the hearth.

There was broth in a sealed pot, some dried mushrooms, and a small strip of leftover salted venison from weeks before. She began preparing a meal in the hopes that when he did wake, it would be to something warm, and maybe something...kind.

It felt strange, wanting that. Stranger still that she wanted him to see her that way. 

She stirred the broth slowly, the scent of thyme and marrow filling the room. And tried very hard not to glance at him too often.

Chapter Text

JON'S POV

The crunch of snow beneath boots. A shout-no, a scream.

Pain.

He heard the ring of steel, the sickening crunch of blade biting bone.

A face snarled above him, a blur of fists.

The copper taste of blood filled his mouth.

They’d gone too far north. Searching. Scouting. Hunting what shouldn’t exist.

Fear.

A shadow moved over him. Not human. Winged. Watching.

Eyes. Dark and glinting. Intelligent. Too close. Too real.

Then-darkness.

Jon gasped awake.

His breath was hard in his chest as pain seared through his ribs and shoulder. The room spun. His hands scrambled instinctively to his side, fingers brushing bandages crusted with blood. He winced as he sat up slightly, blinking against the flickering firelight.

Wooden rafters above. Rough, wooden walls. The smell of herbs, broth, and pine. 

Not Castle Black.

Not the woods, either.

He looked down and sucked in a sharp breath. 

His torso was a mess of bruises, torn flesh stitched with rough but steady hands. The pain throbbed in pulses, alive and deep. His fingers hovered over a fresh line of stitches across his ribs.

He’d been cleaned. His shirt was gone. He was half-naked, tucked beneath thick furs.

He wasn’t dead.

But he should be.

Someone had tended to him, saved him.

He looked around sharply, muscles tensing despite the ache.

And that’s when he saw her. 

A woman, standing with her back to him, stirring something over a fire. Black hair pulled into a loose braid, catching the flicker of flames. She moved with a quiet confidence–like a shadow in the dark woods, familiar and wild all at once.

Jon’s breath hitched–this time for a different reason.

She hadn’t heard him wake, not yet. 

He sat quietly for a moment, watching her, a hint of suspicion threading with something else–something unfamiliar and warm. Her movements were steady. She wasn’t a wildling. Not like the ones he’d seen. 

He swallowed hard, the words of his oath echoing loudly in his mind, like a cold wind.

Take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.

He was a brother of the Night’s Watch. The Wall was his home now, duty came first.

Still, his gaze traced the lines of her face–sharp, freckled cheekbones dusted pink. Her emerald eyes were fierce beneath dark lashes, and a set jaw that spoke of hard years beyond the Wall. 

She was not a lady of the south either, or a noblewoman. She was something else, something raw.

Jon forced himself to look away. The movement caused the furs to rustle beneath him.

Her head snapped towards him, and their eyes met.

And Jon Snow, still half-broken, still unsure if he was dead or alive, felt like the wind had been knocked from his lungs all over again. 

The woman before him was the first to break the silence, her voice low but steady.

“You’re awake.”

Her words carried a trace of disbelief. Jon’s throat felt dry, raw as gravel. He forced sound from it anyway. 

“Where am I? Who are you?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with faint amusement.

“You’re beyond the Wall. And I’m the unfortunate soul who got stuck saving your ass.”

Jon blinked, caught off guard. Her sharp tongue and even sharper gaze unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He cleared his throat, trying to summon whatever strength he had left.

“Not many women speak like that, least of all those who save a man’s life.”

She gave him a crooked smile, stepping closer, unbothered by his surprise.

“Well, I’m not most women, and you don’t strike me as most men.”

Jon studied her. “You’re not like anyone I’ve met beyond the Wall.” He admitted. 

Her eyes flickered with something unreadable.

“And you’re not like any crow I’ve seen either.”

A tense silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken questions and cautious intrigue.

Jon was the first one to break it, his voice honest and deliberate. 

“I don’t know who you are, but I know I owe you my life.”

Her smirk softened into something warmer. She didn’t respond to him. Instead, she turned away and moved back to the small table she’d been working before he’d stirred. Jon watched her from the floor, his gaze drawn to the curve of her shoulder, the steady strength in her hands as she worked. 

He knew better than to stare. 

Take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.

Still, his eyes drifted towards her every so often.

She caught his gaze once–her eyes meeting his. Her expression didn’t shift, didn’t soften. She continued her task, scraping the last of a thick stew into a wooden bowl. Her black braid began to loosen, stray strands curling against her cheeks. 

She handed him the bowl, “Eat.”

Jon didn’t move right away. He studied her, trying to decipher the lines of her face. Cool. Unreadable. Eventually, he sat up straighter and accepted the bowl, the warmth of it biting into his frostbitten fingers.

He tore at the bread and meat, the hunger clawing at him sharper than any wound. Each bite was greedy and desperate, as if he’d been starving for days–which, in truth, he had. The warmth of the food seeped into his bones, silencing the ache. It was good, better than anything he’d had in a long time. 

The woman ate at the table across from him more slowly, savoring each bite. Her eyes lingered on him, amusement playing in their depths as she watched him devour the meal like a wild animal.

“You always scowl when you eat?” She asked, arching a brow.

Jon only grunted in response, not looking up.

The firelight glowed against the grain of the wooden walls, and the wind outside whispered through the cracks. Jon was taking the last bites of his food when the woman spoke again, her voice curious. “So what exactly were you doing out there?”

Jon’s spoon paused midair. He didn’t answer right away. “I had orders.”

The woman nodded once. “Were you looking for someone?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Are you always this talkative, or is that a crow thing?”

He gave her a flat look. “You ask a lot of questions.”

She shrugged. “I saved your life. I think I’ve earned a few.”

He considered that, then set his bowl down with a bit more force than necessary.

I could say the same, he thought.

“You’ve got the look of someone carrying secrets.” She continued. “Heavy ones.”

“We all do,” he muttered.

The woman tapped her spoon against her bowl, studying him closely now. The fire caught in her eyes like gold. “Not all of us look like we’ve seen ghosts.”

Jon’s jaw twitched. He turned his attention to the fire, retreating into silence. The food settled heavily in his stomach, but it was the weight of her stare he felt most.

“Seems to me you got separated from the rest of your crow friends. What happened?”

Jon’s eyes met hers, and this time his voice was like ice. “I was ambushed.”

“That’s it?”

He didn’t respond again.

She leaned forward on her elbows, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “You’re not great at this whole gratitude thing, are you?” she sighed. 

Jon’s mouth twitched, just slightly. “I said thank you.”

She hummed in response. “You did, it was awkward.”

“I’m not used to being saved by women who insult me over stew.”

“I’m not used to bringing home half-dead men who glower at me like I might slit their throat in their sleep, you’re welcome for the food by the way.”

This time, a small chuckle slipped past his lips before he could stop it. 

The room fell silent once again. The woman before him rose, gathering the bowls with practiced ease. Jon watched her, noting the care she took with each movement, even now.

He spoke again, softer. “Where exactly am I?” His voice was low, guarded. “Who are you? And how... did you find me out there?”

The woman’s gaze met his, steady and unflinching, but something unreadable danced beneath the surface. For a moment, he thought she might deflect like before. Instead, she let out a slow breath. 

“I’ve lived beyond the Wall longer than you’ve been a crow. I know the forest. I saw you before the wildlings did, and I didn’t like what I saw.”

Jon searched her face, trying to read the cracks in her story. She was closed off, he recognized the signs, but something told him she was telling the truth. 

“You knew they were after me.” Not a question, more of a statement.

“I guessed.” She said lightly, but her voice held more weight than she let on. “It wasn’t too hard.”

Silence again.

“You don’t talk like them. You don’t live like them. Who are you exactly?” He emphasized the last words, hoping it would get some form of reaction from her. 

For a moment, his mind drifted to the women he had met at Craster’s Keep—the hollow-eyed wives and daughters, shoulders hunched as if the cold and fear had seeped into their bones. They had been silent shadows, moving only when told, their gazes fixed on the floor or the snow at their feet. This girl—this woman—was nothing like them. She held his stare with a quiet defiance, as if the forest itself had made her its own, and she seemed to fear neither the cold nor the man sitting before her.

Her movements brought him out of his thoughts, she was busying herself with the wash basin, still not answering his questions.

“What do you think I am?” she asked finally. The ambiguity in her response made a knot form in his stomach. 

“You ask more questions than answer.”

She smirked. “Keeps things interesting.”

A deep scowl found its way to Jon’s face. “What do you want from me?”

At that, a grin tugged at her lips. “You think I dragged you all the way here for that? You’re pretty crow, but not that pretty.” 

The crack in his wall surprised him–and her. His mouth opened, then closed, caught between embarrassment and disbelief. She turned back to the basin before he could gather a response.

He tried again. “Why?”

She didn’t meet his gaze. 

“Why risk your life for me?”

“Because someone had to. You’d have died out there.”

He studied her face. It was hard to tell when she was being truthful. Something about her still didn’t make sense. However, Jon could see her hard exterior cracking, only slightly. The strength in her, the sharpness, the loneliness etched into her every movement.

He swallowed hard, the oath pressing in the back of his throat: 

Take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.

He continued to watch her though, not able to tear his gaze away. She was mysterious. He couldn’t fathom what kind of woman lived beyond the wall and healed strangers.

Jon shifted slightly, gathering his words. “Jon,” he murmured. “My name is Jon Snow.”

The raven haired woman looked over her shoulder, a playful glimmer in her eyes. “Well, well. We’re finally getting somewhere.”

A glint of something close to a smile tugged at him–but it vanished quickly.

“You haven’t told me how you found me.”

She froze for a second–subtle but he caught it.

“I was out hunting,” She answered, too light.

Jon didn’t quite believe her but didn’t press, she was finally answering some of his questions and he didn’t want to scare her off.

“You said you usually don’t bring people back here.”

She didn’t turn around. 

“I don’t,” she said firmly. Her voice was small, measured. “You were lucky.”

Her joking edge had completely vanished, replaced with something Jon didn’t know how to decipher. The tone of her voice closed the door to their conversation. 

He leaned back once more, the ache in his side dulled by her salves, though his limbs still felt heavy. He pulled the blanket back over his shoulders, suddenly aware of how exposed he was.

The woman left the room for a moment. She was holding folded clothes in her arms when she returned. She held them out to him without a word.

He blinked, glancing down at the bundle. A dark tunic, trousers, and a leather belt. Worn, but clean. Definitely not made for a woman. Jon wondered who these had belonged to, and how she became in possession of them, but the look in her eyes urged him to keep his mouth shut. He took the clothes from her.

He studied her silhouette as she turned away from him. Her posture had changed again, she was tense now. Not like before, when her tongue dripped with sarcasm, or when her eyes had flicked to his chest and she’d quickly looked away.

Jon pulled the tunic over his head with effort. It smelled faintly of smoke and some other scent he couldn’t place. Something about it felt old, lived-in. The kind of cloth that belonged to someone. Someone not here anymore.

Too many questions stirred in his mind.

He set the belt aside and watched her move.

“Do you always bring half-dead men into your home and give them clothes that don’t belong to you?” He asked in a teasing way, but also testing.

 “Only the brooding ones who bleed all over my floor.”

Jon smirked faintly despite himself. Her tone was dry, but the humor in it wasn’t unkind. Still, he could sense the wall she’d put back up.

He adjusted the tunic’s fabric across his shoulders. “You haven’t told me your name yet.”

At that, she froze. Gaze not quite meeting his. “And you haven’t told me why the wildlings were chasing you, Jon.” 

He didn’t want to think about the way his stomach flipped when she said his name.

He huffed. That same strange feeling tugged at him again–recognition, maybe, or just unease. She wasn’t a wilding. Not exactly. Her voice sometimes slipped into something softer, more refined. Like she’d once been in the presence of silk instead of furs. 

But she wasn’t offering any explanations.

“Fair enough.” Was all Jon thought to say.

Her eyes finally met his again, a look of appreciation peaking through. She lingered on him for a moment longer before she nodded towards the back room.

“You need proper rest. Come on.”

Jon didn’t stand.

She raised a brow, “I promise not to drag you back into the snow.”

He grunted, struggling to get up. His legs trembled slightly, but he kept upright. She stepped beside him and slipped an arm under his to steady him. The closeness sent a ripple down his spine. He tried not to notice the curve of her body against his side. Tried not to breathe in the sweet warmth of her, the way her touch lingered just a second too long to feel entirely accidental. 

She helped him through the doorway and into the room. A simple cot waited, its fur blanket neatly folded. No personal touches. No signs of life.

As he sat down, she adjusted the blanket around him with surprising care. Her fingers brushed his arm, then his shoulder. He caught her looking at him again before she stepped back.

“I’ll let you rest.” She mumbled. “Try not to rip the stitches open. I’m not patching you up twice.”

She turned to leave, but stopped just short of the doorway. Jon watched her, eyes filled with interest.

She didn’t look back at him when she spoke. “Elynor.” 

Jon almost didn’t hear her, she was so quiet.

And then, she was gone.

Jon leaned back into the cot, staring at the beams overhead. The fabric of the tunic still carried a scent he didn’t recognize. The questions burned behind his ribs.

He didn’t know where he was, or what she was keeping from him. But she’d saved him. And somehow, with her strange eyes and quick tongue, she felt more dangerous than the men that nearly killed him.

He closed his eyes. 

Sleep came slow.

But her image lingered longer.

Chapter Text

Elynor lay awake long after the fire had dwindled to embers, the shadows on the ceiling shifting with the wind outside. Sleep, usually so easy to find in the hush of the forest, eluded her.

She feared that if he had ever found out what she truly was, it would be the end of everything. The old magic she carried, the secret she guarded like her own breath, the name Veyari she could never let slip from her lips. If Jon Snow returned to Castle Black and spoke of her, whispered of the strange girl who lived in the forests north of the Wall, she knew it could be the end for her.

Saving him already seemed more trouble than she had hoped. 

The man in the room beside hers–the crow with brooding eyes and a cautious mouth. Jon Snow.

It was foolish, really. She’d slept with wolves howling outside her door, with blizzards engulfing the cabin, and yet now, with a man she had saved from the snow, she couldn’t will her eyes closed for more than a few heartbeats.

She turned on her side and exhaled sharply, fingers tightening on the blanket.

She told herself it was the uncertainty that kept her up. He was a risk. A threat. She didn’t know what he’d do when he was fully healed–If he’d try to leave, if he’d come back with others, or if he’d even remember the girl who pulled him from death’s grip. But it wasn’t just that.

It was him.

The way he spoke–carefully, like each word was measured before being released. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching, as if trying to decipher her without daring to ask. She’d try to pry, and he pushed back with silence. But it wasn’t empty. No, his silence said too much.

And then there had been the moment when he asked about the clothes. Her heart had clenched so tightly, she nearly turned her back on him. The way he touched them, wore them, sat on the edge of Ser Merek’s bed...

The pang in her chest wasn’t all grief. Not exactly. It was something else. A hollowing. As if something long untouched had stirred.

She sighed and stared at the ceiling again.

He reminded her of things she’d buried. That brooding way of his, it was so damn frustrating, infuriating even. But it was honest.

Eventually, sleep came–fitful and thin.

When the sun rose, casting pale light across the room, she stayed under the covers longer than usual. Her limbs were heavy, her breath slow. She stared off at nothing, a knot of hesitation tightening in her gut.

Would he be awake? Gone? Would he look at her with questions in his eyes again? Would she be able to keep her guard up if he did?

“Pull yourself together,” she muttered, flinging the covers aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold on her bare feet. She dressed quickly, not bothering to braid her hair before padding towards the door.

The cabin was quiet. Too still. It never bothered her before, until now.

She stepped into the main room and glanced towards the doorway at the end of the hall.

Closed.

She exhaled, uncertain if it was relief or disappointment.

He hadn’t left, but he hadn’t come out either.

For a moment, she just stood there, the morning life slipping through the frosted windows and painted her skin in a warm glow. Her fingers twitched by her sides.

She told herself she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter. She told herself she didn’t need to see him. But then she found herself in front of his door, hand hovering over the wood.

For what felt like an eternity, Elynor stood frozen outside the room. The silence beyond was heavy, thick enough to choke on.

Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat feeling like a warning. She tried to steady her breath, but the knot in her stomach tightened.

What if he’s gone? The thought clawed at her like frostbite.

If he had left in the night, without warning, what would that mean? That he had exposed her secret. That he was running from whatever danger she might have brought on him. That he’d return to Castle Black and spill everything, turning her fragile existence into ashes. 

Or that she was just a very lousy host.

She hoped it was the latter. 

She swallowed hard, the weight of her fears pressing down. But she needed to know, needed to see for herself.

Slowly, she reached out and pushed the door open.

The room was dim, save for the soft morning light peaking through the windows. And there, on the narrow cot, was Jon Snow. 

His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths.

Relief flooded through her, warm and sudden, chasing the cold from her limbs.

He was here. Still alive. Still breathing.

For a moment, she just stood there, watching him sleep–his dark curls falling messily over his brow, the faint rise of scars and bruises beneath his pale skin. 

She let out a soft breath, half a smile tugging at her lips.

Thank the gods.

For now, he was safe, and so was she.

She turned away softly, not wanting to risk waking him.

The chill of the morning seeped into the cabin so she moved to stoke the dying embers of the hearth. The fire crackled reluctantly, orange tongues licking at the blackened logs. Warmth began to spread, chasing back the cold that clung stubbornly to the corners.

Her hands worked methodically–gathering kindling, shifting pots, preparing a simple meal. The scent of roasting root vegetables and dried herbs soon filled the small space, a comforting balm against the biting frost outside.

As she worked, her thoughts drifted uneasily back to the man resting just beyond the door. There was something about him - something that unsettled her, but also pulled at something deeper she couldn’t name.

Minutes stretched into hours. The morning light grew brighter, slipping through the cracks in the wooden walls and casting long shadows across the floor.

Then, the door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t notice at first. When she finally turned, there he was–standing in the doorway, still wrapped in the weight of sleep but steady and watchful.

For a moment, their eyes met.

Elynor’s heart started to race again.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence between them was thick, charged.

Elynor cleared her throat, stepping back to give herself some space. “You’re up earlier than I expected.”

He shifted his weight, glancing around the cabin like he was still unsure where he was, and to be fair, he didn’t know. “Couldn’t sleep.” He muttered, voice rough.

She studied him–the way the light caught the angles of his face, the faint shadow beneath his eyes. He looked worn, still fragile, but something in his gaze was steady. Reluctant. Like a man used to hiding more than just scars.

“I made some food,” she started, nodding towards the table where a simple meal waited. “You should eat.”

He didn’t move immediately, then stepped forward slowly. His eyes flicked to her briefly, lingering a second too long before looking away.

Elynor busied herself by the hearth, pretending not to notice. 

Inside, she wrestled with the strange tension curling between them, an invisible thread pulled taut by stolen glances and unspoken words.

“Where am I, exactly?” His voice broke the silence, cautious.

“North of the Wall,” she replied, voice steady but noncommittal.

He grunted, still scanning the room. He shifted his gaze towards her, eyes sharp despite the weariness. “How long have you been living beyond the Wall?”

Elynor flinched, caught off guard. Her breath hitched. How does he know? The question sliced through the cold air between them, and for the first time, she felt exposed. She searched his face, looking for any sign he might be guessing the truth.

“Well,” she said, feigning confusion and forcing a smirk to mask the sudden unease she felt, “if you’re trying to guess my age, you’re off to a very poor start.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed into slits, unamused. “I’m asking how long, not how old.”

She let out a soft chuckle that didn’t reach her eyes, shifting her weight against the rough wooden table. “Long enough to know better than to answer questions from a stranger wrapped in black.”

His patience thinned. “I don’t want to play games. How long?”

Elynor averted her gaze, the intensity in his eyes shook her to the core and left a deep pit in her stomach. She tried to think of another snarky response, but came up short.

She sighed. “How do you know I wasn’t born here?”

He sat up, his voice sharp. “You don’t carry the look of someone raised in the wild. The way you move, how you speak... there’s something different.”

Her pulse quickened, but she kept her voice steady, or at least tried her best to. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Jon’s shoulders tensed. The sunlight from the window struck his face, casting shadows over the planes of his cheeks–the raw, healing scars, the furrow between his brows, the clenched muscle in his jaw. “Stop deflecting.”

The words landed between them like a challenge. He held her gaze with such intensity that Elynor felt heat crawl up her neck. She shifted in her chair, the old wood groaning beneath her as if echoing her discomfort. 

She looked away, buying herself some time before answering. “Fine. I’ve been out here long enough to survive. That’s all you’re getting.”

Jon exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration lacing his voice. “You really like to answer everything with riddles, don’t you?”

The room fell silent again, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. But something shifted, Elynor could feel it. The air around them felt less cold, less guarded. 

Elynor gave him a slow, deliberate smile. It wasn’t warm, but it held a spark—just enough to try and stir the edges of his resolve. “You’ve got more than enough time while you wait for those wounds to heal. Might as well learn a little patience.”

She leaned forward then, her dark eyes brimming with curiosity. “So tell me, Jon Snow- what does that name mean?” There was no venom in her words, she was genuinely asking. “Why Snow?”

The name lingered in her thoughts like a chill draft through an open door, unsettling and persistent. Snow. It didn’t sound like any family name she could remember from her time South of the Wall, or anything Ser Merek had ever mentioned. It clung to him the way the cold clung to these lands, a name that felt both sharp and lonely. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much—why a single word could stir something uneasy in her chest—but the thought gnawed at her long after she spoke it.

Jon shifted uncomfortably. He looked away for a moment as if debating on what to tell her. “I’m a bastard. My father is-” He stopped himself abruptly, then continued with a colder edge, “-was a lord, and I never knew my mother.”

Elynor tilted her head, still puzzled. “Bastard? That’s... something people are called?” 

The word felt strange on her tongue, foreign. She searched her memories, trying to recall the faded lessons Ser Merek used to ramble on about–noble houses and banners with direwolves and krakens and roses. Most of it had drifted to the back of her mind. Unless the story involved betrayal, blood, or a scandal worth retelling, she never paid it much mind. Noble houses weren’t burdens in her world. They were just old words with too much weight.

Jon gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “In the North, it’s the name given to children who are born without a claim. No place in the family.” He hesitated, voice lower now. “It’s a mark, a reminder that you’re not fully one of them. You’re always on the edge–never quite part of a whole.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘claim’, but his change in demeanor told her that she shouldn’t ask. 

Elynor’s eyes lingered on him, absorbing the weight of his words. She felt guilty. She didn’t mean for her question to cause such despair, and she hadn’t expected such honesty in return. but the look in Jon’s eyes made Elyno’s heart feel heavy.

“That sounds lonely.” She whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

He didn’t look at her right away. But when he did, something in his eyes had changed, something softer around the edges. 

“It is.”

She didn’t speak, not for a while. Her thoughts tangled, the ache of loneliness something she understood all too well. She had always been between things–between places, between people, between truths. And suddenly, sitting across from Jon, from this stranger, she didn’t feel quite so strange herself. 

“So... who were you before you became a crow?”

Jon stilled at her words, his eyes turning a shade darker. She recognized the look–knew she struck a nerve in him, even if she didn’t mean to.

Elynor let out a slow sigh, the weight of regret settling in her chest. “I get it,” she murmured. “I had someone once–someone who looked after me out here. He was the closest thing to family I had. He taught me everything I know.” She looked down at her hands, fingers curling slightly to try and hold onto something that was long gone. She didn’t mention his name, couldn’t bring herself to. Some memories were still hers alone.

When she looked up, Jon hadn’t said anything. But his gaze was fixed on her, steady. Not prying, Not pushing. Just listening.

“You miss him,” he said, voice soft.

She nodded. “Every day.”

And for a breath, for a heartbeat, they were quiet. Not in discomfort, nor suspicion. Just quiet.

Jon’s gaze fell to the floor, thoughtful and distant, but then he tried to get up in his seat and winced.

Elynor noticed. “You’re in pain.”

Jon straightened, clearly trying to mask it, but the grimace lingered on his face. “It’s nothing.”

She stood before he could argue, brushing her hands against her thighs. Without another word, she moved towards the door, grabbing an iron-handled bucket that rested beneath the washbasin. As she carried it to the hearth, her mind began to wander–against her better judgement.

It’s just skin, she reminded herself, just a very handsome shirtless man.

But the image of him from the other day, the flash of lean muscle beneath his torn tunic, the rough shape of his smooth chest–it burned a little too brightly behind her eyes.

Gods, she thought, cheeks flushed as she set the bucket down near the fire. Get a grip. 

Jon’s voice cut into her thoughts, low and uncertain. “What… what are you doing?”

Elynor paused, the question pulling her back to herself. She forced a slow breath, trying to calm the heat in her chest before answering. “I… need to clean your wounds,” she said finally, keeping her tone as even as she could manage. “Before they get worse.”

She turned towards the pot of snowmelt already warming on the stones, watching the steam curl upward. She reached for the rag, dipped it into the water, and wrung it out over the bucket. The motion was automatic, but her thoughts were anything but calm. Her pulse was tapping out an entirely different rhythm now–quick, unsteady, traitorous.

It’s just to clean his wounds, that’s all. Nothing more.

She kept repeating those words in her head as she dipped the rag again. Her hands moved with ease, but her chest was tightening in a way that had nothing to do with healing wounds.

She had tended injuries before–on Ser Merek, on herself, even on Tormund once–but none of them had made her stomach coil like this. None had made her palms sweat or her thoughts scatter like startled birds.

There was something about Jon Snow. The guarded way he held himself, the storm in his molten brown eyes, the broken pieces he tried so hard to keep buried. It stirred something unfamiliar in her. 

And she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

When she returned with the water and rag, Jon was still sitting at the table, shoulders hunched slightly, watching the fire like it might offer him some kind of answer.

I know the feeling.

She stood in front of him, arms crossed over her chest to keep her hands steady.

“You need to take off your shirt.” Her voice was low and steady, though her heart was racing.

He looked down at the bucket in her hands, brows knitting. “I can do it myself.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Jon muttered under his breath, something Elynor couldn’t quite catch, then let out a sharp breath through his nose. His fingers moved to the hem of his tunic, hesitating. His eyes searched her face. Something shifted in his expression, reluctance maybe, or something closer to embarrassment. Slowly, he reached for the hem of his tunic.

Elynor tried not to stare. She really tried.

The fabric slid up, revealing a taut stomach, lean muscle, and skin marred with bruises and dried blood. For a moment, Elynor forgot how to breathe. When he finally pulled the tunic over his head and tossed it aside, she swallowed hard.

His torso was a map of scars and fresh wounds, cuts scabbing over, bruises blooming like violets beneath pale skin. Her eyes trailed over his collarbone, the hard lines of his chest, the rise and fall of his ribs. She didn’t flinch. But her stomach did a nervous flip. 

Heat rose in her cheeks as she knelt beside him, the rag trembling slightly between her fingers. She looked up at him once more. There was a tension in his chest–his muscles drawn tight beneath the surface, like he was preparing to flinch.

“This might sting.” She whispered, dipping the cloth and wringing it out again.

“I’ve felt worse,” Jon replied, but his voice was lower now. Less sure.

She pressed the cloth to his ribs, gently wiping away the old blood, and trying hard not to let her hand linger too long. His body tensed under her touch. 

“Sorry.” She murmured, though she wasn’t sure what for–the pain or the closeness. Maybe both.

As she leaned closer, her chest nearly brushed his knee, and she realized how intimately close they were. Close enough to see the way his throat worked when he swallowed. Close enough to smell him–a mix of sweat, pine, and something rougher beneath it.

Her pulse quickened.

Stop it.

She moved slower now, cautious. The fire from the hearth casted a soft amber glow across his bare skin.

Her fingers brushed the edge of one particularly deep cut, and swore she felt the ripple of a shiver. He was warm, even under the dampness. She hesitated for a heartbeat. He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust me. The thought pricked at her unexpectedly, sharper than she liked.

“You don’t have to be so rigid,” she said softly, her voice curling at the edges. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

As soon as she said it, she felt a flush creep up her neck. Gods, why did I say that out loud? But the moment lingered between them, tender and fragile, and she couldn’t bring herself to take it back.

He looked down at her, his mouth parted slightly. “’m not afraid of you.” His voice held a low rasp.

Elynor said nothing. She moved to clean the deeper gash along his side, her fingers feathering lightly across it–too lightly, maybe. She didn’t need to touch him like that, but a part of her wanted to.

Suddenly, his hand shot out and gripped her wrist. Not hard, but enough to stop her. 

Elynor’s eyes grew wide as his gaze pierced hers. Her breath hitched. The room felt smaller. Her skin felt hot, too hot.

“You’re shaking,” Jon said, his voice a low hum.

She hadn’t realized she was.

She tried to pull back, but he didn’t let go. His thumb brushed against the inside of her wrist–light, testing, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to push her away or pull her in.

“I’m fine.” She shot back, but the words came out more soft and uncertain.

He studied her, his grip on her wrist tightening. “You don’t look fine.”

Her gaze dipped to his bare chest, then up again–bolder this time. “Neither do you.”

Where did that come from?

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them seemed to buzz.

Finally, he let go of her wrist. Slowly. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to or not.

She dipped the cloth again, then reached up to press it against another wound on his shoulder, this time closer to his neck. Her fingers skimmed the curve of his collarbone, and she heard his breath catch in his throat.

She lingered there, her hand ghosting over a fresh bruise, her mind plagued with thoughts she didn’t want to name. Thoughts she couldn’t stop

She had never been this close to anyone before—never touched someone like this, and felt the air between them hum in response. She had tended scrapes and cuts, yes, but those were different. This was different. This was him.

The realization settled over her like a second heartbeat, quick and insistent. She had never been this intimate with anyone, let alone a man, and the sensation was overwhelming. Every brush of her fingers, every inch of warm skin beneath them, sent a nervous thrill spiraling through her chest.

It was confusing, almost frightening, to feel so drawn to him when she barely understood why, barely knew him. Vulnerability coiled inside her, a mix of curiosity and something softer—something dangerous. She hated how much she didn’t want to step back.

.

Her fingers grazed his neck again, slower this time. Testing the line between tending a wound and touching him simply to touch him.

She didn’t know what she was doing anymore. Only that she was doing it.

Jon didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes followed every small motion of her hand, his jaw clenched tight. Elynor had a feeling it wasn’t because of pain.

A single drop of water slid down his chest from the rag. She followed it with her eyes–watched it trace the lines of muscles, down past the curve of his ribs. 

“Elynor.”

Her name on his lips stopped her breath cold. It was the first time he’d said it–really said it–and it sent a heat through her, low and insistent. The sound of it, rough and quiet, lingering in the air like a hand against skin. Gods, she liked the way he said it, and she hated herself for it.

His voice was tinged with something. A warning, or maybe a plea.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Her hands kept working, but slower now, more delibrate. Every part of her was too aware of him–his body, his scent, the way his breath had grown shallower.

She leaned in to dab the cut beneath his collarbone, and her chest brushed his arm–barely, but enough to feel the sudden tension pulse through him.

“You’re staring.” She teased, without looking up.

“You’re not exactly making it easy not to.”

She met his gaze then. His eyes were darker now, pupils blown wide, and the silence between them shifted–thick with something heavier than curiosity.

“Is this part of your healing process?” He asked, so quiet she would’ve missed it if he wasn’t inches from her.

“If it is,” she murmured, “are you going to stop me?”

The words left her mouth before she could catch them, and her heart lurched. Gods, Elynor. Heat flared in her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and something far more dangerous. She almost wanted to snatch the words back out of the air, to hide them before he could see the rawness in them.

She had never spoken to anyone like this before. Never dared to. The boldness felt foreign on her tongue, and yet… liberating. Terrifying, yes, but thrilling too, like walking the edge of a cliff and leaning just a little too far over.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she searched his face, half-expecting him to pull away, to recoil, to look at her like she was foolish. What is wrong with me? she thought, almost blanching at herself. I don’t even know him… not really. And yet her body refused to listen to her sense.

His voice tore through her thoughts. She watched as his eyes darted to her lips before meeting hers. “No.”

The word struck her like a lit match. Her heart kicked in her chest. 

Feeling bolder, she dipped the cloth one last time and pressed it to a spot just below his ribs, fingers brushing the edge of the tunic laying deftly in his lap. A gasp escaped his lips. His body coiled.

Goosebumps erupted across his skin–Elynor knew it wasn’t from the cold.

“Almost done.”

His hand came up–not to stop her, not to push her away–but to rest lightly on her thigh. Not claiming, not guiding, just there. Steady and warm.

“You keep touching me like that,” his voice strained, “and I won’t be able to keep pretending I don’t want more.”

She gave him the ghost of a smile. “Then stop me.”

He didn’t.

His fingers curled slightly on her thigh, as if testing the boundaries of her willingness. Her skin burned beneath his touch, her body leaning in before she could stop it. His breath was shallow, warm against her cheek as she hovered close–too close.

“You should stop me,” She whispered, though her voice betrayed her. It shook, ached for something more.

His gaze was locked onto hers, eyes dark and unreadable. “I can’t.”

Elynor’s breath caught. She felt it–the coil of heat low in her stomach, the ache of something almost primal unspooling between them. She pressed closer, her hand resting flat against his bare chest, feeling the quickened rhythm of his heart.

Jon’s hand moved up her thigh, slow but certain, sending shivers down her spine. His other hand came to her waist, fingers pressing through the fabric of her tunic as if he needed to ground himself. Their foreheads nearly touched. Her lips parted.

He said her name again, like honey dripping from is tongue. “Elynor..”

Her name on his lips undid something inside her. It rolled off his tongue like a secret, a promise. A surge of heat pulsed through her, curling her toes inside her boots. She wanted to hear him say it again, over and over.

Her hand moved of its own accord, rising to his cheek, her thumb brushing along his bottom lip. The gap between them closed further, their lips almost touching. One more inch and their mouths would collide.

And then, something in her chest pulled taut. That thread of doubt, sudden and sharp.

She froze. What am I doing?

The heat, the want–it was still there, but a flicker of fear stirred beneath it. Not of him, but of what it meant. Of who she was, and what she could never be.

Her hand dropped from his face, gently, and she pulled back an inch–just enough for the cold air to slip between them again, sharp and sobering. Her breath trembled.

Jon let go of her wrist slowly, the warmth of his touch lingering on her skin. He said nothing, but she could see the war in his eyes. His lips parted, as if he meant to speak, but whatever words he’d been reaching for dissolved before they could touch the surface.

“I-” she whispered, voice barely audible. “We should... I need to check the bandages.”

It was a poor excuse, and they both knew it.

Jon didn’t push. Though something flickered in his eyes and his grip on her tightened momentarily, he nodded and slowly pulled his hand back from her waist. Elynor hated how much she immediately missed his touch. 

The space between them was filled with silence again–but not the same kind. This one simmered.

Elynor exhaled through her nose, lowering her gaze as she picked up the clean rag again. Her hands moved with forced purpose, dabbing gently at the edges of his wound. The cloth was cool against his fevered skin.

Neither of them spoke as she dipped the cloth back in the bucket. Water dripped from her fingers. She wrung the rag tightly, pretending not to notice the way his eyes lingered on her mouth or how her hands shook ever so slightly when they brushed his chest again.

His skin was flushed now–not just from the cold. His breathing was still uneven, and his gaze still heavy on her.

With practiced care, she wrapped new bandages across his ribs and tied it off. She tucked the edge in neatly, letting her fingers linger for a second longer than necessary.

“There,” she said softly. “That’ll hold.”

Jon looked down at the fresh bandages, then her. “Thank you.”

She nodded but didn’t meet his eyes.

She rose from where she’d been kneeling beside him, wiping her damp hands on the cloth. Her heart was still thudding in her chest. The bucket sat between them, cooling rapidly.

Elynor turned away and busied herself with folding the unused bandages, her back to him.

“You should lay back down,” she said after a long pause. “Rest will help you heal faster.”

He didn’t argue. Just sat there, shirtless and silent, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

She didn’t look at him again. Her mind wouldn’t stop spinning, thoughts colliding and tangling until she could hardly breathe. She couldn’t believe she had almost… Gods, she couldn’t even finish the thought. The weight of it sat in her chest, hot and heavy, thrumming in time with her pulse.

And though the fire had burned low in the hearth, the warmth between them hadn’t left-it hung there, unspoken, unfinished.

Chapter Text

A MONTH LATER

Time always moved differently in the North–days bleeding into each other, the sun never rising high enough to matter. It had been a month since Elynor found Jon Snow bleeding in the snow, on the brink of death. And what shocked her the most wasn’t that he lived, but that he stayed. 

Especially after what happened between them during one of the first nights he stated. The memory still haunted her. The heat of his skin beneath her fingers. The way his breath had hitched when she touched him. The way she almost let herself go completely.

She’d been the one to step back. She had to. But the memory still burned in her mind–vivid and humiliating. She hadn’t meant to let it get that far. She wasn’t some foolish girl, swooning over a man with brooding eyes and a hero’s weight on his shoulders.

But yet, she had let him get that far. She wanted him to.

She’d always believed she had a tougher resolve. That nothing could come between her and the life her and Ser Merek had fought to build out here, away from the lies, the grief, the blood-soaked history of who she really was. And certainly, not a man who was a brother of the Night’s Watch. But Jon Snow–he wasn’t like the others.

He didn’t demand, didn’t pry. He just was. Quiet. Watchful. Full of shadows, but never cruel.

There was a pain in him–deep and buried–but not hardened like stone. It moved inside him like a river under ice. She could see it in the way he stared at the fire when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the way he carefully spoke to her. How he never touched her again–not even when they stood shoulder to shoulder hunting for their meals or gathering moss from frozen bark. An inner turmoil that Elynor felt she knew all too well herself.

Jon was measured, honest, and deliberate.

It reminded her of Ser Merek. She hadn’t thought of him in months without a deep pit filling her stomach, but now, the memory made her lips quirk. That startled her more than anything. She hadn’t believed she was capable of remembering the knight who once protected her with anything other than ache. But Jon Snow had shifted something in her. Reached some locked door she didn’t even realize she’d kept bolted.

That terrified her more than anything.

Because Jon Snow was doing things to her–dangerous things. It was like he’d put some kind of spell on her. One she couldn’t shake, or one she didn’t want to.

Since that night, the air between them had softened. There was less of an edge, less suspicion. They had stopped speaking in half-truths. She still didn’t tell him everything–how could she? But she found herself offering more than she expected. A story here, a laugh there. Even his brooding lightened at times. He asked questions, made quiet jokes. 

Somewhere along the way, Jon Snow had become her friend—and she didn’t have many of those, not out here in the North beyond the Wall, not like him. It was weird, the word foreign to her even as she thought about it. Friend. 

She thought back to one afternoon while they were out hunting, the forest quiet around them except for the soft crunch of snow under their boots and the occasional caw of a raven overhead. Jon walked ahead a few paces, his bow in hand, every movement precise, eyes scanning the trees like he expected danger at every turn.

Elynor tilted her head, watching the set of his shoulders, the furrow in his brow. He was always so… serious.

“How did you make any friends with all the brooding?” she asked suddenly, her tone light and teasing, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Jon stopped mid-step, turning to glance back at her with a glare that was more defensive than angry. “I don’t brood.”

“You do,” she said with a smirk. “You’re brooding right now.”

He shook his head and turned back toward the path, muttering something under his breath.

“I mean,” she continued, letting her words poke at him the way she might prod a campfire, “I can just picture you at the Wall, scowling at everyone. I’m shocked anyone talks to you at all.”

That made him stop again, and this time, he gave her a full-on look—part incredulous, part wounded pride. “I do have friends.”

“Oh?” she prompted, arching an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“Sam,” he said first, almost instinctively. “Grenn. Edd. Pyp.” He hesitated a moment, and then added, softer, “My brothers.”

Elynor tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “Those are names. What are they like?”

Jon glanced away, shifting the strap of the quiver on his shoulder. She thought he might ignore the question, but instead, he sighed. “Sam… he’s loyal. Smart, too—smarter than anyone gives him credit for. He reads more than anyone I know. Grenn’s strong. He can make me laugh, even when I don’t want to. Edd…” A faint smile flickered across his face, small but real. “Edd’s miserable. Always expects the worst. But he’s still there. Always there. And Pyp…” His voice warmed, just slightly. “Pyp’s a talker. Too much, sometimes. But he never quits. He makes the Wall feel less…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Less lonely?” she guessed.

He glanced at her then, and though he didn’t confirm it out loud, the answer was in his eyes.

Elynor had watched him for a long moment, taking in that quiet weight. He missed them, she realized—not just the Wall or his duty, but them. The people who made him feel like he belonged somewhere. And she wondered what that felt like. To have that kind of tether to someone, to carry pieces of them with you wherever you went.

It had been a nice moment, a rare one. A thread tying them closer together.

However, something still loomed between them.

Jon’s wounds had taken a few weeks to fully heal. Long enough for her to memorize the curve of them. To learn where the worst pain lingered. But once the cuts had closed and faded into pale scars, he stopped baring his skin. He kept his tunic on, and she didn’t ask.

Still, every time she handed him a fresh bandage, her fingers itched. She hated how disappointed she felt.

How her stomach twisted at the memory of the way his chest rose under her palm.

She told herself it was better this way because once he was well enough, she thought he’d leave. Return to the Night’s Watch. Walk away and report what he’d seen. What he’d survived. Who she was.

And if he did that...

She’d have to run, or fight. Or worse.

She knew what the world did to people like her. The Veyari had already been hunted once. Turned into puppets. Their magic ripped from their bodies and offered to men with power like gold for a King’s stores. She would never let that happen again. She couldn’t.

But Jon didn’t leave. He stayed.

He helped her with the cabin. With collecting herbs, with keeping the firewood dry and the snares full. He repaired the roof with her, hammering side by side in silence. She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d become until he was there every day, handing her things without asking, saying little but always noticing.

It unsettled her how much comfort it brought to her.

She missed Ser Merek in a quieter way now. The grief was still there, buried deep, but it didn’t cut as sharp. Maybe it was the quiet strength in Jon’s presence, or maybe it was just that someone finally stayed. 

Despite the softening, a war still waged in her heart.

Sometimes, before dawn, while Jon still slept under furs in the other room, she would sneak out. She’d step into the frozen world, look up to the sky, and feel it–the hum of her blood, the pull of the magic.

The shifting came easier now. Her magic wasn’t dwindling, it was thriving. But she didn’t dare use it as often as she wanted to, not with Jon here. She was afraid he’d see, afraid he’d know.

He’d ask few questions, never pressed–but how long would that last? What if he woke early and followed her? What if he caught her mid-shift, between wings and bone?

She didn’t want to know how he’d look at her then.

So she flew only when necessary. Quick patrols in the sky. Always before dawn, and always careful. Tormund’s words still echoed in her mind, sharp as cracked bone:

“And it ain’t just the living they ought to be worried about.”

So she flew, low and careful, always circling back to the cabin before he woke.

She didn’t want to get too comfortable. And yet, every time she landed–every time she shifted back and tiptoed into the cabin to find Jon still asleep, she felt it again.

That ache. That impossible, foolish ache. The one that whispered stay, and asked what if?

This morning, Elynor woke too late.

The light was already creeping across the windowpanes when Elynor opened her eyes, soft and pale through the frosted glass. She cursed under her breath as she sat up. She hadn’t meant to sleep in.

She rubbed her temples and swung her legs over the side of the bed, guilt prickling under her skin. Every morning was a chance to scout–every missed one a risk. She was usually more careful. But this morning?

This morning, she’d let herself drift.

You’re growing soft, Elynor.

Not because her magic had weakened–it hadn’t. It thrummed beneath her skin more sharply than ever. She could feel the shift always waiting just under the surface now, yearning to be used. But, she hadn’t shifted in three days. Hadn’t flown once this week. Because of Jon, because she didn’t want to see the look in his eyes if he did know.

She groaned as she pulled on her boots. She shoved her hair into a loose braid, grabbing her cloak from its hook before stepping out of her room and into the main part of the cabin.

Jon was already there.

He sat at the table near the hearth, elbows resting on the worn wood, steam rising from the tin cup between his hands. He was half-shadowed by the fire, his face quiet, unreadable. But when he looked up and saw her, something flickered behind his eyes–something softer.

“You planning on sleeping through the whole morning?” He asked, voice rough with sleep.

She rolled her eyes and walked past him to the cupboard. “I like how you assume I’m just now up while you’re sipping your tea.” 

“I would’ve heard you leave.”

“You don’t know everything I’m capable of,” she replied, with a smirk on her lips and playful mischief dancing in her eyes.

He arched his brow, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on her, just long enough that her heart gave a strange twist. She looked away.

Instead, she rummaged through the cupboard and plucked some salted rabbit meat from a jar near the back. “I didn’t mean to sleep in,” she admitted. “Won’t happen again.” She said the last part more to herself, than to him.

He sipped his drink, then said, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“No, but I’m giving one anyway.”

Jon chuckled, “That’s new.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

She leaned against the wall next to the hearth and took a bite from the salted meat, chewing slowly, debating her next words carefully.

He eyed her. “You’re acting strange.”

“Strange? I’m delightful.”

“He only hummed in response. She gave him a smug look. “I’m sorry, did you join the Night’s Watch because you thought you’d meet someone less strange north of the Wall?”

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Didn’t think I’d meet anyone at all.”

Elynor titled her head to him. A question burning on her tongue, forcing its way out of her mouth before she could think twice. “Do you regret it? Joining them?”

She mentally slid a hand down the side of her face, why did she care? But a small voice in the back of her mind told her why. Jon’s voice brought her back to the conversation.

“I took an oath.” He said, fingers tightening around his cup. “And I meant it.”

She studied him for a moment, trying to read his expression. “That’s not what I asked.”

He met her gaze. “What would be the point of regretting it?”

“Peace of mind,” she thought aloud. “Or at least the freedom to say ‘I hate this, this is shit, I wish I was somewhere else.’”

That earned her a real smile–small and tired, but there. It brought one to her own lips.

“I don’t get to wish for things,” he mumbled.

She nodded slowly. “Then I’ll wish them for you.”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. She blinked, surprised at herself.

Gods what am I saying?

She hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t even known the thought was forming until it spilled out, uninvited and unguarded.

Wishing things for herself had always felt dangerous, foolish, weak. But wishing them for someone else? For him? She wanted to run back into her room, lock the door, and never come out. It felt too intimate, but it was the truth, and somehow, it slipped through her defenses. 

Before Jon could reply, she heard it. Her head snapped up, sharp and sudden. There was a sound. Barely there. A shuffle in the snow outside. A soft crunch, followed by silence.

Jon said nothing, but she could tell he hadn’t heard it, whatever it was. She knew that look in his eyes, and it wasn’t alertness. He was still watching her, eyes slightly narrowed, as if trying to decipher what had changed in her face.

Her whole body stiffened.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three hard knocks pounded against the door and her heart sank.

Jon stood, already reaching for his blade that leaned against the wall, but Elynor grabbed his wrist.

“Hide,” she whispered through gritted teeth, not a request but a command. 

He stared at her. “What-”

“Now, Jon. Go!”

Another knock, harder.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, but obeyed. She watched him as he silently moved to Ser Merek’s room, closing the door as softly as he could. 

She turned back towards the entrance to her cabin. Her heart was pounding loud in her ears. She knew that if she had woken up earlier, that if she had scouted the skies, that she would’ve seen whoever was at her door earlier. The thought made her body feel heavy.

She steeled herself. Whoever was at her door was about to be reminded that she didn’t take too kindly to unwanted visitors in her home. 

With one last glance towards where Jon had disappeared, she strode towards the door.

And swung it open.

JON'S POV

The door to the backroom clicked shut behind him. Jon’s boots barely made a sound as he stood by the door, every muscle tensed, breath shallow as he listened. The wood was thin; he could make out the creak of Elynor’s footsteps as she crossed the main room, followed by the sound of the front door opening.

A rush of cold air. Boots scraped the threshold.

“Well, you gonna open it, or should I start pissin’ on it?” came a voice-rough, loud, and northern in a way that made Jon stiffen.

Elynor’s voice snapped back like a whip. “If you piss on it, I’ll shove your own boots down your throat.”

A deep chuckle followed. It wasn’t polite. It was all teeth and no care.

“There she is. Knew you hadn’t lost your fire..”

The man’s tone was unmistakably wildling. No soldier. No knight. No caution or title or decency. Just blunt words and half-mocking growls.

“Not here just to see yer pretty face, tree witch.” the man went on.

Jon’s brows drew tight. What in the gods' names did that mean?  Whatever it meant, it left a bad taste in Jon’s mouth.

Elynor shot back, “You think I’d believe you ever came here to see a woman’s face?”

He snorted. “’Pends on where the face is.”

Gods, Jon thought, grinding his teeth. The words cut sharper than he expected, something bristling in his chest before he could name it. Jon’s fingers itched towards his belt out of instinct, only to realize the belt was bare. When his hand met empty air where Longclaw’s hilt should have been, a curse nearly slipped past his lips.

The sword, his sword, was still sitting by the hearth in the other room.

Fool. Should’ve had it on you. 

He forced his hand back down, shoulders rigid. He couldn’t help her by rushing out unarmed. Besides, the man hadn’t raised his voice. No threat, not yet.

But Jon didn’t like the way he talked to her. Didn’t like the familiarity in it. That easy confidence.

“I’m not here for stories either,” he continued from earlier. “Been seein’ strange things near the ridge. Shadows movin’ fast. Tracks that ain’t from elk or bear. My men say they heard something screamin’ in the wind a few nights back. Sounded like death itself. You seen anythin’?”

Jon leaned closer to the door, barely breathing.

“I don’t spend my time chasing ghost stories.” Elynor replied smoothly.

“Hah.” The man huffed. “No, you just turn into ‘em.”

A pause. Jon’s heart kicked harder.

“Careful,” she warned.

The man chuckled again. “I’m not here to drag you out and tie you to a tree,” he said, voice lowering, “not yet, little bird.”

Jon’s spine stiffened like a struck chord.

Little bird?

The words sparked something hot and sharp in his gut. He didn’t like it. Not from that man. Not said with that grin he could hear even through the wall. Like she was something fragile, like he knew her. 

Elynor didn’t seem to flinch, but her tone cooled further. “Try it, and you’ll leave with arrows in your ass again.”

The wilding barked out a laugh that almost shook the whole cabin.

“You always did have a bite,” he said. “One of the things I liked about you.”

Liked about you?

Jon’s nostrils flared, breath held as he stared at the splintering wood of the door like it had personally offended him. He didn’t want to listen–but he couldn’t stop. That name, that laugh, the way the wilding spoke to her. Like he belonged in her world, like he’d known her longer than Jon had.

And gods help him, he probably had.

But still, little bird?

She was nothing like a bird. Not something kept in a cage.

Elynor was all claw and fire and moonlight in motion. There was nothing ‘little’ about her. And no part of Jon wanted to think of her being called that by someone else.

Jon exhaled slowly through his nose, peeling his hand from the doorframe like it burned.

You’re being foolish. He told himself that with every ounce of discipline he had. She can speak with who she likes, you’re not her keeper.

Whatever that rough man called her–whatever history they might share–had nothing to do with him. Elynor had made no promises. And if something had passed between them that night in her cabin... it had been a moment. That was all. A lapse in judgement. She was barely even his friend. He didn’t care. 

He didn’t.

Jon stepped back from the door, arms crossing as he forced his breathing to even. His pulse still throbbed under his skin, but he masked it with a scowl and silence.

In the other room, the wildling’s voice dropped a little, tone shifting from teasing to something more serious.

“Truth is,” the wilding said, “one o’ my scouts saw somethin’ a few weeks back. Said it looked like a dead crow crawled outta the snow.”

Jon froze.

Tormund continued, “my men were huntin’ him, thought he was dead for sure. But somethin’ strange happened. Saw a fuckin’ wolf drag the crow outta the snow. Swore it vanished right into the wind.”

Ghost?

A curse bubbled up in Jon’s throat, but he swallowed it down. The sick twist in his gut hit him like a ton of bricks.

The man outside was still speaking. Still smiling, by the sound of his voice.

And Elynor hadn’t told him anything. Didn’t so much as flinch. He hated how much that steadied him.

“The snow does that. Covers your tracks, makes shadows into beasts. If they were hunting a crow, maybe they lost it.”

There was a pause. Jon could hear the faint rustle of furs shifting.

The man’s voice came again, sharper this time. “Yer tellin’ me you haven’t seen anything strange? Nothin’ limping through the trees, bleedin’ all over the snow?”

Elynor’s voice stayed cool. “You know I keep to myself. I haven't seen anything worth remembering.”

Jon caught the slight pause as she spoke. Calculated. He knew that tone in others–but in her, it sounded like armor being fastened, link by link.

The man didn’t seem to believe her.

“Yer tellin’ me the sharp-eyed tree witch missed somethin’ that damn near died in her forest?” He barked. “You see better than most men breathe.” The man’s tone was accusatory, closing in.

There was that name again. Tree witch. What did it mean?

She answered, slow and level. “I see what I choose to see.”

The wilding made a low noise, half laugh and half scoff. “That right? Thought you gave a shit about what walks in these woods.”

“I do,” she said, and this time her voice was harder. “But not every blood trail needs my attention. Especially not some dying crow crawling where he shouldn’t be.”

Jon felt heat rush up his neck. Dying crow. She said it so plainly, so... believably.

Still, the man didn’t let up.

“You sure? Thought I smelled a man’s blood on the wind just before I got here. Fresh. Almost sweet.”

Jon’s hand twitched again, an instinct to move, to act, but there was no blade at his side. Just air. The memory of Longclaw by the hearth hit him like a punch. He cursed himself in silence. 

Elynor’s tone went sharper now, just enough edge to slice. “If I’d found a crow, do you really think I’d keep it from you? Let him live?”

The silence that followed cracked with implication. Jon’s gut twisted. There was something in the way she said that, cold and convincing, that for a moment, even he nearly believed her.

Still, the wilding didn’t respond right away.

Then, a rough grunt. “Aye, suppose you would.” A pause, then the creak of shifting weight. “You always were a strange one, little bird. Still not sure if I oughta kiss you or gut you.”

“Try either and I’ll snap your fingers off, Tormund.” Elynor said flatly, but there was an ease in her voice now, like she knew the rhythm of this game. Like they’d done this dance before. 

The man gave a raspy chuckle. “Good.”

Jon heard the thud of heavy boots retreating out the door, snow crunching underfoot, and then... nothing. Just the wind scratching at the cabin walls and the sound of his own breathing.

He stayed still, his hand hovering by his side where Longclaw should have been. His fingers clenched uselessly. He could still hear the wilding’s voice echoing in his head–little bird–like a sliver of ice down his spine.

He didn’t like how familiar it sounded. Didn’t like that Elynor hadn’t recoiled in some way. Frankly, he didn’t like any of it.

His heart was still pounding. Not from fear, not entirely. Something else clawed at him, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. Or more like he didn’t want to.

Whatever it was, he buried it under the cold discipline drilled into him since he was a boy in Winterfell. He was just a guest here. A recovering crow. Nothing more. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Chapter Text

Elynor shut the door behind her with a soft thud, waiting for the crunches of footsteps to fade before she let out a breath she’d been holding. Her heart still pounded, but the cold no longer felt like it came from outside.

She turned and leaned her back against the door, eyes shut for a moment. Then she pushed away from it and moved slowly down the hall, towards the room where Jon waited.

Her steps made no sounds across the floor, but her thoughts marched loud and unrelenting.

She’d handled it. Just barely.

Tormund had pushed harder than she’d expected. She should’ve known he would. That wasn’t a man who trusted easily–and certainly not one to let things go without digging deep first.

“If I found a crow,” she’d said, forcing her voice to stay calm, “do you really think I’d keep it from you? Let him live?”

The look he gave her then–it had lingered longer than she liked. Sharp eyes, narrowing just enough to make her skin crawl with the thought: he knows.

Or at least, he suspects.

And that damn sword–gods. Her stomach turned just thinking about it.

She hadn’t realized until it was too late. Jon’s sword, resting just beside the hearth, close enough to the open room that if Tormund had stepped one foot farther in, he might’ve seen the glint of its hilt. Might’ve recognized it for what it was.

He didn’t. Or at least, she hoped he didn’t. She’d shifted her body, just slightly, blocking the view under the guise of stoking the fire, talking too much, too quickly trying to steer him back towards the door. Every nerve in her body had been drawn tight in that moment, but she didn’t let it show.

She hoped.

Still, she couldn’t shake the weight of it now. Of how close it had all come to unraveling. Not just for her–but for Jon.

What am I doing?

That question had been circling for weeks now, growing louder in moments like this. She didn’t owe him protection. He wasn’t hers to keep safe. But the thought of something happening to him, because of her... it made her stomach knot in a way she didn’t want to name.

She reached for the door, then paused.

Her hand hovered for a moment before curling around the handle. She opened it slowly.

“Jon?” she said softly, slipping inside.

The room was dim. He was standing near the door– shoulders drawn tight, like he was still listening for Tormund’s voice just beyond the wall.

She shut the door gently behind her.

“He’s gone,” she sighed. “For now.”

Her voice was quieter than she meant it to be.

Her eyes glanced towards him, searching his face. He looked... wound up. Like a wire stretched too tight.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Jon hadn’t moved. He stood there, jaw set, shadows dark beneath his eyes. His arms were folded tightly across his chest–like he was still bracing for something, or holding something in.

Elynor closed the distance slowly. “You can breathe, you know.” She kept her tone light, trying to ease his tension.

A beat passed. Jon didn’t look at her.

“What did he want?” He asked.

She thought to deflect at first, but she didn’t see a point in lying. He should know why Tormund was here, that they were still searching for him. Before she could form a response, Jon spoke again.

“The wildling.” His voice was clipped, eyes still fixed ahead. “Tormund. That was his name, wasn’t it?”

A pressure settled in her chest. Of course he had heard them, the walls of the cabin were far too thin for him not to.

“You were listening.” She meant it to come out as a question, but it fell from her lips as more of a fact.

“I’m not deaf.”

A glare found its way onto her face. “Then you know I saved you,” she tried again to ease the tension, tried to keep her tone light. “Again.”

That got something–a flicker in his eyes, the faintest twitch of his jaw.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“You keep saying that,” she countered, folding her arms. She was starting to get agitated by his demeanor. “But you keep ending up in these situations.”

He said nothing.

Her brows lifted, she tried to meet his eyes but he wouldn’t let her. “He was asking questions. Thought he or one of his men might’ve seen something in the woods. I said no. That’s it.”

A long pause. Then, his tone darker, edged with something else: “He knew you. Spoke to you like he’s known you for some time.”

Elynor frowned, a feeling formed in the pit of her stomach that made her sick. “What are you getting at?”

“He called you little bird. Said he wasn’t just here for your pretty face.”

Pretty face. If he hadn’t sounded like he was accusing her, she might’ve blushed at the sound of that word coming from his mouth–even if it was secondhand. But right now, she only felt heat rising in her for an entirely different reason.

Why was he looking at her like she was some stranger–or worse, an enemy?

She held her chin high despite the gnawing feeling in her gut. “You think I've been... involved with him?” Whether he thought it was intimate or not, Elynor didn’t like what he was implying. 

Jon’s shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t say that.”

“No but you’re thinking it.” She snapped. “Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

The word slipped out before she could catch it. Jealous. Gods, she hadn’t meant to say that.

As soon as it was in the air between them, it felt too raw, too real. She didn’t even know if it was true. Jon just kept acting like every other sentence from her was some kind of betrayal. Cold one minute, biting the next. And for what?

Why was he trying so hard to push her away?

He hadn’t been like this, moments before Tormund showed up at her doorstep. Now, he barely looked at her at all unless it was a scowl. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Those words hit her like a punch to the gut. The venom in his voice, the dark look in his eyes, it felt like she was drowning. 

“You’d rather think I’m sleeping with a wildling than admit what’s actually bothering you?”

“You don’t know what you’re risking.” 

Elynor froze. The words landed sharp, colder than the wind against her skin. Something in his tone–dismissive, detached–hit a nerve. She didn’t speak right away.

You don’t know what you’re risking. 

Like she was some stupid girl who’d stumbled into danger without realizing it. Like she hadn’t lived with risk her entire life–hadn’t shaped her every choice around it.

She knew exactly what she was risking. Probably more than he did. He didn’t have to live with what she was. Didn’t have to wonder if her secret would slip, if someone would look too long or ask the wrong questions. She was the one who would be hunted, not him.

Her hands balled into fists, and when she finally spoke, her voice was even. Controlled. But the heat was there beneath it.

She took a step closer to him. “Maybe I should have left you to die in the snow.”

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. For a second, Jon's wall cracked. She could see something in his eyes, something that made bile rise in her throat. But just as quickly as it appeared, his brooding mask returned, harder than before.

“You should have.”

That was it. Elynor had reached her limit. Whatever patience she’d had for Jon Snow snapped clean in two.

“Why Jon? Because you’re afraid? Because it’s easier to push me away than admit you might care?”

He didn’t answer, Elynor didn’t give him enough time to. 

“You can hide behind your duty and your words. But don’t drag me into your self-loathing.”

His eyes met hers then, and the weight behind them was colder than the wind outside. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No,” she ground out, voice steel. “Don’t talk to me like I don’t understand, Jon. I know what I’m risking. I can take care of myself.” She had for years, she wasn’t going to stop now for anyone, not even him.

When he still didn’t respond, she turned around. 

“Elynor-”

But she was already at the door. She yanked it open. “Go if you’re going to go, Jon. But don’t pretend it’s for my sake.”

The door slammed shut behind her before he could speak. Elynor didn’t look back as she stormed to the window across the room. The light was fading from the sky. The chill of the pane seeped into her skin and steadied her–just barely. 

She didn’t want him to leave  because he was the first real friend she had ever known. Someone who had given her a glimpse, however small, of life beyond the endless snow and solitude. Someone who, for a little while, made her forget what she was… who she was.

But she knew it couldn’t last. Not with the truth of her blood, her magic, shadowing her every step. Not with who he was bound to be.

Jon Snow was a brother of the Night’s Watch, his vows like iron chains. His life was sworn to a cause greater than himself, and there would never be space in that world for someone like her.

And she was a Veyari, a secret too dangerous to be revealed, a shadow in the wilds. A place where few dared tread, and fewer still could truly understand. 

The space between them was wider than the Wall itself.

She had let herself hope, foolishly, that she could have this, deserved this after everything she’d endured. But that was a dream born of loneliness, not truth. This was how it had to be, and that knowledge cut deeper than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

Jon’s voice broke her from her thoughts.

“Elynor,” he said softly, voice rough but steadier now. “I have to go.”

Elynor didn’t turn from the window. The weight of his words settled over her like a thick fog, dampening the fragile hope she hadn’t dared to fully nurture. She wanted to tell him not to go, to find some way around the impossible, but the truth was etched too deeply in both their lives.

“You’re right,” she said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. She sighed softly, the sound carrying the weight of her frustration and sadness. She turned away from the window, her voice firmer now. 

“So.. when do you plan to go back to the Wall?”

She finally got a good look at him since they moved into the main room. The sharpness in his eyes dulled. The tension in his shoulders had eased, just barely. He didn’t look angry anymore.

He looked.. sad.

The realization settled in her chest like ice. It was easier when he was cold and distant–when she could be angry at him. But this silent grief, the resignation in his eyes, rattled something in her. 

Jon hesitated, his eyes clouding with uncertainty. The silence between them stretched further.

“I’m not going back to the Wall.”

The words hit her hard, confusion flickering across her face.

“What do you mean?”

He took a breath, steadying himself.

“I need your help. To find Tormund... and Mance Rayder.”

She shook her head, incredulous.

“You’re an idiot.”

Jon didn’t flinch. “I need information.”

That wasn’t enough for her. “Why?” She pressed.

Elynor’s mind raced as she watched Jon retreat into silence. Why would he want to seek out those wildlings? The thought struck her as reckless. He’s already tangled himself in enough trouble, dragging himself away from the Wall like this... She shook her head internally, frustration budding beneath her calm exterior. It’s stupid. He’s putting himself in danger, and for what? Chasing shadows and secrets that could get him killed. Does he not know that? The worry settled in her chest, sharper than any blade. Yet, beneath it all, a strange stubborn hope clung to her–hope that maybe, this wasn’t the end. 

Jon’s eyes filled with a mixture of determination and doubt, his brooding edge softening just a bit more. “They say Mance Rayder’s gathering an army... wildlings from all over. I need to know why. To see for myself.” He muttered the last words, almost a whisper, but the weight behind them was undeniable.

Elynor stared, still in disbelief. Concern swirled in her gaze, “I don’t know Mance.” She retorted firmly. “And if I took you to him, we’d both be dead before you even got a chance to say anything. Wildlings don’t take kindly to strangers, especially crows.” Her words hung heavy in the air, the danger of his plan pressing in on them both.

She turned to him fully now, arms crossing. “You don’t understand what you’re asking Jon. This isn’t a game. If you want to live, you have to be smarter than that.” Despite her frustration, a small part of her admired his courage–or was it recklessness? But she couldn’t ignore the risks.

Elynor watched Jon closely. Is this about what Tormund had told her? About... she couldn’t bring herself to finish the rest of that thought. That’s the only reason he’d risk so much–chasing tales no one else dared to face. She couldn’t be sure, but he had dropped hints before, and something in his eyes told her this was bigger than just getting information on the wildlings.

“I can’t go back without answers. Without knowing what’s coming.”

She fiddled with the ends of her braid, the weight of reality settling in her chest. “Then you probably won’t make it back at all.” Her words were harsh, but they carried a truth she couldn’t soften. The road he wanted to walk was a dangerous one, and she feared it might be his last.

Jon’s eyes hardened with resolve. “I’ve been thinking. You know the wildlings, know how to get close to them. If you help me infiltrate and gain their trust, I can find out what Mance is really planning.”

Elynor studied him, her brows furrowing. Again, the idea sounded idiotic, no matter how Jon put it. But she saw something in him-a fierce determination that made her rethink her decision.

“You really believe you can do this?” She asked, cautiously, as if she were afraid of what he was going to say next.

He nodded. “I have to. There’s no other way.”

She knew he was right, the truth sinking in slow and cold. He couldn’t go back to the Wall. Not now. He’d been gone too long, and the questions they’d ask would be endless and unforgiving. Without answers they wanted to hear, Jon would be branded a liability, maybe worse. And if he spoke of her, of who she was, of what she’d done for him–that danger would spill over to her as well.

She swallowed the tight knot in her throat. It was a realization neither of them wanted to admit, but it bound them tighter than any vow. She met his eyes again, something about his steady gaze made her heart skip. Maybe it was hope, or stubborn faith in him. She was finding it hard to say no.

“Fine.” She finally relented, a softer lilt finding its way into her tone. “I’ll help you. But don’t expect me to come with you all the way - this one’s yours to fight.”

Jon’s expression flickered with gratitude, and a cold understanding of the path ahead.

Chapter Text

The cold had sharpened in recent days, biting deep through layers of fur and leather, settling into their bones like it belonged there. The sky was gray, the kind that promised snow, and the trees stood brittle and dark against it. Jon trudged beside her, back in his Night’s Watch uniform. The cloak was frayed at the edges, the tunic beneath bearing Elynor’s careful stitches. He hadn’t worn it since the night she found him. Seeing him in it now stirred something in her - something fierce and unspoken–but she pushed it down before it could take shape. The wool was worn but thick, the leather beneath still sturdy enough to hold back the cold. He looked every bit a man shaped by the snow and stone, but not quite a wildling, not yet.

They’d been walking for hours already this morning, snow crunching beneath their boots in steady rhythm. The path she led him through twisted along half-frozen streams and the narrow bones of forgotten trails. Elynor knew this land better than she knew anything–but still, she felt uneasy. She wasn’t sure if they were going to find anyone out here at all.

And even if they did… she still thought this plan of Jon’s was a bad idea. A terrible one, in fact. Dangerous, foolish, the kind of thing that could get them both killed—or worse. She couldn’t believe she had agreed to it, that she’d let his stubborn sense of duty chip away at her common sense. But the truth was, somewhere between his quiet determination and the way he looked at her with those stormy eyes, she had caved. Against her better judgment, she was here, trudging through the snow beside him, following a plan she didn’t trust.

“You know,” she started, finally breaking the silence, “this would go a lot faster if I knew exactly what we were walking into. Or are you still set on keeping all that brooding to yourself?”

Jon didn’t look at her. “You already know enough.” And she did, maybe more than he did at this point, but it didn’t stop her from prying further.

She snorted, brushing aside a hanging branch. “I know you think you’ll get answers from Mance Rayder - a man you’ve never met. And I know I agreed to help you, which still feels like a bad lapse in judgement on my part.”

He casted a sharp glance her way. “If you regret it-”

“I didn’t say that,” she interrupted. “I just think you should talk to me. Because if I’m risking my life walking into this with you, I deserve to know exactly what I’m risking it for.”

Jon weighed her words, his lips flattening into a thin line. The wind tugged at his hood.

Then, finally: “We heard rumors. That Mance was gathering clans. All of them. Not just for raids. Not just to steal sheep and burn villages. Something bigger. We thought it was nothing.”

“But you didn’t.” She ruminated.

“No,” he admitted. “And now I need to know why. What he’s seen. What he’s afraid of.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. The words caught in her throat for a second, not waiting to speak as if it’d make it all the more real. “You think it’s the dead.”

Jon’s silence was answer enough.

Elynor exhaled slowly, unease crawling up the back of her spine. She’d wondered the same thing. In the long hours of the night, out here in the snowy expanse of the North, she’d heard the stillness. Not the natural kind, but something more evil. The way animals went quiet. The way the shadows lingered longer than they should. The things she’d almost seen. 

“You can’t go back to the Wall now,” she said, voicing a thought that had been gnawing at her since they left. “You’ve been gone too long. They’ll ask questions. And if you don’t have the right answers...”

Jon nodded, eyes fixed ahead. “They’ll hang me.”

She hesitated. “And what about me? If they find out-”

He cut her off quickly. “They won’t. I won’t say anything.”

His words comforted her, more so knowing that he actually meant what he said. That he would die before he gave her away.

It still didn’t stop her from thinking this was all incredibly stupid.

“You even have a plan?”

“Get in. Listen. Learn what I can.”

She stared at him like he’d lost his mind. Maybe he did. "That's not a plan. That’s a death wish.”

Jon kept his eyes ahead, face set in that brooding way of his. But when he finally spoke, his voice cut through the cold, low and dry with a hint of something almost teasing.

“Good thing I have you to save me.”

Elynor shot him a look beneath her hood, caught off guard by his words. His face didn’t change–still hard, still as serious as ever–but she knew he’d meant to strike a chord, and damn it, he had.

Her eyes narrowed into slits, but there was a mirth behind them when she spoke. “We’ll see about that.”

They walked until the sun dipped low behind the trees and the sky bruised purple, until their legs ached and the cold gnawed at every uncovered surface. By the time Elynor found a spot sheltered by a fallen pine, neither of them had spoken for some time. It was a comfortable silence, not overbearing.

The fire crackled between them now, small but steady, its glow casting amber light on Jon’s face. Elynor sat cross-legged on her bedroll, picking at a strip of dried meat, while Jon hunched close to the flames, savoring its warmth.

“You always this quiet,” she asked, already knowing the answer. “or is it just when you’re plotting how to get yourself killed?”

Jon glanced over at her, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t talk just to fill the silence.”

She hummed, tearing another bite from her food. “Must make you a real joy around the fire.”

“I don’t talk much around fires either.”

Elynor chuckled, finding his dryness amusing. “Yeah, I noticed.”

The silence settled over them again. She watched the way the fire danced in his eyes, the way the shadows on his face had deepened over the past few days. He was still brooding, of course. But something had shifted since they’d left. He looked... present. more perceptive.

"Why'd you come back for me?” Jon asked suddenly.

Elynor blinked. “What?”

“When I was half dead in the snow. You could’ve left me.”

She tossed the last of the meat aside and leaned back onto her hands. “You really think I’d just leave some poor, half-frozen fool to die?”

Elynor knew in the back of her mind that normally, she would have done exactly that. But Jon had been different, even then. Especially when his eyes locked onto hers. Something in them had made her stop. 

“You didn’t know me. I could’ve been anyone.”

“You were a crow,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And I didn’t particularly like crows.” Or anyone.

He gave her an inquisitive look. Elynor sighed.

“But.. you weren’t like the others. Something about you..” her voice trailed off, not exactly sure what to say.

A smirk spread across her features, trying to turn the conversation away from her unspoken words. “I figured you owed me after that.” 

Jon huffed. “Owed you?”

“Saved your ass,” she leaned in to emphasize her next words. “You’re really building quite the debt.” 

A beat passed. Then Jon asked, quieter this time, “Why are you out here, Elynor?”

She glanced up, confused. “You know why. Helping you.”

“No. Before that. Before me.”

The question caught her off guard. She stared at the fire for a moment, then shifted her gaze to the trees beyond it.

She didn’t want to answer.

Her instinct was to deflect, to shrug it off with something sharp or vague–anything that would keep him at a distance. She’d spent years building walls thicker than the Wall itself. No one had the right to ask, not really. And she sure as hell didn’t owe him the truth.

But the way he was looking at her...

She could feel his eyes on her– steady, quiet, unrelenting. It wasn’t prying, not exactly. 

And that presence cracked something in her, just a hairline fracture. She tried to find the words, something neat and practiced to explain herself, but her mind came up empty.

She didn’t have to tell him anything.

But gods, a part of her wanted to.

“I don’t exactly fit anywhere,” she mumbled at last, tone casual, like she was talking about the weather. But inside, a storm raged so strong it almost knocked the breath from her lungs. “Not with anyone south of the Wall. Not with anyone beyond it.”

Jon watched her. “Why?”

She struggled to find the words to respond. Her fingers ghosting the frost-dusted ground.

For a long time, she’d told herself that silence was safety, that if she just kept her head down, if she buried her magic and her history deep enough, she could live peacefully. Quietly. Unnoticed. Maybe even happily. But it had never been true. 

The stillness she thought would bring her peace only left her hollow. Sometimes, it felt like she was slowly fading. Wasting away in the cold emptiness of the North, a phantom of something she might’ve been. 

“I spent a long time thinking that if I just stayed quiet enough, if I didn’t draw too much attention, I could exist somewhere on the edge of things. But it doesn’t really work like that.”

“No,” Jon replied softly. “It doesn’t.”

Their eyes met across the fire. It popped between them, sending sparks into the air. The flickering light danced in the stillness of the forest, casting its silhouette on Jon’s face–softening the intensity there, but not the weight in his gaze. It was that look again, the one that saw more than she wanted anyone to. The one that pierced her armor, piece by piece.

Elynor hugged her knees to her chest, but didn’t look away.

“I used to think I’d find a place at Winterfell if I just worked hard enough. If I kept my head down, earned my keep, showed I was loyal. But it never mattered.”

There was something jagged in his tone now, something akin to anger, heavier than resentment.

“Lady Stark,” he paused, like even just saying the name made his skin crawl. “She looked at me like I was something that didn’t belong. A mistake. Like if she ignored me long enough, I’d disappear. Or... die. I used to pretend it didn’t matter. That it didn’t bother me. But it did.”

Elynor didn’t move, was too afraid to breathe in fear he’d stop sharing.

Jon’s eyes hadn’t left hers. “You try to live on the edge of something for long enough... and it starts to feel like you’re not living at all.”

Wind stirred the branches above, cold threading through the trees, but neither of them reached for their cloaks. A sudden gust barreled through their camp, making the flames sway wild and erratic, casting warped shadows across their faces. The fire popped in protest, embers leaping like startled birds before fading into the night. 

Elynor barely noticed. Her attention was on Jon, and the way the fire couldn’t quite hide the pain in his eyes.

A lump formed in Elynor’s throat. The words she might’ve said tangled in her chest. He had spoken the thought she’d buried for years–said it out loud like it wasn’t some shameful truth.

She could feel the tension now - not the kind laced with anger or suspicion, but the taut silence that came when something important was teetering just on the edge of being said.

Still, she said nothing. Not yet. Jon didn’t push. He simply looked at her, and somehow, that was worse.

Because she could see it now–not just the sorrow, but the understanding in his eyes, and it made her want to tell him everything.

The fire began to burn down to a low orange glow. It had been a long while where neither of them said anything.

Then, gently, as if she was tiptoeing on the thin ice of a frozen lake, she asked, “What was it like? Winterfell?”

The name stirred something in the back of her mind - a faint bell that she could almost hear ringing. Winterfell. It sounded familiar. Something Ser Merek had mentioned in one of his many lessons, back when she still thought knowing Westerosi politics might be useful someday. She couldn’t place the details, only the weight of it, ancient, northern, important.

She figured it wasn’t too far from the Wall. The way Jon wasn’t as bothered by the wind, the snow, the unrelenting chill - it told her he’d grown up somewhere like this. 

Jon stilled, as if pulled from a distant place. He wrung his hands in his lap. “Cold,” he said first, and she huffed a dry laugh. But he didn’t smile.

She waited.

“It was... big.” He finally added, staring at the flames. “Stone walls thick as trees. You could get lost in the godswood, if you didn’t know the paths.”

“And the Starks?” She asked carefully.

Jon’s jaw tensed for a heartbeat–a flash of that old wall rising in his eyes–but then it softened.

“Robb was the closest thing I had to a brother. Truly. We trained together. Bled together. He used to say I was faster, but I knew it was only because he let me be.”

Elynor watched his face as he spoke, the mournful ache that found its way into his voice.

“Sansa was... well. Proper. Kind, when she remembered to be. Arya never had to remember. She was wild, like a storm you couldn’t bottle. She followed me everywhere when we were younger. I taught her how to shoot an arrow when no one else would.”

He thought for a moment. A faint, faraway smile tugged at the corners of his lips, one that Elynor had never seen before. “Bran was small, always climbing things-” he stopped abruptly, something dark loomed over his features. Elynor saw him clench his fists, and his gaze moved to the trees, as if the memory scorched more than the wind ever could.

“-No fear in that one,” he continued. “And Rickon... barely out of swaddling when I left. I don’t even know what kind of boy he’s become.”

Elynor let the silence carry his memories for a second, let him fill it on his own.

“I used to watch them from the shadows,” Jon admitted, his eyes glazing over with something unreadable. “Never part of them. Always... next to them. A ghost in their home.”

A long breath left him, white mist curling in the air.

“But I loved them. Still do.”

Elynor’s chest tightened. She felt the echo of something sharp and familiar in his words–the ache of love kept at a distance, of family that was never quite yours.

She leaned forward, and murmured. “They sound like they mattered to you. All of them.”

Jon looked at her, eyes gloomier now in the dying firelight. “They did,” he said. “They still do. Even if they’ve forgotten me.”

Elynor didn’t know what made her reach out. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, or the weight he carried on his shoulders–the one she carried too. Her fingers brushed his wrist, barely there.

“You’re not easy to forget,” she whispered.

Jon didn’t move, but he didn’t answer either.

The darkness of the night stretched around them. Slowly, Jon turned towards her, the wind catching his dark curls, eyes searching hers like he was seeing her for the first time.

Her touch seemed to ease him. His shoulders, always squared and tight with restraint, relaxed slightly. The glimmer of a different look passed over his face–yearning. Elynor pretended she didn’t notice.

He leaned in, just enough that his shoulder touched hers, warm even through the furs and leathers between them.

“Neither are you,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

They lingered in that moment. The wind calmed, just for a breath, and the moonlight slid through the canopy of the trees in pale silver ribbons. It washed over Jon’s face, smoothing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, his brow, catching in his lashes. He looked almost unreal like that–otherwordly. And it made Elynor’s stomach flip in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

She encouraged herself to look away. To say something clever, or distracting. But for a heartbeat too long, she just...stayed.

He was too close, not close enough. Elynor couldn’t decide.

Clearing her throat, Elynor shifted back slightly, letting the space between them settle again.

“We should get some sleep.” She said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Jon didn’t argue. He only gave a small nod. Elynor laid back onto her bedroll, but it was a long while before she closed her eyes.

Because part of her still felt the warmth where his shoulder had touched hers. And part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to forget it.

Chapter Text

By morning, the fire had burned down to a cradle of glowing embers, and the sky was smeared in pale grays and soft pinks. The wind had eased, but the chill remained strong enough to bite at any exposed skin.

They moved quietly through the snow-laced trees, the frost crunching beneath their feet. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, not exactly, but it carried the weight of last night’s events. Like the heat that lingers in the air long after a fire dies.

Elynor adjusted the bow slung over her shoulder, her fingers brushing the carved handle. She hadn’t looked directly at Jon since they’d broken camp, afraid of what might shine across her face if she did. But she could still feel the press of his shoulder from the night before, the echo of his words–neither are you–tightening somewhere deep in her. 

She blamed the blush on the cold, but knew all too well that wasn’t the truth.

Jon was walking just ahead, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. Elynor’s thoughts drifted uneasily as she kept pace, her eyes scanning the forest, half out of habit, half avoiding looking at him for too long.

It had been days since she’d shifted. Weeks, if she was honest. The Veyari blood in her felt muted lately, like a river slowed by ice. The pull was still there, humming beneath her skin–but dulled. She hadn’t wanted to draw attention. Hadn’t wanted to be anything other than what Jon knew her as.

But if things turned dangerous–and they would, eventually–would she still keep it hidden? If it came down to life and death, would she let Jon die before showing him what she was?

Her fingers tightened around the bow’s neck. It was finely crafted, yes, and she was a damn good shot–but arrows only did so much. Steel couldn’t match shadow when the odds tipped too far.

Her stomach twisted.

And then there was Tormund.

The wildling had already said too much. The moment he had stepped into her cabin, and barked out tree witch like it was some nickname shared over drinks, she’d known it was too late to pretend she was just another stray from the woods. Jon had heard it–she knew he had–but he never asked. Not yet anyway.

Still, Elynor knew him well enough by now. The question hung in the air like a blade unsheathed but never used. She wondered how long he’d stay silent. And if, when the time came, he’d look at her the same way again.

Elynor pushed the thoughts away. She didn’t like the way they sat in her chest, heavy, unsettled, leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.

She focused on the woods instead, the steady rhythm of her breath and the snow beneath her feet. They’d been walking for days now, and still, nothing. No signs of movement, no distant voices, no trampled paths of snow.

No wildlings.

It was strange. With thousands of them somewhere out here, you’d think they’d have stumbled across something by now–tracks, smoke, even the faintest echo of campfire song. But the forest had remained eerily still. Too still.

She pursed her lips, and slowed slightly, eyes sweeping the trees with new scrutiny. They had to be getting close. She could feel it in her bones. There was an anticipation in the silence, one that made the hairs on her neck stand alert.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, Jon stopped cold.

“Get down,” he commanded, voice low and firm.

Elynor dropped to a crouch without a word, heart already picking up speed. She followed his gaze, her breath catching. 

Ahead, maybe thirty paces out and weaving through the trees, a group of wildlings was moving in their direction. A dozen, maybe more. Wrapped in furs and bone, some carried spears, others axes. They were talking quietly among themselves, unaware of the two figures watching from the snow covered ridge above.

Elynor’s fingers crept toward her bow, but before she could wrap her hand fully around it, Jon’s arm shot out, grabbing her wrist. His grip wasn’t harsh, and his eyes never left the group ahead.

She gave him a sharp look, but then followed his gaze.

That’s when she saw him.

Among the wildlings, trailing behind the rest, was a man in black.

Or what was left of it.

The Night’s Watch cloak hung in tatters over his hunched frame, the once-dark wool crusted with frost and dirt. His arms were bound tightly in front of him, raw rope digging into his wrists. One of the wildlings tugged at the end like a leash, jerking the man forward whenever he slowed. Blood matted the side of his face, dried and flaking into his gray-streaked beard. His eye was swollen shut.

But it was unmistakable—he was a brother of the Night’s Watch.

Elynor fidgetted in her crouched position. She didn’t know who he was, but it didn’t matter. The way Jon was staring—rigid, jaw tight, breath shallow—told her enough.

He knew him. And whatever bond tied them wasn’t the sort easily broken.

Elynor didn’t speak.

But her mind raced.

Every muscle in Jon's body looked taut like a bowstring. She knew that look. If she didn’t stop him, he’d charge in—blade drawn-and he’d die trying to save that man.

And they would lose everything.

She shifted her gaze to the group. At least a dozen wildlings. Maybe more in the trees. Too many. Far too many.

Her hand hovered near her bow again, but she stopped herself. It wouldn’t be enough. They were outnumbered, and the wildlings had the high ground and the momentum.

Think. Think.

Her eyes flicked back to the prisoner, to the ropes binding his hands.

And that’s when it struck her.

A plan. Half-formed, reckless. But it might work.

And it was the only one they had.

Heart pounding, she dropped to her pack and began rummaging quickly through the supplies. Her fingers curled around a coil of rough rope—frayed and cold, but strong. The same kind the wildlings used. Close enough, anyway.

She stood and turned to Jon.

“Come here,” she hissed.

He didn’t move. Didn’t look away from the group.

“Jon. Come here.”

He turned to her, confused, the edges of anger sharpening in his features. “What are you—?”

She didn’t wait for him to finish.

She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him closer, her movements swift and practiced. Before he could stop her, she’d already looped the rope around his wrists.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, pulling back instinctively.

“Shut up,” she muttered under her breath, knotting the rope tightly.

He struggled, eyes wide with disbelief. “Elynor—”

“I said shut up.” Her tone was low, clipped. She tied another loop, securing it in place.

Jon jerked back, breathing hard, eyes burning into hers. But eventually, he let her.

Only when she had tightened the last night did she speak again, barely above a whisper. “We can’t fight them. You know that.”

His shoulders rose and fell. She could feel the frustration radiating off him.

“But if they think you’re my prisoner,” she went on, “maybe they’ll bring us to whoever’s in charge.”

Jon titled his head slightly and Elynor had to hold back the urge to roll her eyes.

“Maybe they’ll bring us to Mance.”

His eyes grew wide as the words slipped past her lips, stunned.

Elynor looked up at him. “We don’t have time. So you better make this convincing.”

Jon’s jaw worked, anger flaring in his eyes—but he gave a slight nod.

Elynor pulled the rope tighter.

Then she straightened her spine, steeling herself, and turned toward the approaching wildlings with a scowl curling over her lips.

Elynor dragged Jon behind her, fists clenched around the rope as the wildlings drew nearer. Her boots crunched over the frozen ground, her legs moving forward on instinct alone. Every part of her screamed to run—to shift, to vanish—but she forced herself to stay rooted.

The cold wind lashed against her face, but she welcomed it. It numbed the heat blooming in her cheeks. The thud of her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the sound of boots and snarls and laughter ahead.

Jon followed silently, his posture bent just enough to sell the role, though his shoulders twitched like he wanted to break free and bury his blade into someone’s chest.

They crested the rise and suddenly the wildlings were all around them—dirty furs, bone-handled axes, sharp eyes. A few barked words she didn’t catch over the blood rushing in her ears.

Then the crowd parted.

A Thenn approached.

He was thick in the shoulders and square in the jaw, a patchwork of scars crisscrossing his pale skull. His sharpened teeth flashed when he grinned, though there was no humor behind it.

He stepped right up to her, taller by nearly a head, and looked her over with something like disgust.

“Well, well,” he said, voice guttural. “And what’s this?”

Elynor lifted her chin. “Found him lurking near my cabin. Figured Mance would want a look at him.”

The Thenn didn’t move at first. His pale eyes dragged over Jon like a butcher sizing up a carcass. Then he stepped closer, towering over Elynor. She held her ground, but her fingers twitched by her side.

The Thenn snorted. “A crow?” His eyes moved to Jon, then narrowed. “Why would Mance waste time on one crow?”

She swallowed, forcing a steady breath. Her fingers played with the fraying edge of the rope before she caught herself.

“Maybe he’s got information,” she challenged, voice tight. “About the Wall. About the Watch. Same as him.” She pointed at the old crow, but the Thenn’s eyes didn’t leave hers. 

“That so?” He took another step, so close now she could smell the rot in his breath, the copper of dried blood. “Then maybe I take you in too. Bet you’ve got plenty of secrets.” His eyes raked over her with a sick kind of hunger. “Or maybe I take you for dinner. Eat you up nice. After I’m done with the rest.”

Before she could respond, she felt a tug on the rope at her side—subtle, tight. Jon. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but the rope shifted in a way that made her pulse spike.

He didn’t like that.

Her mouth went dry. Don’t fold. Think. She opened her mouth, ready to say something—anything—but the words tangled. Her thoughts were racing, and the Thenn’s leer made her skin crawl.

The silence stretched too long. The man’s eyes narrowed.

“Tormund came to my cabin,” she stuttered, voice rising with urgency. “Said he was looking for a wounded crow. This one,” she gestured roughly to Jon, “he was near dead when I found him. Thought it might be him.”

The Thenn’s expression shifted. That name struck something behind his eyes. Recognition simmered, dark and curious. He tilted his head at her, considering.

He knows Tormund, Elynor realized, gripping the rope tighter in her fingers. That bought me a moment. Maybe less.

The Thenn's gaze slid back to Jon. “Doesn’t look wounded to me,” he said flatly.

Shit.

And without thinking, Elynor turned, balled her fist, and drove it straight into Jon’s jaw.

The sound of the hit cracked loudly through the cold air. Jon’s head jerked slightly, and he stumbled just enough to make it look real, though his glare said he wasn’t entirely playing along. Guilt spread hot in her chest.

The Thenn barked out a laugh, clearly entertained.

I’m sorry, she thought, her heart twisting. But it had to look real. It has to work.

She looked back at the Thenn, jaw tight, trying to mask the tremble in her bones. “He’s slower than he looks. And I know how to keep him quiet.”

“Well,” the Thenn smirked after a long pause, rubbing a thumb over his jaw as he glanced between them, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is the crow Tormund’s been looking for…”

Elynor’s heart gave a hopeful jump.

“…But Tormund doesn’t give me orders.”

The hope shattered instantly. Elynor blanched, her mind scrambling. Damn it. I thought I had him—he recognized the name, I know he did.

“You’re a decent liar, girl,” he taunted, his breath ghosting over her cheeks, making her sick. “But the way that crow looks at you…”

His glare deepened, suspicion flaring. “That’s what tells me you’re not being honest.”

She opened her mouth, desperate to come up with something else, but before the words could form, a sudden noise split through the cold:

“You traitor!” the bound crow spat, his voice suddenly strong. “You bastard wildling-loving traitor!”

Elynor snapped her head toward the prisoner just as he surged forward with surprising speed, elbowing the wildling holding his rope square in the jaw. The man stumbled back with a grunt, dazed.

In that second, the crow seized the fallen man’s sword.

Steel sang as it left the scabbard, and then he was charging—not at the Thenns, not to escape—but straight at Jon, eyes blazing with righteous fury.

“You deserted your brothers!” the crow sneered, stumbling forward with a wild gleam in his eye. “For her! For what—”

Elynor moved as if to stop him, heart thudding, fingers trembling over her bow. But something in Jon’s face stopped her—no, not his face, his eyes. For the briefest moment, as the crow lunged, something silent and knowing passed between them. Jon didn't look afraid. He didn’t plead or bark commands. He simply stared like he’d been expecting this.

The Thenn stepped back, arms crossing. “Let them fight,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching with interest. “Let’s see what this crow’s made of.”

Before she could second-guess herself, Elynor yanked Jon’s sword from her satchel and tossed it toward him. It landed with a heavy thud in the snow near his feet. Jon’s hand was on the hilt in a blink, and then steel clashed in the freezing air.

The two men circled like wolves, breath steaming, blades flashing with vicious speed. Elynor watched with bated breath, every strike from the crow mirrored by a twist in her gut. The wildlings surrounding them had gone quiet, nothing but the low growls of shuffling in snow and the shriek of metal filling the stillness.

The crow was fast, fueled by rage and betrayal, but Jon was focused—every movement precise, every block practiced. Elynor could see it in his footwork, in the grit of his teeth. He wasn’t fighting just to defend himself. He was fighting to end it.

A fierce exchange left both men staggering, and then Jon moved in with a final step, slipping past the other’s guard. The sword plunged into the crow’s gut, clean and deep.

The man gasped, body jerking. But instead of falling, he grabbed Jon’s collar and pulled him close, lips moving against Jon’s ear.

Elynor couldn’t hear the words—no one could—but she saw Jon go rigid.

His eyes widened for a second. Then they dimmed.

A storm passed over his features—guilt first, then something harder, sharper. Determination. Anger. He said nothing in return.

The crow slumped against him with a final exhale, fingers loosening from Jon’s cloak as his knees buckled. He dropped to the snow, lifeless.

Elynor held her breath. Her gaze lingered on Jon, who stood motionless, the blade still clutched in his hand, knuckles white. He didn’t look at her right away. When he did, there was something in his eyes she didn’t quite recognize. Whatever that man had said, it had cut deeper than any sword.

The Thenn stepped forward, eyeing Jon with a new glint in his gaze. “Mance will want to meet you,” he decided, voice low and biting. “The crow who betrayed his oath.”

Then his attention shifted to Elynor, lingering longer than she liked. His lip curled into something between amusement and something sinister. “Can’t say I blame you,” he muttered, eyeing her from head to toe. “Would’ve dropped my sword too for a taste of that.”

Jon moved before he thought better of it, a single step forward, fists clenching at his sides.

Elynor shot him a sharp look, subtle but enough. Don’t.

She could see the fury tightening his posture, the way his eyes burned toward the Thenn. But he obeyed.

The Thenn let out a low chuckle and moved toward him, cutting the rope around Jon’s wrists with a swift motion. “Move,” he barked, jerking his chin toward the path ahead. “Both of you.”

Jon rubbed his wrists, then fell into step beside Elynor, just behind the others.

They didn’t speak.

But Elynor could feel the tension rolling off him in waves, hot and sharp like coals buried beneath frost. His shoulders were tight, his face locked in a storm of unspoken things.

She didn’t reach for him, wasn’t quite sure what to say. The wind howled across the snow, wild and cold. But it was the heat beside her that she noticed more.

And she knew—Mance Rayder waited at the end of this path.

And nothing about what came next would be easy.

Chapter Text

JON'S POV

We are the watchers on the Wall.

The words came back to him again and again—Qhorin’s final words, slipped through bloodied lips like a last command. They echoed in Jon’s mind like a ghost, haunting and heavy.

We are the watchers on the Wall.

He had done what he had to do. He had killed a brother.

Qhorin had lunged at him first, forced his hand, forced the illusion. It was the only way to gain the wildlings’ trust, the only way to keep his mission alive. But none of that made it easier.

The weight of it dragged at his chest, heavy as his cloak. Guilt warred with purpose. Duty with regret.

Jon glanced down at his hands—one still streaked faintly with blood, as if the skin refused to forget. He flexed his fingers. They’d shaken after the final blow. He’d tried not to let anyone see.

He didn’t know what Qhorin had whispered exactly—maybe it was forgiveness. Maybe it was damnation. But Jon had seen the look in his eyes, the way the old ranger had steeled himself for it.

He wanted Jon to do it. But that didn’t make it feel any less like betrayal.

The wind picked up, slicing across his face. Jon kept walking.

Ahead, the wildlings trudged through the snow, their laughter sharp and careless. And beside him—just a few paces ahead—was Elynor.

Jon's eyes drifted to her without meaning to. He remembered the way she’d looked when the Thenn stepped too close, how she stood her ground despite the fear in her eyes. The way she flinched only slightly at his vulgar words. How she looked at Jon—told him to stay still.

He’d nearly lost it then.

Anger had coiled in him like a serpent, hot and blinding. He wanted to break the Thenn’s jaw, wanted to see him choke on his own blood. Not just for the things he said, but for the way he looked at her. Like she was meat. Like she was a thing to be passed around.

Jon’s fists had curled then too. He didn’t care about the rope. He didn’t care if the wildlings saw.

He just cared about her. She was his friend.

He didn’t want to admit it—but when she touched his arm earlier, when her fingers brushed his, when she’d leaned just close enough that his shoulder met hers... it had made something in him ache. And when she stepped back, when she said they should sleep, it had felt like a door quietly closing.

But he was still staring at it.

Jon forced his eyes away from her now. Focused ahead.

They were nearing Mance Rayder’s camp. He could feel it in the way the wildlings moved with more purpose, more weight. Like they were bringing something—or someone—important back.

The crow’s death would’ve earned him a place among them. But it wasn’t pride he felt.

It was loss.

The snow had deepened as they walked, swallowing their feet and silencing most of their steps. The sun, dull and muted, sat low on the horizon, casting long silhouettes across the endless white.

Somewhere along the way, another figure had joined their group. He hadn’t made much noise when he arrived, but his presence had shifted the air. Even the wildlings, rowdy and unbothered before, seemed to stand a little straighter around him.

Jon hadn’t looked at him directly at first, but the clatter of bones couldn’t be ignored—ribs and vertebrae strung across the man’s chest like some grotesque armor, a helm fashioned from a giant's skull, or something near enough. The bones clacked softly with every movement, announcing his presence like a wind chime of death.

He turned once, slow and deliberate, and Jon caught a glimpse of the eyes behind the mask.

Cold. Calculating.

Dangerous.

The kind of gaze that didn’t just see you, but through you. As if he were measuring Jon, trying to decide whether he was prey or threat—or perhaps something more useful, like a weapon.

Jon didn’t flinch, but something in him chilled, deeper than the cold of the wind or snow. That gaze lingered a moment longer, thoughtful and unblinking behind the jagged teeth of the mask, before the man turned his head and trudged on.

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He didn’t know the man’s name. Didn’t need to.

Everything about him warned of violence. And worse, of enjoyment in it.

He walked near the front now, beside the Thenn who had cut Jon’s bindings. They spoke in low voices, laughing under their breath like they were sharing a joke Jon wouldn’t want to hear. Every now and then, the bone-armored one looked back—just briefly. But Jon always felt it. Like a hook in his spine.

He glanced at Elynor.

She hadn’t said a word since they set out, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed ahead. But every time that bone-laced bastard looked back, Jon caught her eyes narrowing slightly. Not fear, exactly—something harder.

Jon didn’t know where this road would lead. Not really. He told himself it was to Mance, to information, to an end goal that made all of this—the lies, the betrayal, the death—worth it.

But every step forward felt like stepping deeper into the unknown. Surrounded by enemies. Surrounded by doubt.

And still, the words echoed in his chest:

We are the watchers on the Wall.

He didn’t feel like one now.

He wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

The trees thinned. The wind shifted. And suddenly, the world opened before them.

Jon halted at the rise, his breath catching in his throat.

Below them sprawled the wildling camp—if it could even be called that. It was a city of chaos, makeshift and sprawling. Tents fashioned from furs and hides stretched as far as the eye could see. Smoke from dozens—no, hundreds—of fires curled into the sky, blurring the horizon. Children darted between tents, women stirred pots over open flames, and warriors, thousands of them, moved like currents in a restless sea.

A sea of the Free Folk.

The rumors had been true. His throat went dry.

They were not just a scattered people fleeing the cold. They were an army. A people united not by blood, but by fear—and purpose. And he was about to walk straight into the heart of it, like stepping into a beast’s den with nothing but bare hands.

His heart clenched tight. He could feel it in his ribs, a dull, thrumming ache.

They began their descent.

As they neared the edges of the camp, the first voices started.

“Crow!”

“Kill the crow!”

“Traitor!”

“Filthy black rat!”

Eyes followed him. Some burning with hatred. Others gleaming with amusement. One man spat at his feet. A woman with a necklace of bear teeth growled something in the Old Tongue.

Jon kept his head up. He tried to tune them out, but the noise grew louder the deeper they went. Children pointed at him. Dogs barked. Warriors sneered. The stares pressed in on him like a thousand blades.

They rounded a bend in the trodden snow path, and Jon nearly stopped in his tracks.

A shadow loomed ahead—massive, hulking, impossible.

A giant.

Even hunched, it stood twice the height of a man. Its beard was a tangle of ice and soot, its body wrapped in thick, patchwork furs stitched together from mammoth and elk. A tree-trunk club rested over one shoulder, and its deep-set eyes regarded Jon with disinterest—as if he were no more than a squirrel passing by.

Jon’s breath hitched. Giants were real. Not stories. Not myths. Real.

And they were marching with Mance.

The weight of what he was walking into pressed heavier on his chest.

They continued forward.

He heard the click of bones—the masked warrior still behind him.

But it was the murmurs of the crowd that echoed loudest in his ears.

Kill the crow. Kill the crow.

He wasn’t bound anymore, but his hands felt heavy, useless.

At the far end of the camp, a large tent rose above the others. Sturdy and reinforced. The guards there stood with spears and axes, eyes hard. The air thickened as they approached.

Mance Rayder’s tent.

Jon exhaled through his nose. He didn’t know what he would find inside. But the beast’s jaws were open and he was already stepping in.

Jon ducked into the tent, flanked by wildlings. The scent inside was strong—smoke, sweat, meat gone half-sour. Firelight flickered off the hides stretched around the interior and danced across the figures gathered inside.

A massive man sat nearest the fire, flame catching in his thick red beard and tangled mane. He looked every bit a wildling warlord—broad as a tree trunk, eyes sharp and unreadable. He turned toward Jon as if he’d felt his presence crawl into the room.

“I smell a crow,” he sneered, voice deep, rough, and disinterested. A flicker of recognition passed through Jon’s thoughts but it slipped away before it could culminate further.

The boned warrior stepped forward, giving Jon a hard shove in the back.

“This one—he killed Qhorin Halfhand. Thought you’d want to question him.”

Jon palms became clammy. His heart was pounding, though he kept his face flat, calm.

The red-bearded man stood. Even without his heavy furs and leathers, he would’ve been a giant. Now, he loomed like a storm cloud.

“What do we want with a baby crow?” he questioned, stepping closer.

Jon held his ground. Every instinct screamed that this man could crush him with one arm—but still, he didn’t flinch.

The wildling took another step, so close now that Jon could smell the meat on his breath.

“That half-handed cunt killed friends o’ mine,” he growled. “Friends twice yer size.”

Jon swallowed the instinct to speak, but only just. He wouldn’t back down.

“My father told me big men fall just as quick as little ones if you put a sword through their hearts.”

The wildling’s eyes narrowed slightly. He studied Jon with something like curiosity… or maybe hunger.

“Plenty o’ little men tried to put their swords through my heart,” he said. “And there's plenty o’ little skeletons buried in the woods.”

His tone was casual, but there was weight behind the words. A warning.

“What’s yer name, boy?”

“Jon Snow.”

He dropped to one knee.

“Your Grace.”

Laughter erupted around him, loud and howling like wolves. The man in front of him threw his head back and roared.

“Yer Grace?” he mocked. “Did ya hear that?” He turned to the others. “From now on, you’d better kneel every time I fart!”

More laughter, rough and unrelenting, but Jon stayed where he was, face burning. Fool. Idiot. Should’ve known better.

Then, a calmer voice spoke from deeper in the tent.

“Stand, boy.”

Jon looked up. From the shadows emerged a man dressed more plainly than the rest, dark-haired, with sharp, assessing eyes. His presence was quieter, but colder, more dangerous.

“We don’t kneel for anyone beyond the Wall,” the man declared.

Jon rose to his feet slowly, heart still hammering.

That’s him, he realized. That’s Mance Rayder. 

A mistake. Another misstep.

He glanced sideways through the firelight, searching for Elynor. She stood near the edge of the tent, not far from the wildling covered in bones, her arms crossed over her chest.

She hadn’t looked at him once since they entered. Even now, she kept her gaze averted.

Jon wished he could read her thoughts, know what she was thinking. He was starting to hate how much he cared.

“This chicken-eater you thought was king,” said the dark-haired man, “is Tormund Giantsbane.”

Jon froze at the name.

Tormund.

He finally recognized that voice. He knew the weight behind it — the roughness that carried both laughter and threat in the same breath.

He remembered the day in Elynor’s cabin, hiding behind the closed door, straining to hear through the wood. He hadn’t seen him then, only heard the scrape of his voice and the way he spoke to her — too familiar, too easy. He’d laughed like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

And worse, she had laughed too.

Jon hadn’t liked it. Not then. Not now. The memory stirred a bitter heat under his skin.

He side-eyed her, needing to know if she recognized him. She wasn’t looking at him, her expression unreadable, but he caught the flicker — just for a moment — her hands curling into fists at her sides, a stillness in her stance. She remembered.

Tormund snorted, eyeing Jon with open disbelief. “Can’t believe this pup killed the Halfhand.”

Jon’s stomach twisted at the mention of Qhorin. Killed. That’s what they called it. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?

“He was our enemy,” Mance said evenly, “and I’m glad he’s dead.”

He stepped forward and extended a hand. Jon stared at it for a breath, then took it. Mance’s grip was hard — deliberate — holding on just a second too long.

“He was my brother once,” Mance imparted, his voice quieter now. “Back when he had a whole hand. How did you know him?”

Jon steadied himself. “The Lord Commander wanted to send me to the Halfhand for seasoning.”

Mance raised a brow. “Why?”

“He wants me to lead one day.”

Wanted. Past tense. If I ever go back, I go back a killer. If I make it back at all.

“But here you are,” Mance chuckled, stepping back, “a traitor kneeling before the King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

Jon drew in a breath, forcing down the heat rising in his chest. Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out of his mouth. “If I’m a traitor, then you are, too.”

Tormund’s eyes thinned to slits. The tension in the tent coiled tighter. Behind them, the man in the bone mask watched, still and unreadable — but Jon could feel the threat radiating off of him like a winter wind.

“Why do you want to join us, Jon Snow?” Mance asked.

Jon hesitated. “I want to be free.” The words fell from his tongue deftly, as if Jon himself didn’t even believe what he was saying. 

Mance turned his gaze toward Elynor.

Jon followed it, though part of him wished he hadn’t. Her eyes were fixed somewhere else, her face quiet, shut tight. As if he were just another crow. As if what passed between them meant nothing at all.

“No,” Mance disagreed, his voice dropping low, “I don’t think so. I think what you want most of all is to be a hero.”

The words hit harder than Jon expected.

Mance stepped closer. “I’ll ask you one last time… why do you want to join us?”

Jon's thoughts immediately jumped to Craster. Of the silent women and the twisted truth of his keep. Of Mormont, who had known and said nothing. Who had let it go on. Jon’s nails bit into his palms, the sting a welcoming reprieve to the interaction before him.

Mance’s expression didn’t change, but a subtle motion of his hand sent a ripple through the tent.

Guards closed in from either side, slow and heavy-footed, their weapons glinting in the firelight.

Jon tensed, but didn’t step back. He had no blade, nothing to raise. Just his voice.

“I—” He started, his throat dry. “We stopped at Craster’s Keep on the way north. I saw…” He faltered. The next words sat heavy in his gut. He didn’t want to say them in front of Elynor.

Mance’s tone was sharp now. “You saw what?”

Jon swallowed. No more games. He wasn’t lying this time.

“I saw Craster take his own baby boy,” Jon said, voice low. “He left it in the woods. And I saw what took it.”

Silence fell in the tent. Even the guards paused.

Mance stared at him, brows drawn. “You’re telling me you saw one of them?”

Jon gave a single nod.

“And why would that make you desert your brothers?”

The answer burned in him. Shame. Rage. Cold disillusionment.

“Because when I told the Lord Commander,” Jon grimaced, “he already knew.”

“Thousands of years ago, the First Men battled the White Walkers and defeated them. That was the war worth fighting. The one we’ve forgotten.” He took a step forward.

“I want to fight for the side that fights for the living. Did I come to the right place?”

He held Mance’s gaze without flinching. This wasn’t a performance. These weren’t clever words strung together to survive — this was the truth. The words echoed in his mind like steel on stone.

The side that fights for the living.

He thought of Craster’s keep, the stink of rot and smoke, the sound of crying infants and broken women.

He thought of the cold that crept in the trees. Of what took that child.

And he thought of Elynor — how she had watched him, how she had stood in front of the wildlings for him. And even now, silent and distant, her presence held him in place. Grounded him.

His spine straightened. His hands stayed loose. He had nothing to wield but the truth.

But this time, that felt like enough.

Mance said nothing at first. His eyes didn’t leave Jon, but something in his expression shifted — just a fraction. A crease of thought between his brows, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

He was weighing Jon’s words. The guards still lingered close, but they no longer pressed forward. One of them glanced toward Mance, awaiting a command that never came.

Tormund grunted, low in his throat, but didn’t speak.

Then, Mance turned.

His eyes slid past Jon and settled on Elynor.

“You,” he called. Her name wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be.

The crowd parted slightly. She stepped forward without hesitation, though Jon saw the moment she paused — a breath drawn deep into her chest like armor.

Mance beckoned her with a slight gesture, and she came closer, the light casting a molten gold along the edges of her dark hair.

A knot formed in Jon’s chest. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but every muscle tensed beneath his clothes. He felt like the air had been sucked from the tent. As if something fragile were balancing in the space between them, and the slightest word might break it.

Elynor stopped beside him. She didn’t look his way. Her face was cold, composed — the same expression she wore when the Thenns circled her like wolves.

Steel. That’s what she was made of, Jon thought. Steel and shadow and silence.

Mance studied her for a long moment. Not the way the Thenn had, not with lust or mockery, but with curiosity, and maybe a touch of calculation.

Then, from behind Jon, Tormund's voice cut through the stillness.

“Thought you said you hadn’t seen any crows, little bird.”

Jon stiffened. He could feel the shift in the room — something tightening again.

Elynor’s gaze didn’t flicker. “I didn’t,” she admitted, smoothly. “Not when I said it.”

Tormund gave a low grunt, not quite disbelief, but not acceptance either. “Funny. Seems ya found one awful quick after.”

“I find what I’m meant to,” she gritted her teeth, looking straight ahead.

Tormund took a step forward, the weight of him pressing into the air. “Strange, though. How ya show up with him in tow, and now he wants to be free folk. That just chance, girl?”

Jon’s fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t know if it was the words or the tone, but he didn’t like the way Tormund spoke to her — no more now than he had back in her cabin, behind a closed door.

Elynor wasn’t backing down. Her posture didn’t shift. But she wasn’t answering either.

Mance’s gaze shifted slowly from Jon to Elynor.

He spoke, deliberate and probing. “What’s your name, girl? And what is this crow to you?”

Elynor met his eyes steadily. “Elynor,” she replied simply.

But when it came to his second question, she said nothing. Instead, her eyes flicked toward Jon, and for the first time since they entered, her eyes found his. Jon’s breath caught. A hint of worry, barely concealed. Her gaze held his for a heartbeat too long.

Jon fidgeted, every instinct screaming to act, to protect. But he willed himself to stay still.

Mance watched them both, waiting.

Then, his voice lowered, heavy with meaning:

“Seems you’ve walked with the wildlings,” his head nodded towards Tormund. “And with the crows.” He paused, letting the word crow sink in. “You’ve crossed both lines. And now this boy claims to do the same. Tell me, Elynor… is he lying?”

She turned back to Mance. Her voice, when it came, was calm and cool. “No.”

The word was soft, but it landed like a stone.

Mance gave a slight nod. Not satisfaction — not yet — but thoughtfulness.

Jon didn’t know if it was enough. But in that moment, it felt like a thread had been cast between him and the man they called the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Fragile, tenuous, but real. And beside him, Elynor stood, unreadable. But she had looked at him.

And she had spoken the truth.

Chapter Text

Elynor couldn’t remember the last time she felt relaxed.

The world had become a blade, and she was the thread stretched thin along its edge—frayed, worn, but somehow still holding. Since the moment she and Jon convinced the wildlings to let them live, her nerves had been pulled taut beneath her skin. Every breath felt measured. Every step calculated. And beneath it all, an anxiety she couldn’t name had begun to nestle deep in her bones.

She hadn’t slept. Not truly. Not without one eye open. Not with the weight of the gamble they had taken pressing against her chest.

But it was nothing compared to the moment they’d stepped into Mance’s camp.

The sheer scale of it had stolen the air from her lungs—thousands of wildlings, from clans she didn’t recognize, some she thought were only spoken of in passing legends. A sea of them, watching, whispering, glaring. She had felt their judgment cling to her like frost on her skin.

She hadn’t let it show. Couldn’t.

Not when Jon was being questioned. Not when the King-Beyond-the-Wall turned his gaze to her. Not when Tormund pressed her with questions she had no intention of answering. She had felt the moment slipping—their fragile lie trembling under too much weight.

And when Mance looked at her and asked if Jon was lying, she had wanted to scream. Not because she thought he was. But because she hadn’t been sure she could carry any more.

She couldn’t look at them then. Not Mance. Not Tormund. And certainly not Jon.

If she had… she would’ve cracked. Let the weight break through the wall she’d built to keep her fear contained.

She had felt Jon’s gaze though. The way he looked at her during that question. Like he wanted to step in, shield her from it all. But she didn’t need that. Not now. She just needed to survive.

And she was surprised when Mance had let them stay.

After all the questioning, all the sideways glances, all the silent assessments made by men who had lived hard lives beyond the Wall—she had fully expected to be cast out, or worse. She hadn’t dared to breathe until Mance had finally waved them off with a wary nod, his eyes still sharp, still weighing.

She wanted to leave.

Gods, she’d wanted to turn around that very night, slip through the tents and bodies and vanish into the woods. She’d gotten Jon this far—gotten him to Mance. That had been the deal. She’d held up her end.

But she knew she couldn’t go.

Not just because she had nowhere else to run—not because she could feel the weight of winter tightening its grip across the land like a snare—but because if she left, Jon Snow’s head would be on a pike the moment her tracks faded into the snow.

She could see it already: the Lord of Bones getting bold, or Tormund deciding the Halfhand’s killer didn’t deserve to breathe wildling air. Mance’s leniency only reached so far. Without her there—without her presence tethering Jon to something vaguely familiar—he’d be lost in a den of wolves wearing men’s skins.

That was the reason she gave herself. But it wasn’t the only one.

The truth—buried somewhere beneath layers of instinct and hardened caution—was that she didn’t want to leave Jon. Not after the quiet moments by the fire when his guard dropped and she caught glimpses of the man underneath the vows and the duty.

Somehow, she’d gotten used to his presence beside her. The way his eyes scanned the woods like he expected them to leap alive. The way he carried guilt like a second cloak, heavy and always dragging.

He made her feel seen. Not entirely safe, maybe. But known.

And she hadn’t realized until now how little she wanted to give that up.

The past few days had unraveled her nerves like thread from a spool.

Every moment in Mance’s camp felt like walking a blade. She’d kept her head down, said little, and watched everyone—even those she once might’ve trusted. Jon had drawn most of the attention, which she was both grateful for and deeply unsettled by. He bore it well, but she could see how the eyes of the camp weighed on him.

She hadn’t spoken to him since Mance’s tent. Couldn’t. The tension from that moment still wrapped around her like a vise.

She found herself thinking often about Tormund—about that interrogation in front of the King-Beyond-the-Wall, when his voice had cut into her like a cold wind. About how he looked at her like a stranger, no longer the man she once argued with over firewood and hunting routes.

But mostly, she thought about what happened just after.

Mance had taken Jon outside first, their silhouettes vanishing through the flaps of the tent. Elynor had moved to follow, but paused. Tormund was still behind her, his presence too large to ignore. She turned and reached for his arm.

“Wait,” she begged, her voice low, desperate.

He looked down at her, all iron and bone, like the mountains they walked through.

“I need to ask something of you.”

His nose twitched. “You’ve asked enough, haven’t you? Lied enough too.”

Her heart kicked in her chest. “I had to. You don’t understand—if they knew—if any of them knew what I was—what I can do…”

Tormund scoffed, and for a moment she thought he’d walk right past her.

“I didn’t come here to make enemies. I came to survive,” she added, forcing the words through her dry throat. “And to help him.” Her voice cracked on that last word, and she hated how small it sounded.

He stopped. Turned back toward her.

The coldness in his expression didn’t fade, but something in his eyes shifted. Not softened, exactly—but reconsidered.

“You think I owe you silence?” he asked gruffly.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t think anyone owes me anything. I’m just… asking.”

She hadn’t slept in days. Her legs trembled under her. She looked up at him, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and a fear she couldn’t entirely bury.

Something about that seemed to wear him down, just a little.

Tormund blew out a breath through his nose. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then finally grunted, “Get moving before I change my mind.”

That had been the end of it.

He hadn’t spoken of her magic since. Whether it was mercy or weariness or some strange kernel of loyalty from their old days trading stories and skins—she didn’t know. But he’d held her secret.

And every time she caught his eye across the campfire, she remembered it.

She didn’t know what would come next. Whether she and Jon would be sent away, or tested further, or simply killed when it was convenient.

But for now, she was still breathing.

And that would have to be enough.

The snow crunched beneath her boots, each step a whisper against the low wind that cut through the trees. Mance’s army was on the move—if you could call it that. It was less an army and more a tide of people, scattered and wide and loud as hell. Herds of ragged wildlings trudged over the frost-hardened ground in loose clusters, some on foot, others with shaggy dogs and bundled sleds. Children wove between them, sometimes barefoot and half-feral.

A thousand voices carried on the wind—arguments, laughter, songs, curses. Nothing disciplined. Nothing clean.

She pulled her cloak tighter.

King-Beyond-the-Wall, they called him. The thought made her lips twitch.

They didn’t have lords out here. Didn’t bow to banners. Half of them barely agreed on who should lead a hunt, let alone a people. The idea that they’d follow a king was absurd. But they did follow Mance, in their own way. Not because he wore a crown—he didn’t—but because he gave them something else. A reason to run. A reason to hope. Or fear.

Still, the title made her scoff under her breath.

“King of what?” she muttered to herself. “A kingdom of frostbitten bastards who argue about whose piss-hole is warmest?”

Ahead, just a little ways off, she could see Jon walking beside Mance.

Their heads were bowed, voices too low for her to hear, but she could tell from the way Jon held his shoulders—tight, like bowstrings drawn—that the conversation wasn’t a pleasant one.

He kept glancing sideways at Mance, brows pulled low, jaw tense. Like he was waiting for something to fall apart.

Elynor’s eyes drifted over him, and she nearly smirked despite herself. He was wearing wildling clothes now—mismatched furs layered over leather, the sleeves and hems hanging a little too big on his lean frame. The rugged, shapeless garb made him look like he’d been claimed by the wilderness, though some part of him still didn’t quite belong to it.

The sight sparked a memory: when Mance had tried to hand her a bundle of similar furs, insisting she would freeze otherwise. She had wrinkled her nose and tossed back, “I may be hiding from death, but someone around here has to have some fashion sense.” Mance hadn’t been amused. He’d just stared at her for a long moment before finally grunting, “Stubborn little shadow-girl,” and letting her wear her own chosen layers.

The memory flickered through her mind like a warm spark before the cold pressed in again, and her gaze returned to Jon, the tension in his posture as sharp as the wind slicing across the snow.

She slowed her pace a little, enough to keep distance but still keep them in view. Her instincts buzzed—always listening, always wary. It wasn’t just her own skin she was watching out for anymore. Not that she’d ever admit that.

The wind picked up again, brushing hair into her eyes. She pushed it away and kept walking, eyes never leaving Jon’s back.

Something was coming. She could feel it in her bones.

Elynor’s gaze shifted past Jon and Mance, to a knot of wildlings gathered near the fringe of the column. They were laughing over something—loud and rough, their voices tumbling with the ease of familiarity. She recognized Tormund among them, his red beard like a wildfire sparked against the snow-muddied landscape.

And beside him—her.

Ygritte.

The flame-haired girl stood with her weight cocked to one hip, bow slung casually over her shoulder, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. She tossed a quick glance toward Jon, and then another. Said something to one of the men near her, but her eyes lingered too long on him.

Too long.

Elynor grimaced.

There was something about her—too casual, too comfortable. Like she’d done this before. Like she thought she had a right to speak to him that way. Her mouth curved with a half-smirk every time she looked at Jon, like she knew some secret Elynor didn’t.

Jon never responded to her, not really. He kept his eyes forward, shoulders stiff. But that didn’t matter.

Elynor hated the way Ygritte spoke to him. The way her eyes lingered. The way her voice softened just enough when she addressed him. It wasn’t anything overt, but it was enough to burn.

If she ever put her hands on him—if she touched him—or if her eyes stayed on him a second longer than necessary, Elynor wasn’t sure what she’d do.

She’d probably rip her in two.

The thought came unbidden, flashing hot and violent through her chest like a lightning strike.

She blinked, startled by her own rage.

Where had that come from?

She rubbed her hands against her arms, like she could scrub the fire out of her skin.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course it wasn’t. She had no claim to him. They were traveling companions—survivors of the same long winter. Friends, even. That was all.

Still, she found herself watching Ygritte more closely now, her green eyes sharp and narrow.

She took a breath. Let it out slowly. Tried to focus on the rhythm of her boots over snow and half-thawed ground. She had bigger things to worry about than some red-haired archer with too much confidence and not enough sense.

Didn’t she?

They gathered near a ridge where the wind bit harder, the air taut with a kind of invisible pull. Mance stood ahead, speaking low with Jon as Elynor and the others drew close. Tormund loomed off to one side, arms crossed, watching everything and everyone, while Ygritte slinked up beside them, her hair tousled by the wind.

Elynor caught it—barely—but it was there. A slow, almost playful smile curling Ygritte’s lips as she looked at Jon. A flicker of something sly in her eyes. A smirk that walked the edge of seduction.

Elynor rolled her eyes hard enough to see her own skull.

Jon didn’t notice—or maybe he did, and just ignored it. His posture didn’t shift, his expression stayed guarded, but Elynor knew him well enough now to see the faint tension in his shoulders. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or oddly satisfied.

Then her eyes slid toward the figure they’d come to meet.

Orell.

He stood slightly apart from them all, near the edge of the rise. His build was wiry beneath layers of dark furs, and his gaze—sharp and restless—cut like a blade through the wind. But what made Elynor pause, made something in her skin prickle, was the feel of him.

There was an energy about Orell. An unseen hum. A presence that tugged at something buried deep in her own bones. Something familiar—but unplaceable. Like recognizing a tune but forgetting the words.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he dropped to his knees in the snow and tilted his head toward the grey sky. A great brown hawk perched nearby—its eyes sharp, golden, and unblinking. The moment stretched, and then—

Orell’s eyes turned white.

A pale sheen spread over them like frost. He went utterly still. Not breathing. Not blinking. Like his soul had slipped loose and left his body behind.

Elynor stepped back slightly. Her throat felt dry.

“She’s never seen it before,” Mance noticed without looking at her. “A warg.”

She glanced at him, wary.

“Some men are born with the gift,” Mance continued. “They can send their minds into the beasts. See what they see. Feel what they feel.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze still locked on Orell’s unmoving form.

She’d heard whispers of men like that, some from her family and others from far in the north—gifted and cursed. Old magic, passed down in bloodlines and dreams. But never had she seen it in the flesh until now.

Orell stirred suddenly. His eyes flickered, shifting back to their normal hue. He drew in a slow breath like surf returning to shore.

“Well?” Mance asked.

Orell’s jaw tightened. “The Fist of the First Men,” he said grimly. “The crows are dead. Or dying.”

A quiet fell over the small group, heavy as snowfall.

Elynor didn’t speak. She looked at Jon, whose eyes were wide—not with surprise, but something colder. Something harder.

She wondered what he was thinking. But more than that, she wondered how much time they had left before the dead reached them, too.

They made it to the fist of the first men just as the light began to die.

The climb had wrung the breath from her lungs and frozen her fingers inside her gloves. Even the others—Tormund, Ygritte, Mance—had fallen into silence by the time the broken ring of stones came into view. Like teeth, Elynor thought. Sharp and waiting.

She felt it before she stepped inside: the weight of the place. The hush in the wind. The way the world seemed to pause at its edges, as if even time had to catch its breath here.

Inside the ring, the snow was packed hard, trampled and bloodied in places. Blackened bones littered the ground like forgotten runes. The crows had fought here—and lost. No songs, no banners, no bodies left warm. Just the aftermath.

Elynor stepped closer, her boots crunching over the frozen earth, and felt her stomach twist. As her eyes swept the ruin, she noticed the bodies—or what was left of them—strewn deliberately, forming the rough edges of a symbol she didn’t recognize. Archaic, jagged, and wrong, it pressed against her senses in a way that made her magic stir uneasily under her skin, like a warning whispered in her blood.

She almost gagged as the metallic tang of old blood caught in her throat. A wave of nausea hit her hard, and she staggered a step back, tearing her gaze from the grisly shape in the snow. She had seen death before, but not like this. Not carved into meaning she couldn’t understand.

Elynor moved to the outskirts of the ridge, desperately trying to escape the smell of rot invading her senses. She pulled her cloak tighter and looked out over the vast white wilderness below. Jon stood near the edge, quiet as ever, hood drawn low. He hadn’t spoken much since Orell’s warning. She could feel the storm in him, though—tight-lipped and simmering.

Elynor walked to his side, boots crunching lightly behind her.

“You’ve seen this place before,” she murmured.

Jon didn’t look at her. “Aye. Last time, we found dragonglass buried beneath the snow. Sam said it was a gift from the past.”

Her gaze flicked to the ground, as if she might find shards of obsidian still hidden beneath the ice.

“Or a warning,” she added softly.

Jon's expression didn’t change, but his silence thickened.

“Maybe it was both,” he said finally, voice low, almost lost to the wind.

She let her eyes scan the treeline below. It was too quiet. Not empty—never empty—but holding its breath. Like the woods were waiting for something to arrive. Or return.

Behind them, Mance gave orders, his voice calm but tight. Tormund barked something about the high ground. Ygritte let out a half-laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

But Elynor didn’t turn.

Something stirred deep in her chest. A ripple in her blood. The way her skin sometimes caught the wind before it changed.

She’d heard the old tales. She carried the remnants of old magic in her bones. This place remembered. And she did, too.

Her voice was barely a whisper, carried off almost before it left her lips.

“They’re coming.”

The wind rose around her.

No walls. No safety. Just stone. Just snow.

And whatever lived long enough to remember what had been lost.

Behind them, the wind picked up—gusting sharp and loud enough to mask the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Elynor turned as Mance walked toward them, flanked by Orell and a few other scouts. His eyes swept the ring of stones, the scattered remnants of the dead.

He stopped beside Jon, his voice steady. “Jeor Mormont lost most of his strength here. Half his seasoned men, maybe more. I’d wager they’ve got barely two hundred left to guard the whole Wall now.”

Jon didn’t flinch. He just nodded, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

Mance turned then, gaze landing on Tormund, then Elynor.

“We move before they can recover.” His voice sharpened, louder now, for all to hear. “Tormund—you’ll take twenty men. Jon, you go with him.”

Then Mance looked at her.

“And you, shadow-girl.”

The words landed like a rock in her stomach. Her lungs tightened around them, resisting the air.

“You’ll climb the Wall.”

Everything inside her went silent.

She could see his mouth moving—stern, decisive, already spinning out the next orders—but she couldn’t hear it. Not a word. The world dulled to a low throb, like wind underwater. The blood rushed in her ears and her fingers went cold, colder than the wind should’ve made them.

Climb the Wall.

Cross it.

She hadn’t been south of it since…

Since King's Landing. Since the gold cloaks stormed her family’s quarters in the dark of night. Since her mother bled out across the marble floor, clutching Elynor’s hand and telling her not to scream, don’t scream, they’ll kill you too.

Since Ser Merek had saved her.

She remembered how he cut through the gold cloaks with a fury she’d never seen before or since. Remembered her mother’s blood soaking her skirts. Remembered how he lifted her from the blood, carried her out past the bodies, out of the Red Keep, and into the long years of silence and survival. 

She had not crossed the Wall since. Not until now.

Her body trembled. She pressed her gloved hand to her mouth and turned slightly, enough to let her face angle away from the group. The ridge blurred, the stones warped. The cold air turned thick, hot, and suffocating. Her ribs refused to move. Her chest burned.

Don’t let them see. Don’t let them see.

But Jon saw. Of course he did.

He said nothing, just took a quiet step closer. Not touching her—never that—but near enough that she felt the pull of his presence, the weight of his gaze. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t look confused.

Somehow, he just knew.

She closed her eyes tight, forcing her breath to slow. One in. One out. You are not there. You are not there. But the fear had already curled into her gut, deep and sharp. The thought of setting foot on that Wall, of crossing south again, of returning to the ghosts that still gripped her throat—

She heard only fragments now. Snatches of Mance’s voice.

“…attack Castle Black…”

“…signal fires…”

Then, one phrase, clear as a bell:

“The biggest fire the North has ever seen.”

Elynor turned without a word.

She walked away from the group, not fast, but with purpose—boots crunching steady into the snow, eyes on nothing. The wind needled at her face. Her breath came ragged in her throat.

She didn’t know if anyone followed. Didn’t care.

All she knew was this: the past was no longer sleeping. And the road ahead led straight through it.

She didn’t know how far she’d walked.

Just that the voices behind her had fallen away, swallowed by wind and distance. Snow clung to the folds of her cloak, and her legs finally gave out near a jagged rock outcropping where the land dipped and stretched toward the Wall—barely a pale line on the horizon.

Elynor sank into the snow, hunched, hood drawn low. She didn’t cry. She didn’t breathe properly either. Her hands trembled in her lap, fists balled. She bit her lip so hard the taste of blood filled her mouth. The past had her by the throat, and the present just watched.

She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t go forward.

She wrapped her arms around her ribs like she could hold herself in. Like she could stay here and the world might move on without her.

The past pressed in around her like mist—red marble, cold steel, blood on her hands that wasn’t hers, her mother’s last breath, Ser Merek’s fury, the gold cloaks’ snarling obedience to a king’s command:

Leave none alive.

She didn’t hear him approach, but felt it—the shift in the air.

Jon.

He didn’t speak, not right away. Just crouched beside her in the snow, his presence quiet and solid, like a stone wall catching the wind.

She hated that she felt safer. Hated that she noticed the warmth of him through the cold.

When she finally looked up, his face was drawn tight with concern.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he stated, his voice low.

“I am alone,” she muttered. “Doesn’t matter where I am.”

“You’re not,” he countered. “Not anymore.”

Elynor looked away sharply.

Jon knelt beside her now, hands on his knees. She could feel him watching her. Seeing her. And it burned. 

“You’re shaking,” he observed.

“It’s cold,” she snapped, though she knew it wasn’t the truth. Not the whole of it.

Jon shifted a little closer, his steps soft in the snow. “I don’t know what happened to you,” he said quietly, his voice low and careful. “And I won’t ask. But… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

The gentleness in his tone pressed against her ribs like a bruise. She didn’t want gentleness. Not now. Not ever.

Her chest tightened. “No,” she said, firmer than she felt. “I do.”

Jon hesitated, his eyes flickering with something—pity, maybe, or stubborn concern. He opened his mouth, clearly about to argue.

“Don’t.” The word snapped out of her like a whip as she pushed to her feet. Her voice cracked under its own weight. “I didn’t ask you to follow me. I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You don’t have to,” Jon said, standing as well, refusing to back down. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something, Ely.”

She froze.

That name. Ely.

Her blood went cold. She hadn’t heard it in so long—not since her mother’s lullabies, not since Ser Merek’s gruff voice softened in rare moments of care. The sound of it now was a knife sliding under her ribs.

Her breath caught, vision tunneling, the cold world collapsing around her. The past flashed bright and raw behind her eyes, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if she was here or somewhere else entirely.

She turned from Jon like the name itself had burned her skin. “You don’t get to call me that,” she spat, voice shaking. “You think because you know grief, you understand this? You think standing beside me makes it better? It doesn’t. Nothing makes it better.”

“I know that,” he said, louder now. “But you’re not made of ice. You can let someone in without falling apart.”

“That’s really amusing coming from you,” she chuckled, but there was no humor in her tone. “Maybe take your own advice before you try to tell me how to live my life.”

The silence that followed was thick. Cold. Real.

Jon’s lips pressed tight. His voice was lower now. Controlled.

“I’m not trying to decide anything for you. I’m just… trying not to leave you in the dark.”

She couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t breathe around it. Instead, she took a step back. Then another.

Her voice came quieter, but no less sharp. “Go back to Mance. Take your sympathy with you.”

He hesitated. For a moment she thought he might try again. But then, finally, he nodded once. A slow, silent resignation. “All right. But I’m not going far.”

Jon turned. The sound of his retreating steps hammered in her ears, but she didn’t look back, she couldn’t.

She stood alone again, arms wrapped tightly around herself, breath shaking, vision blurred.

The silence rushed in where he’d been, and the only thing louder than the wind was the beating of her own heart.

Chapter Text

It had taken all of Elynor’s willpower not to leave.

Not to let her body dissolve into feathers or fur or wind and disappear into the woods. Not to shift in that very moment, when the cold bit deepest and the ghosts pressed in around her like fog, and vanish. Just run. Just go.

Back to her cabin. Back to the quiet. To the firelight and the silence and the thin protection of her solitude. She could almost feel it—the shape of the room, the ache of its emptiness. The hollow that waited for her there, familiar and safe.

But she stayed. She didn’t know why.

Her legs had gone stiff from kneeling in the snow, and her hands were raw even through the gloves. But she hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. Something in her—maybe pride, maybe pain—kept her rooted there in the white silence long after Jon’s footsteps had vanished into the distance.

Coward, she thought.

And she didn’t know if she meant Jon. Or herself.

She stared out across the open white, toward the distant line of the Wall, rising like a wound against the sky.

That was where they were going. Back across it. Back south.

Back into the world that had broken her.

Her chest tightened. She shut her eyes.

You can’t do this, something in her whispered.

But she knew she would go.

Not because of Jon.

Not because of some half-formed loyalty or the ache that pulsed in her chest whenever he looked at her like he saw her.

No—she would go because of what was coming.

If the stories were true—if the White Walkers were more than tales—then the world wasn’t just changing. It was ending. And Elynor, as much as she wanted to curl back into herself and let it all pass over her, knew she couldn’t. 

She would not survive another war by waiting it out. She had learned that lesson too young.

If the dead walked, if the winds whispered with ancient malice, then she wouldn’t hide in her cabin and hope for mercy. She would face it. Fight it. Even if it broke her all over again.

She opened her eyes.

And in her mind, she saw Jon—his gaze steady and fierce, full of quiet fire, full of that maddening belief that he could make a difference. That maybe they all could.

She would match that fire. She had to. Even if it burned her from the inside out.

Now, days later, the world was bone-deep cold.

Their small group moved through a frozen hush that swallowed every step. The sky hung low and grey, and the Wall had grown from a distant threat to a looming presence—an unmovable monolith of ancient ice, taller than anything she’d ever seen, a shard of winter itself stabbed into the earth.

Elynor adjusted the furs wrapped around her, the wind clawing at her cheeks. Tormund trudged ahead with the stubborn gait of a man used to climbing mountains for sport. Ygritte walked not far behind him, muttering songs under her breath and occasionally glancing at Jon with something just shy of fondness.

And Jon…

She hadn’t spoken to him since that day.

She’d avoided his eyes, his quiet footsteps beside hers, his low murmurs of concern when they stopped to rest. She answered his questions with nods or nothing at all. Pretended not to notice when he lingered nearby at the fires. Pretended not to hear the small, wounded silence that followed when she turned her back.

It wasn’t fair. She knew that.

But fair had nothing to do with it.

He had called her Ely—and it had cracked something inside her open so wide, she hadn’t known how to close it again. Not yet.

So she said nothing.

And Jon Snow, for all his stubbornness, said nothing too.

But the distance between them ached like a fresh wound.

The crunch of footsteps beside her made Elynor tense before she even looked.

Tormund.

He fell into stride with her easily, his thick arms swinging at his sides, breath misting heavy from his beard. He didn’t say anything at first, just walked beside her in silence, like he was waiting for her to speak first. When she didn’t, he tilted his head to glance at her, eyes sharp beneath unruly brows.

“Y’know,” he spoke at last, “if looks could kill, Snow’d be ten feet under by now. Frostbitten and twice cursed.”

Elynor didn’t answer.

Tormund’s eyes narrowed. “Not even a smirk for that one? That’s a damn good line, girl.”

She kept her gaze ahead, teeth pressed together, heart like a stone in her chest.

He sighed, exaggerated and loud, clearly trying to draw something—anything—out of her. “You’ve gone all gloomy again. Like a bloody crow with a storm cloud stuck to his ass. What’s gotten into you?”

Still, nothing.

She could feel his stare like a weight on her cheek.

“This about the Wall?” he asked, voice lowering, rough but not unkind. “Or is it about him?”

Elynor’s shoulders stiffened.

Tormund snorted. “Aye, thought so.”

They walked on in silence, boots sinking into the snow with each step. Elynor’s throat burned with the effort not to snap, not to break open again.

He tried once more.

“Y’know,” he prodded, more gently this time, “when I first met you, you nearly took my bloody nose off with a snowshoe and told me I smelled like giant shit.”

Elynor didn’t answer.

“I miss that girl.”

That made her blink. But she didn’t meet his eyes. Didn’t say a word.

Tormund didn’t fall back this time.

He stayed at her side, trudging through the snow with that same broad stride, his breath puffing white in the cold. His silence lasted longer this time, but it wasn’t a quiet silence—it was pointed. Heavy. Full of thoughts clawing behind his teeth.

“Snow’s been walking around like a wounded pup since you tore into him.”

Elynor gave no reaction.

Tormund hummed, as if that were answer enough. “Don’t need to be a skinchanger to see it. Boy’s got that look—like someone kicked him in the chest and then told him it was his own fault.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose, eyes locked on the endless white ahead. Is he ever going to shut his mouth?

“Not that I care much for the bastard,” Tormund added with a shrug. “But it’s been days now. And you—”

He turned his head toward her.

“You’re colder than the godsdamned snow. And that’s saying something.”

Elynor still didn’t answer. The ice inside her had grown so familiar, she almost forgot what warmth had felt like. Almost.

“I get it,” Tormund mumbled, softer now. “Whatever it is you’re dragging around, it’s heavy. But you used to carry it and still spit fire. Now you’re just—” he waved a hand at her vaguely, “—silent.”

She clenched her fists in her gloves.

“Don’t,” she growled lowly. “Don’t try to fix me.”

“I’m not,” he defended, surprising her. “Just trying to find you in there. The real you. Not this... ghost you’ve been wearing like a mask.”

That struck something.

Not enough to crack her open—but enough to knock against the lid.

She looked away sharply, but not fast enough. He caught it—the flicker of pain. The split-second tremble in her lip before she bit it down.

Tormund smiled, more gently this time. “There she is.”

Elynor opened her mouth—to say something, anything—but then her eyes caught movement up ahead.

Ygritte.

Red hair wild in the wind, a crooked grin across her lips as she held something in her hands.

Longclaw.

Jon’s sword.

Elynor stopped walking.

Ygritte darted back into the trees with a laugh, Jon close on her heels, muttering a curse as he gave chase. They vanished between the trees like smoke, and the air around Elynor seemed to twist. Her stomach knotted. Her heart lurched upward into her throat.

She burned.

Fury. Sharp and sudden and alive.

It was like tasting fire again after weeks of ash. The heat crashed over her that knocked her breath sideways.

Tormund saw it immediately. Chuckled low in his throat.

“Well, look at that,” he smirked. “Didn’t think that was what’d bring your fire back.”

Elynor clenched her fists again, tighter this time. Her teeth ground together.

Tormund leaned closer, voice full of teasing menace. “I’ll admit—didn’t see you and the crow making puppy eyes. But Ygritte? She’s got a way of getting what she wants. You might want to move fast if you plan on—”

Elynor moved.

She turned sharply toward where the two had vanished, legs already propelling her through the snow.

But a hand clamped around her wrist, firm and hot even through the cold.

“Elynor,” Tormund warned, a shit eating grin spread across his face, “don’t go killing either of them. No matter how much you want to. Even if I’d enjoy watching the crow’s last breath...” He trailed off.

Her eyes snapped toward him, fierce and feral. She wanted to defend herself at first, tell him that she and Jon were just friends, but the longer she waited, the farther they got away. 

Tormund held her stare for a long second... then released her wrist.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Didn’t promise anything.

She turned and stormed off into the trees, rage and snow kicking up in her wake.

Branches clawed at her cloak as she pushed through the trees, her breath sharp and quick in the cold. Her pulse drummed in her ears, louder than the wind, louder than reason. She didn’t know what she’d say when she found them. Didn’t care.

Something hot and wild simmered beneath her skin—something she couldn’t name, didn’t want to. She just needed to move. To see.

The trees thinned, and the ground dipped into a ravine glazed with ice. Elynor slowed, her boots skidding slightly on the slope as a pale blue shimmer caught her eye.

An ice grotto.

The entrance yawned wide, carved by time and cold, glowing faintly with fractured winter light. And from inside—

Voices.

She stopped short.

They echoed off the ice—muffled, close. Too familiar.

Ygritte’s voice, lilting and warm: “That all the fight you’ve got in you, Crow?”

Then Jon, lower, with an edge she didn’t like: “You stole my sword.”

A soft laugh followed. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

Elynor’s nostrils flared.

And then Ygritte again, bolder now, her words like flint against dry grass:

“You gonna show me how you fight with your sword, Crow? Or are you only good at swinging it one way?”

The air in Elynor’s lungs burned.

She didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. She moved.

The cold air shifted the moment she stepped inside the grotto. It closed around her like a held breath, quiet except for the slow drip of water and the pulse hammering in her skull. The walls shimmered blue, throwing strange shapes across the ice.

She pressed deeper, boots crunching softly over frozen stone.

She told herself it was because they were wasting time. That this wasn’t why they were here. That it was foolish and dangerous and reckless.

But the fire boiling in her chest didn’t care for reason.

And the heat curling in her stomach had nothing to do with the mission.

Ygritte’s laughter echoed again, and Elynor moved faster.

The grotto opened wider the deeper she went, steam beginning to curl in the air like breath from a slumbering beast. Elynor slowed her steps, her heartbeat thundering in her throat as light shimmered off the slick ice walls. The hush of water lapping echoed all around her, and just ahead—

There.

She froze in the shadows.

Jon stood with his back to her, shoulders tense but unmoving. His sword lay abandoned at the grotto’s edge. Ygritte stood before him—naked, her red hair damp from the steam, clinging to her skin like flame on snow. She grinned up at him, fingers trailing down the front of his cloak, tugging at the clasp beneath his throat.

Jon didn’t stop her.

Elynor’s stomach twisted. Her breath caught—sharp, painful.

He let the cloak fall.

Ygritte’s hands were on him now, sliding down his chest. Her voice was low and sing-song, but it stabbed at Elynor’s ribs like a blade. She laughed again, bold and bright, and leaned into him, lips brushing his neck.

Elynor didn’t think. She moved.

The dagger was in her hand before she knew she’d drawn it. The next breath didn’t belong to her—it belonged to something feral, something that had been waiting in the dark far too long. She crossed the distance in a blur, the world narrowing to the heat in her veins, the slick stone underfoot, the flash of Ygritte’s pale skin in the dim light.

Ygritte turned just in time to see her. Too late.

Elynor slammed into her. The force of it knocked them both backwards—over the edge and into the hot spring behind.

The water exploded around them, scalding and roaring. Elynor’s blade went skittering across the stone as they crashed beneath the surface, limbs tangling, steam rising like smoke from a fire.

Ygritte came up with a gasp, snarling, and swung at her.

Elynor ducked, water flying from her hair, and drove her shoulder into the wildling’s chest. They slipped against each other in the pool, arms flailing, breath ragged. Elynor grabbed Ygritte’s wrist and twisted—but the woman was quick, strong, and fought like a wolf with her back against the wall.

“You crazy bitch!” Ygritte roared, hair slicked back and wild in her eyes. “You gone fucking moon-mad?”

Elynor surged forward, teeth clenched, and shoved her beneath the water.

Heat scorched her skin, but she didn’t care. Didn’t think. Her hands were fists, claws, and rage. Ygritte twisted beneath her, kicked out, and broke free—gasping, eyes burning with fury.

She tackled Elynor back, dragged her down again.

They clawed at each other beneath the surface, limbs slick and slippery, rage making them ruthless. They came up together, coughing and heaving, water running in streams down their faces as they fought like storm and flame.

Ygritte caught her by the throat. Elynor clawed her hand away and drove a knee into her stomach, sending the wildling stumbling back, coughing, slipping against the edge of the pool.

They stood there, chests heaving, soaked to the bone, breathing fire and ice.

“I should gut you,” Ygritte hissed, wiping blood from her mouth. “You’ve got death in your eyes, girl.”

Elynor’s fists trembled at her sides. “Try me.”

Elynor’s fingers found the hilt of her dagger beneath the churning water.

She gripped it hard. Ygritte didn’t see it until the blade was pressed against her throat.

The wildling stilled. Her breath hitched.

Jon’s voice rang from somewhere behind them, echoing off the ice, sharp with panic:

“Enough!”

Neither woman moved.

The steam curled around them like smoke from a pyre. The fight hadn’t burned out—it only waited, quiet now, simmering in their bones.

Elynor leaned in close, voice low and shaking—not from fear, but something darker, more dangerous.

“You touch him again,” she snarled, “Look at him again in a way I don’t like—and I swear, you won’t even have time to blink before I end your life.”

The heat of the spring was nothing compared to the fire behind Elynor’s eyes.

Ygritte didn’t move. Her chest rose and fell against the blade. A bead of blood welled just beneath the steel.

And then—just for a moment—her mask cracked.

A sliver of fear.

It flickered through her eyes before she shoved herself back, scrambling out of Elynor’s grasp, her wet skin slipping on the stones. She staggered toward her clothes, snatched them up with shaking hands.

“You’re mad,” Ygritte spat, wrapping an arm across her chest. “He may be your little pet girl, but he wanted me.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

She turned and stormed out into the cold, bare feet slapping against ice, disappearing into the steam and shadow like a curse.

Elynor stood alone in the pool, soaked and shaking, dagger still clenched in her fist. Her breath tore from her lungs in ragged bursts.

Behind her, boots crunched against stone.

Jon.

And for a moment, she couldn’t face him.

The water lapped softly around her, steam rising in hazy curtains. The dagger felt too heavy in her hand now. Her fingers trembled.

She hadn’t even realized she was crying until the tears blurred her vision, mingling with the heat, indistinguishable from the water streaming down her cheeks.

Her breath came shallow and uneven. Something caved in her chest, something unfamiliar—something terrifying.

She had fought for her life before. Killed. Run. Hidden. But never had she burned like this over someone. She didn’t own Jon. He wasn’t hers. He was her friend. Nothing more.

“Ely,” Jon’s voice came behind her, careful and quiet.

Her blood turned to ice. There it was again.

She ground her teeth so hard it hurt. Still, she didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t.

The water had gone hot again. Too hot. It clung to her soaked clothes, weighing her down, her heart thrashing against the inside of her ribs. She felt like she was boiling from the inside out.

She would have to look at him eventually. Speak. Say something. Anything.

But for now, she stood frozen in the middle of the steaming spring, the dagger still in her hand, her shoulders trembling.

She didn’t turn when she spoke—just let the words spill out, sharp and bitter.

“You liked it,” she snapped. “What she was doing.”

Behind her, Jon exhaled. A long, heavy sound that almost made her flinch.

“What?” he asked, voice edged with disbelief.

“You didn’t stop her.” Elynor’s throat ached, her face still turned away. “You let her touch you. You let her undress you. Don’t tell me you didn’t want it.” She didn’t know why she kept going, didn’t know why she cared.

“I didn’t,” Jon said, firm now, stepping closer. “I didn’t want her like that.”

She scoffed and shook her head, a humorless sound bubbling up, half-laugh, half-growl. “You’re a terrible liar, Snow.”

“I’m not lying.”

The words were low and wounded, and that made her even angrier. Because she didn’t want to feel anything about the hurt in his voice.

“You were just standing there,” she hissed, her fists curling at her sides. “Letting her—letting her throw herself at you like some... some wild dog in heat.”

“She took my sword and ran off, then got naked right in front of me,” Jon bit back, now sounding just as frustrated. “What was I supposed to do? Tackle her?”

“You could’ve said no!” she snapped, whirling around finally, eyes blazing. “You could’ve stopped her!”

Their eyes met, finally—steam curling between them like smoke after fire.

Jon didn’t look away. “I did.”

But she didn’t believe him. Not entirely. Because the image was still burned behind her eyes—Ygritte’s hands on his chest, his face so close to hers, her lips ghosting his skin.

And something inside her wouldn’t stop screaming.

Elynor inhaled deeply through her nose, schooling her features, smoothing out the jagged edges in her voice.

“It’s fine,” she replied coolly, tucking the blade back into the sheath at her belt like it hadn’t just been pressed to another woman’s throat. “You don’t owe me anything, Jon. If you liked it—liked her—you don’t have to explain yourself.”

She turned away again, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of the hot spring, pretending it didn’t sting to say it. Pretending her heart wasn’t trying to crawl its way up her throat.

Jon was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, with an edge of frustration:

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like it didn’t matter.”

Her nails bit into her palms. “It didn’t.”

He stepped closer. “Ely—”

“Don’t call me that.”

That stopped him. For a beat, neither of them spoke.

Elynor kept her back to him, hands trembling slightly despite the boiling heat.

Jon’s voice dropped lower. “You think I don’t know when you’re pretending?”

He paused. “I see it. I see you, even when you don’t want me to.”

She hated how that landed—how it cut through her so cleanly.

Still, she shook her head, forcing a laugh that didn’t sound like her at all. “You don’t know anything, Jon Snow.”

But she could feel him behind her—silent, steady, and far too close for her to keep pretending none of it mattered.

She heard the rustle of fabric—wet leather peeling from skin, the soft splash of water shifting under new weight.

She turned her head slightly and froze.

Jon had shed his furs, his tunic, his undershirt. He stood at the edge of the spring in nothing but his trousers, steam curling around him like mist from some ancient fire. Droplets clung to the lines of his chest, trickling down the ridges of old scars and muscle. His hair was damp, darker than usual, strands slicked back from his face as if the heat itself had molded him into something unreal.

Elynor’s breath hitched—heat rising in the pit of her stomach, tight and unwelcome.

Gods help me.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want him—not like this, not now. She was still angry. She wanted to stay angry. She needed to. But the sight of him, slow and silent as he stepped into the water, his eyes locked on hers, undid something in her with every ripple he made. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.

The closer he came, the harder it was to breathe.

She swallowed hard. “What are you doing?”

Her voice wasn’t nearly as sharp as she’d meant it to be.

Jon didn’t answer. He just kept moving toward her, chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths, gaze never wavering.

The water lapped between them, now only an arm’s reach apart. His skin glistened—broad shoulders and lean muscle etched with tension and purpose, water trailing down his stomach like silver threads.

Elynor’s throat was dry. She hated how she noticed every detail. Hated how her heart beat louder with each inch he closed between them.

“Stop,” she whispered.

She meant to sound firm, resolute. But the word came out like a breathless plea, barely above the soft bubbling of the hot spring. And worse—she knew, deep down in the part of herself she refused to look at too closely—she didn’t mean it.

Jon still said nothing.

His eyes searched hers, unreadable, storm-dark and steady, like he was waiting for something—waiting for her to run again, or lash out, or shatter.

But she didn’t move.

Her cloak clung to her, soaked through from the earlier fight, heavy and cumbersome in the water. He reached for it slowly, hands gentle and deliberate as he peeled it from her shoulders.

Her breath tangled in her throat.

The fabric slid down her arms like a whisper, baring the thinner tunic beneath, damp and clinging to her body. She felt exposed under his gaze—not just her skin, but something else, something raw and barely stitched together.

Her senses lit up all at once.

The warmth of the spring, the weight of his attention, the feel of his fingers grazing her wrist as he pulled the last of the cloak away and let it drift behind her in the water. Every movement he made sent a ripple through her, as if he was unmaking her without even trying.

She couldn’t stop watching him.

The way his shoulders gleamed, his skin kissed by heat and lit from above by faint shards of daylight filtering in through cracks in the rock. The carved lines of his chest and stomach, water tracing every contour like it wanted to memorize him. She hadn’t seen him like this since that night in her cabin—hadn’t let herself remember—but the memory surged forward now, vivid and hungry.

And yet this felt different. Charged. Quiet. Inevitable.

Jon moved closer.

Her heartbeat thudded painfully against her ribs. Her fists clenched in the water beneath the surface, knuckles pressed to her thighs as if anchoring her there, as if she could keep control. But it was slipping.

She didn’t know what he wanted. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s what terrified her the most.

“Jon,” she murmured, barely managing to breathe his name.

Still, he said nothing.

Just watched her. His hand moved—tentative, careful—as though she were some wild, wounded thing that might bolt at the slightest touch.

She didn’t.

His fingers came to rest on her waist, light as snowfall, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin wet fabric. Her body betrayed her, leaning into him without permission.

He stepped even closer.

Their chests brushed—bare skin to soaked fabric—sending a sharp jolt through her, like a struck chord reverberating low and deep in her belly. He was solid warmth and muscle and quiet restraint. Her pulse roared in her ears, her thoughts scattering.

There was a heat rising inside her, slow and steady and undeniable. It twisted low in her abdomen, coiling tighter with every heartbeat, every inch of him that pressed against her. Her body knew what it wanted. Her hands ached to slide over the planes of his chest, to pull him closer, to stop pretending.

She swallowed hard, trying to shove the hunger back down.

“You…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, forcing the words out. “You took vows.”

Jon didn’t answer. His thumb moved—just slightly—stroking the curve of her hip, a simple gesture that felt anything but innocent.

Her body trembled at the contact.

“You’re a man of the Night’s Watch,” she said again, more desperate than firm this time. “You’re not supposed to—”

“I know what I’m supposed to be,” he said finally, voice low, rough. His breath was warm against her cheek. “I also know what I feel.”

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because she didn’t know if she had the strength to stop him. Or herself.

Jon’s breath was slow, measured, every inch of him drawn taut as his lips hovered just inches from hers. The steam curled around them like a veil, the only sound being their shallow breathing and the faint drip of water from the grotto walls. His eyes searched hers—heavy with unspoken need and the promise of something forbidden.

Elynor’s pulse hammered in her ears, every nerve ending alive and trembling. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the steady beat of his heart thrumming against her own. Their bodies moved instinctively closer, drawn by a force neither wanted to resist.

Her breath mingled with his, and the air between them crackled with anticipation. The moment stretched, fragile and infinite, as if the world held its breath alongside them. She could taste him—salt and something sharper, more urgent—and all the careful walls she’d built inside her began to crumble.

Their lips brushed slightly when-

“We need to move. Now.”

The harsh voice cut through the silence, dragging them violently back to the world outside their bubble. A wildling stood at the grotto’s mouth, eyes darting between them with urgent warning.

A muscle ticked in Jon’s jaw, his gaze flicking to Elynor’s before they both stepped back, the invisible thread pulling taut then snapping between them. No words were spoken; none were needed. The heat lingered, raw and aching, but the moment was gone.

They were left with only the weight of what almost was—and the promise that it was far from over.

Chapter Text

JON'S POV

Jon’s thoughts wouldn’t settle.

No matter how many steps he took, no matter how far the wind bit at his cheeks or how rough the path became, she was still there—in the back of his mind, in the space just behind his ribs. Elynor.

They hadn’t spoken about what nearly happened in the grotto. No words had been exchanged after they were interrupted, but the tension hadn’t faded—it clung to them like fog. And somehow, they’d fallen back into place. Not entirely as before, not untouched, but something like the old rhythm had returned. The shared glances. The quiet moments. A silence that held more weight than a hundred conversations.

But the memory lingered. The brush of her lips. Her breath, so close to his. Her cloak falling into the water.

Ygritte hadn’t come near him since that night.

Not a smirk. Not a jab. No stolen glances or teasing provocations. She’d kept her distance, her fire dimmed in a way that didn’t sit right with the others—but Jon didn’t care. He hadn’t cared for her in the way she wanted. Not truly. Not like that.

The truth was, whatever flirtation passed between them had meant little to him. It had been strategy. Survival. A mask he wore because he had to blend in, because to stand apart was to die. But there’d never been a spark. Not one that stayed. Not one that touched anything real.

He still remembered it—how she had flown at Ygritte like a wildfire with a dagger in her grip and fury in her eyes. Jon had seen many things in his life, but nothing had struck him so deeply as the way she’d looked in that moment. Not just rage, but something raw. Unspoken. Possessive.

it had made something bloom in him. Something fierce and stupid and hopeful.

Even now, just the memory made heat stir in his chest. And gods, he wanted to lose himself in it. He would’ve. He would’ve done things in that cave that went against everything he’d sworn to. He wasn’t sure he would’ve stopped.

That terrified him more than anything.

The Wall loomed in the distance now, its frozen spine breaking the sky. They were a day out, maybe less. Jon could feel its shadow already stretching over him. Each step closer made the weight of his purpose heavier.

He knew what was coming.

He was a brother of the Night’s Watch. He had sworn an oath. And when the time came, he would have to betray the people walking beside him.

Not because he wanted to. Because he had to.

The cold in his stomach wasn’t from the wind or the snow—it was the dread of returning to Castle Black, of facing the truth of what had to be done. The climb itself might kill them. But if they made it… if they survived… what came after might be worse.

And still, through it all—Elynor. The echo of her laughter when she thought no one heard, the way her eyes met his when she let her guard down. She was fire in a world of ice. And that fire had nearly undone him.

Jon set his jaw and kept walking. He kept reminding himself that The Wall waited.

He heard Tormund’s heavy steps before he saw him. Snow crunched under the man’s boots with each purposeful stride. When Jon looked over, the big wildling was already standing beside him, arms crossed, eyes like two pieces of storm-dark stone. They said nothing at first. Just walked, snow falling in slow flakes between them.

“Climb’ll be harder than most of you soft crows could handle,” Tormund muttered, not looking at him. “Some won’t survive it.”

Jon glanced up at the Wall in the distance. “We’ll survive.”

Tormund gave a short laugh. “That what you tell yourself, boy? Just to keep walking?”

Jon didn’t answer.

Tormund’s voice shifted. Lower. Heavier. “Just remember what side you’re on, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s shoulders stiffened.

“I see the way you walk,” Tormund went on, “like your feet are already pointed south.”

Jon said nothing, kept his eyes forward.

Tormund stopped walking for just a breath of a second, grabbing Jon’s arm to make him pause. “You betray us, I’ll kill you myself.”

Jon’s hand tensed at the hilt of Longclaw, but he didn’t draw it. He stared back, frowning.

Tormund’s eyes narrowed. “If it weren’t for Elynor, you’d already be dead. She’s the only reason you’re still breathing among us.”

Jon didn’t speak, though the words struck harder than any blade.

Tormund stepped closer, his tone rough with something more personal now. “And if you hurt her—I will crush your skull with my bare hands, crow. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t care what she sees in you. You make her bleed, crow, and I’ll tear you apart.”

They stood in the snow, breath steaming between them, the others marching on ahead.

Jon met his gaze, steady. “I won’t hurt her.”

Tormund searched his face for any crack, any lie. Finally, he gave a grunt, let go of Jon’s arm, and started walking again.

Jon lingered for just a heartbeat before falling in step behind him, the cold of the Wall clawing ever closer, biting deeper now than ever.

The Wall rose before them like a death sentence written in ice.

They stood at its base, all of them. The air was quiet, save for the creak of leather and iron as the small group behind him adjusted their gear. Tormund’s band of wildlings—rough, wind-chapped, worn from the journey—said little now. The time for boasting had passed. The Wall had a way of stealing the words right out of a man's throat.

It was worse up close. It wasn’t just tall, it was impossible. Sheer, smooth ice that clawed at the sky. Jon titled his head back to take it in. He couldn’t see the top, just clouds.

Their gear lay before them like a bad joke: patched harnesses, ropes stiff with ice, iron hooks dark with old rust. Jon picked one up. The metal was pitted, the leather straps fraying at the edges.

This was madness.

He crouched, testing the strength of his harness, checking buckles that looked like they'd snap under the weight of a hard stare. This couldn't hold a man, not really. It shouldn't. Yet it was all they had.

Tormund paced in front of them, his voice rough like gravel in a tankard.

“We climb in silence. Fast as we can. Don’t stop unless you’ve no choice or you’re dead,” he barked, eyeing each one of them. Tormund’s eyes glittered with something Jon couldn’t name—madness, maybe. Or joy. “This is the good part,” he said. “This climb… this climb makes you feel alive.”

Jon stared at him, disbelief twisting in his chest. That glint in Tormund’s eyes was real. He meant it.

The wind picked up, carrying flecks of ice with it. The Wall groaned above them, ancient and alive.

Then Elynor spoke, her voice steady despite the cold. “And if we slip?”

Everyone turned toward her. She stood at the edge of the group, still as stone, her breath a pale wisp in the air. She didn’t look at anyone—only the Wall, towering above.

Tormund didn’t hesitate. “You fall,” he attested. “And you die.”

His words hit hard. 

Jon felt it—the cold lance down his spine, felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Fall and die. Just like that, no mercy, no second chance.

No one said anything now.

He looked at Elynor. Her face was still unreadable, shadowed beneath her hood. But she hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched. Jon wondered if she felt the same chill digging into his ribs. Or if she was already thinking ahead—about the climb, about the ice, about survival.

He hoped she was, because there was no turning back. 

They climbed in pairs.

The ropes lashed them together—one above, one below, each man’s life in the other’s hands. Jon was first, Elynor just beneath him, the worn leather line straining between their bodies as they began the ascent.

The Wall swallowed the world behind them.

Jon’s fingers dug into ancient ice, the iron hook in his grip scraping until it caught in a crack. He tested it. Solid—for now. He shifted his weight, pulled himself up another foot.

The cold hit harder with every step.

It wasn’t the biting kind that stung skin and passed. This was deep. Numbing. The kind that seeped into the marrow. He could no longer feel the tips of his fingers. His knuckles felt stiff, like stone. His breath misted out in ragged bursts and froze on his lashes, in his beard. The wind clawed at him—sudden and vicious—almost ripped him from the wall more than once.

And still, he climbed.

Below him, the rope tightened and slackened in a rhythm. Elynor. She was still with him. He didn’t dare look down—not with the wind howling the way it was—but he could feel her through the rope, like a second heartbeat. Every time he shifted his weight, he sensed her adjusting, matching his movements, trusting him.

Good.

Jon drove another hook into the wall, his arms burning now. The ice here was slicker, older. It cracked faintly as he wedged the point deeper.

He grit his teeth.

His whole body trembled—not from fear, not exactly—but from the strain of clinging to a sheer sheet of frozen death with nothing but rusted gear and fraying rope. His knees scraped the jagged face of the Wall. His fingers slipped, caught, slipped again. He couldn’t feel them anymore. His whole right hand might as well have turned to bone and snow.

Keep climbing, he told himself. Don’t think. Don’t stop.

He reached higher.

And still, that rope tugged behind him—taut and steady—reminding him that Elynor was there, her life tied to his.

One wrong move and they’d fall together. That thought struck deep—deeper than the cold. He didn’t care what happened to him. But Elynor?

He grunted, shifting his weight again, and climbed.

Above them, the Wall groaned with the weight of the wind, of age, of time.

Below, the ground was lost in mist.

Jon was just finding a rhythm—hook, pull, brace, climb—when a sharp crack rang out above.

It split through the roar of the wind like the world itself had cracked open.

His head jerked up, and he saw her—Ygritte—climbing higher with reckless speed, her hook wedged hard into the ice. Too hard. The wall groaned beneath her thrust. A splintered vein of white spread like lightning across the ancient surface, spidering out from her blow.

Jon’s heart stopped.

“No—”

The sound that followed was thunderous.

A jagged plate of ice, half the size of a cart, tore free with a shriek. It split from the Wall just above them and began to fall, dragging a deafening avalanche of shards in its wake. Wildlings cried out. One of the men to their right screamed before vanishing in the spray of snow and sky—his rope whipping away, untethered.

Jon’s eyes locked on the falling mass.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t blink.

It was coming straight for them.

“Hold—” he started, but there was no time. The shockwave of wind that followed slammed into him, knocked his shoulder back. His ice pick slipped. For a heartbeat, he dangled, boots scrambling for purchase.

Then he heard her.

“Jon!”

Elynor.

The rope between them snapped taut—so suddenly it nearly pulled him off the wall.

He looked down.

She was dangling beneath him, the wall slick and crumbling where she had lost her grip. Her hands clawed at the ice, boots scrabbling against the sheer surface, but she had no hold. Nothing. Only the rope. Only him.

“Ely!”

Panic stabbed into his chest, white-hot. She was swaying with the wind, her face pale, her cloak whipping violently. She looked up at him, hair plastered to her cheeks with frost, and Jon felt everything inside him twist.

He tried to brace himself, locking one boot into a crevice, but his fingers—numb, shaking—slipped again.

Elynor dropped a foot lower.

“Fuck—” he snarled, wedging his pick into the ice, fighting to stay up, fighting not to look down, fighting against gravity and fear and the ice biting into every inch of him.

He gritted his teeth and reached higher with his free arm, straining every muscle in his back to lift them both.

You can’t fall, he thought. She can’t fall.

The Wall had no mercy. It didn’t care what Jon wanted.

Jon’s grip slipped again.

His left hand skated over the ice, raw and useless, his glove torn somewhere in the climb. A slick patch gave way beneath his boot, and for one gut-wrenching second, he was falling—air rushing past him, the roar of the wind deafening.

Then—

Thunk.

His pick caught.

Jon slammed into the wall, shoulder jarring hard against the ice, the breath knocked clean from his lungs. He hung there, dazed, heart hammering so loud it drowned everything else out.

Below him, Elynor dropped again—half a body’s length this time, the rope stretching taut to its limit. Her cry pierced through the wind. The sudden drop jerked them both. Jon’s wrist screamed in pain where the rope tugged against his harness.

“Elynor!”

He looked down and saw her face—ashen, her hands bleeding where she clutched at the rope, at the ice. Her eyes were wide with fear, her mouth slightly open like she wanted to speak but couldn’t. Frost coated her lashes. Her legs swung freely, unable to find purchase.

He could feel her weight pulling on him. Could feel his own anchor start to give.

They were seconds from falling.

“Hold on—I’ve got you!” he shouted through the wind, though his voice cracked with desperation. His fingers scrambled up the wall, boots kicking into the ice. His muscles burned. Please, hold. Just a little longer—

Then he saw something change in her eyes.

Not panic. Not pleading.

Resolve.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t you dare—”

She reached down to her belt, fingers fumbling against the wind, against the cold, and drew a small dagger.

Jon's heart stopped.

“What are you doing? Elynor!”

He watched as she brought the blade up to the rope tethering them.

“No, no, no—stop!” he roared, panic overtaking him as he saw the steel press against the fibers.

“Don’t you fucking do this!”

The wind howled around them. The world narrowed to just the two of them and the thin rope between life and death. Her face was set now—lips trembling, eyes shining with unshed tears—but calm. Determined. Like she had accepted something he hadn’t yet understood.

And still, she cut.

Jon’s breath caught in his throat.

He shook his head wildly. “You cut that rope, and I swear to the gods, I’ll—”

But she didn’t stop.

Jon roared against the wind and slammed his pick into the ice with renewed desperation. His other hand clawed toward the rope, dragging it, dragging her, inch by inch. The ice tore at his knuckles, the weight pulling against his shoulders like the gods themselves wanted him to fail. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Come on—just a little more, stay with me.

He saw her body sway, saw her legs scrabble helplessly for a foothold. The dagger was gone, discarded, and the rope—frayed now—was nearly through. But he had her. He had her.

His boots slid. He bit down a curse and jammed the pick in deeper. His back screamed with strain as he heaved upward, the rope creaking.

And then—

Snap.

A sharp twang like a whip cracked through the air, and suddenly the weight was gone.

“No—”

Jon’s eyes followed the end of the rope as it recoiled upward, limp and useless.

Below, Elynor fell. Through the swirling snow and mist, her body twisted and tumbled, arms flailing before she disappeared into the clouds below. One last glimpse—her face pale, hair streaming behind her like a banner—and then nothing. Just white.

Jon let out a sound that was more animal than man.

“Elynor!”

He slammed his fist into the ice, hard enough to bruise, then again, until it cracked and blood smeared over the wall.

He leaned his forehead against the ice, trembling, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, the silence pressing in too loud, too sudden. All that remained was the wind.

And the void she'd fallen into.

Chapter Text

There was still only black.

Not the kind of black that came with closed eyes, or even sleep—a slow, aching kind of black, vast and pressing, like she’d been swallowed by the void between stars. Elynor floated in it, untethered, unsure if she was breathing. She couldn’t remember hitting the ground.

She wasn’t even sure she had. There was no pain, no wind against her skin, only darkness.

Am I dead?

The thought drifted through her like a feather, soft and detached. She didn’t feel her limbs. Didn’t feel her heartbeat. There was nothing to anchor her to her body, only the echo of Jon’s voice still ringing somewhere deep in the quiet—distant, but stubbornly clinging.

Her mind groped for memories, but they flickered in and out like dying stars. The Wall. The climb. The scream of ice cracking. Jon’s eyes—wild with fear—above her. The look they shared before she’d reached for her blade.

That final moment.

The rope. The fall.

She should have died. Should have shattered on the rocks or vanished into the mist like the others who had slipped. She should have been broken, bones splintered, blood mixing with snow.

But she wasn’t sure. Not yet. Not here.

Instead, there was a strange warmth blooming somewhere deep inside her, faint and ancient, like a forgotten fire catching again. It pulsed through her slowly, curling along her spine, brushing the edges of her mind like fingers tugging at something buried.

A whisper stirred. Faint. Familiar.

Elynor.

She didn’t know if it came from outside or within, but it pulled at her all the same.

And somewhere—somewhere far beneath the darkness—she began to fall again. Not through air this time, but through memory. Through time. Through something older than pain.

And her eyes, unseen in the black, began to burn.

She still couldn’t move—didn’t know if she had a body to move. The cold no longer touched her, not in the way it had on the Wall. This cold was quieter. Deeper.

Time didn’t seem to pass. Or maybe it passed all at once.

But something had shifted.

She couldn’t see, but she felt it—subtle at first. Vibrations in the dark. A tug beneath her ribs. A hum in her bones. The faintest sensation of motion. Like she was gliding through air. The wind didn’t sting her skin—it sang around her. It rippled over her, fast and fluid, threading past limbs she couldn’t feel but somehow knew were there.

She inhaled sharply.

Not through her nose—not exactly—but smells exploded through her like color through glass. Pine, sharp and earthy. Snow, metallic and alive. The distant musk of animals, of blood and moss and bark. It was all too much, too fast, too raw.

She didn’t understand.

She tried to speak. Nothing came. No voice. No breath. No sound. Just that overwhelming scent, and beneath it, something else. Something ancient. Something alive.

Elynor was caught between worlds.

Her body, what was left of it, had shifted. Changed. Survived. She didn’t know what was happening, all she knew was the blackness and the ghost of the wind, and the terrifying, exhilarating sense that something was carrying her over the edge of the world.

And she could do nothing but follow.

Something surged beneath her, around her. Her body moved—not as a woman would, but with a strange rhythm. Light. Swift. Balanced on limbs that weren’t hers, not truly. She skimmed along the air. Skirted high snowdrifts. Vaulted between rocks slick with ice.

She wasn’t walking. She was flying. Darting. Silent.

She felt the thrum of muscle working, coiled and taut. Claws scraped frostbitten stone. Wind curled under feathers—no—fur? She couldn’t tell. Her shape slipped between possibilities in the black. But it moved, and it lived, and she felt it.

Sound returned next.

Muted at first. A low howl. A whistle like the dying breath of a storm. The flap of something above her. Wings? No. No, too low. Too grounded. The wind changed as she ran. She ran. The tempo was impossible, inhuman. Four feet. Not two. She knew this, though she hadn’t willed any of it.

Smell returned harder, sharper.

A crushed leaf in snow. A hare's blood trail. The acrid tang of old fires long gone cold. The wind carried it all to her—wrapped her in it like memory. But it wasn't a memory. It was now. She was there. She just couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see anything.

She was locked in the dark, chained inside a vessel she couldn't command. But she felt everything. Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every twitch of sinew. The world spoke to her in instinct.

And then came the fire.

Not literal flame—this was deeper. Older. Something ancient uncoiled in her gut and lit her veins like kindling. A roar without sound, rising up from her bones. Her blood ignited, but there was no pain. Only power. Power that rolled through her like a beast, sharp and wild and hers.

Her magic.

But not the way she’d known it. This wasn’t the soft, shifting whisper of change she’d practiced for years. This wasn’t a careful transformation. This was raw. Elemental. It poured through her like a river breaking its dam.

And it felt good.

Gods, it felt good. Like waking up. Like remembering some secret she'd carried since birth. Her skin—or whatever covered her now—buzzed with it. The darkness didn’t matter. The loss of control didn’t matter. Because something inside her burned, and it knew the way.

It wanted to run. To climb. To fly.

Elynor had never felt more alive—and never felt so completely at the mercy of her own nature.

Still she followed, blind and burning, her true self drifting behind the blur of paws or talons or hooves. She didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

But the wind howled around her. And deep in the black, Elynor howled back.

As she fell deeper into the darkness, she could feel the world change around her.

She couldn’t see it. Still trapped behind a veil of black, her body unreachable, her limbs useless. But she could sense it. The cold wind had softened. The shriek of icy gusts faded into a quiet rustle—leaves trembling overhead, not frozen, but supple, green. Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried out, high and reedy. Not a crow. Something else.

The air no longer reeked of ice and blood and old sorrow.

It was damp. Rich. Heavy with the scent of earth and root and waterlogged bark. She caught a whiff of decay beneath it—wet leaves, maybe, or something long dead—but it was life all the same. Teeming, layered. Dirt and moss and sap. She breathed it in without meaning to, and it spread in her chest like a secret.

The ground had changed.

No more endless frost and brittle ice. Now, she felt the soft crush of grass beneath her paws—yes, she was certain of that now. Paws. Not hooves. Not talons. Her claws gripped soft, uneven terrain. Mud splashed against her fur. She darted between low tree branches, felt bark graze her sides as she ran through thickets and shadows.

No snow.

Just soil and wildflowers, hidden in the underbrush. She couldn’t name the scents, but they sang to her all the same. One had the sweetness of rain. Another like crushed mint beneath her pads. Everything was so alive.

Wherever she was now, it wasn’t the Wall. Wasn’t the storm.

This was the North still—she knew that in her bones. But further south. Warmer. Wilder. There was danger here. She smelled it—blood, sweat, steel. Old battles soaked into the ground. The very air held tension, like a bowstring drawn and waiting.

And far off, like a whisper slipping between trees, another scent—thick with rot and wet leather and iron.

Men.

Not brothers of the Watch. Not free folk either. Something else. 

Still, her body kept moving.

Her spirit-self—her true self—still hung back, tethered to the dark. She had no say, no control. Only instinct, only sensation. She was being carried, her magic still in command, this beast she had become steering her through shadow and branch and damp moss.

She didn’t know how she’d come here. Didn’t know if this was life or something after it. But she knew this path wasn’t random. Her blood burned too fiercely for that.

The scent of men grew stronger—hot, pungent, unmistakably wrong.

It wasn’t just men.

It was cruelty.

Grease and steel, yes—but with it, the sour stench of blood, not fresh but left to rot in chainmail and fur. The stink of arrogance and rot. A sharp, acrid note beneath it all—burnt hair? Charred leather? Something alive, recently made not.

Elynor’s other senses, wherever she existed now, bristled. Her paws slowed. Her ears pinned flat. She hadn’t chosen to move toward it—but her body had. And now every instinct screamed for her to stop.

There were men ahead. She could hear them.

Their laughter carried like a broken bone underfoot—jagged and wrong. Not joy, not camaraderie. It was mocking, guttural. One barked something incomprehensible, followed by a thud. A yelp. Laughter again.

Then snarling.

Dogs.

Not free-roaming ones. Hunting hounds. Their breath was ragged with restraint, leashes taut, hunger banked but not extinguished. She could feel it—smell it—thick in the air like copper and bile.

Then a voice, colder than the wind that once swept the Wall.

“Careful. That one's got a little spark left. Wouldn’t want to ruin the fun too soon.”

Her animal form shrank instinctively lower to the ground, slinking through underbrush, paws brushing against damp leaves and exposed roots. But the movement was too sharp, too sudden. A brittle stick snapped beneath her.

Silence boomed through the clearing.

Then, a sharp whistle.

A gruff voice: “You hear that?”

Another: “In the trees—over there!”

She froze—but her body betrayed her, muscles tensing for flight, claws digging in.

Then came the barks. The release. The pounding of boots. The snarling unleashed.

The dogs were coming.

She ran.

Not from purpose or thought—only survival.

Her form darted between trunks slick with sap and moss. Thorns tore at fur. Branches whipped past. Behind her, the dogs grew louder. Closer. Excited. Hungry.

A voice—laughing.

“Catch it! Let’s see what we’ve got!”

She didn't understand. Didn't know who they were or what they wanted.

But every fiber of her being—disembodied, drifting, silent—knew:

She was being hunted.

And something in the dark was enjoying it.

The world rushed around her.

The trees blurred into smudges of green and gray as her paws flew over damp earth, the scent of moss and rot thick in her nose. Her heart—or whatever still beat in this borrowed body—pounded so fast it became a dull, constant thrum in her ears. Every leap was wild, panicked. Every breath, a fire in her lungs.

Behind her, the dogs howled with glee.

They were closing in. She didn’t know how she knew—only that the distance between her and the noise was shrinking like a noose pulled tight.

She veered left—into thicker brush, under a low-hanging bough that tore fur from her back. It stung. She didn’t cry out. She couldn’t. Her instincts screamed to keep moving.

Just ahead—open ground. A clearing.

Freedom.

She pushed harder, legs aching, wind screaming past her ears. Her paws struck open earth.

And then—

Whip. Crack.

The sound was like lightning.

Something hot and sharp punched into her side.

The momentum carried her a few more strides before her legs gave out from under her. She tumbled, skidding through dirt and leaves, a keening whimper tearing from her throat.

Pain. Real pain.

It bloomed outward, like a fire licking through her ribcage.

She tried to rise.

Her limbs twitched. Her claws scraped the ground. She dragged herself a few inches, the arrow still lodged deep in her flank. But her legs wouldn’t carry her. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

Bootsteps thundered closer.

A deep voice laughed, low and vicious.

“Well, well. Look what we have here.”

Another, closer now:

“Thought it was just a fox. Look at those eyes, though.”

Her eyes.

She wanted to run. She screamed inside, pushing at her body with all the force of her being—but it was like shouting underwater. Nothing moved. Nothing answered.

The circle closed around her—heavy boots, metal buckles, dark silhouettes shifting just out of reach of understanding. Their voices merged with the rustle of leather and the panting of dogs.

One stepped closer.

“Still breathing.”

A pause.

“Not for long.”

Move, she begged herself. Please, move.

But her body stayed broken on the ground, ribs heaving, blood warm beneath her.

She was trapped. Surrounded. And utterly helpless.

Her pulse fluttered, erratic and hopeless. She could feel every throb of it in her wounded side. The scent of blood flooded her nose—her blood, hot and metallic. Her breath came shallow, panicked.

“Still breathing,” one muttered again, crouching close. His fingers prodded her side where the arrow stuck. She would’ve bitten him if she could—but her body didn’t listen.

“She’s not just some fox,” another said, his voice tinged with suspicion. “You see the color of her coat? Dark like obsidian. And those eyes—look at those eyes.”

A pause.

Boots approached—deliberate, slow, heavier than the others.

The air shifted. Even without sight, Elynor felt him. The way the men straightened. The silence that fell, thick and sudden.

The one who stepped near her now didn’t speak right away. He crouched. Gloved fingers reached out and stroked the fur on her head with unnatural calm. She wanted to tear away. Wanted to snarl. But she was frozen. Blind. Bound to this body like a prisoner in her own skin.

Then came his voice.

Low. Amused. Too pleased.

“Not a wild one, this,” he murmured. “Too clever. There’s something… off about her.”

He stood.

“She’ll fetch more than a pelt,” he said with a grin in his voice. “I’ve got something better in mind for this little beast.”

The others laughed—nervous, but obedient.

“Take her. Bind the legs. Don’t kill her.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Rough hands gripped her flanks. Rope scraped over fur and flesh. She wanted to thrash, to bite, to scream. But she was drowning inside herself, screaming into blackness.

Her body was hoisted like game—limp, broken, bleeding.

The wind shifted as they began to move. The scent of pine faded. The smell of horses and leather took its place. Her limp body swayed with every step.

She couldn’t fight. Couldn’t flee.

She was caught.

And somewhere, buried deep in the dark, she knew—this was only the beginning.

JON'S POV

The wind at the top of the Wall was like nothing Jon had ever felt—feral and screaming, full of ice and teeth. His hands, numb and cracked, barely held on as he pulled himself up over the edge.

And then he was there.

On top of the world.

He collapsed forward onto the rough, frozen surface, gasping for breath, chest heaving. The weight of the climb, of the cold, of everything, pressed down like the Wall itself leaning in.

But heavier than all of it was the memory.

The rope slipping.

Her eyes.

The fall.

Jon’s fingers curled against the ice, his body racked with a soundless, strangled sob. He buried his face in his arm, unable to move, unable to speak. Wind screamed around him, as if mocking him for failing.

A rough hand grabbed the front of his coat and yanked him up.

“Where is she?”

Tormund’s face was a storm. His breath steamed in the air, wild and ragged, eyes wide with rage.

“Where the fuck is she, crow?!”

Jon didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Tormund shook him once, hard enough that his teeth clacked together. “You were tied to her. She was with you. Where is Elynor?!”

Jon’s lips parted, but no words came. He was still staring—through Tormund, past the Wall, down into that misty void where she had vanished. His heart still hadn’t caught up with what his eyes had seen.

“She…” His voice cracked. “She fell.”

The fury in Tormund’s face drained, just for a moment, replaced by something worse. Disbelief. Dread.

“She what?”

Jon shut his eyes. “I tried. I—I tried to pull her up. The ice cracked. I slipped. She was hanging—then she… she cut the rope.”

Tormund reeled back like he’d been struck. His mouth opened, but nothing came. His fists clenched.

“Why would she do that?” he growled.

Jon shook his head, eyes burning. “She knew I couldn’t hold us both. She saw it. She saw me slipping.”

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, but his tears were already freezing to his skin.

Tormund stared at him, chest rising and falling with hard, shallow breaths. “She was like my own blood.”

Jon looked away.

Tormund’s voice dropped, low and hoarse. “I should’ve been there.”

Jon didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything at all.

Because he should’ve saved her.

And he hadn’t.

The memory haunted Jon ever since they’d made it over the Wall. There was no snow here, just patches of green covered in a thin layer of frost. But the wind was still cruel, and the sky hung low with the promise of more.

Winter is coming.

Jon walked a little ahead of the others, each step heavy with the weight of what had happened. The ache in his legs, the sting in his fingers—he welcomed it. Let the cold in. Let it bite. Maybe it would bury what still lingered beneath his skin.

But it didn’t. It never did.

Not when the sound of rope snapping echoed in his head.

Not when he still saw her eyes, wide and afraid and fierce, right before she let go.

He could still feel the burn in his muscles, the helplessness in his fingers as she slipped from his grasp. He hadn’t slept a full night since—not really. Sleep brought her back, only to take her away again.

And now, here he was, in the North again. South of the Wall. South of where she had vanished.

Alive. And she wasn’t.

He looked back briefly—Tormund and the others moved in a quiet line behind him, shoulders hunched against the wind. They hadn’t said much since crossing into the North. They didn’t need to. The weight of what was coming hung over them all.

They were drawing closer to Castle Black. Closer to the Watch.

Closer to betrayal.

Mance’s orders had been clear—they were to lie in wait, hidden in the woods near the Wall, until his signal came. Then they’d strike. Come up behind the Night’s Watch while the army hit from the front. A two-pronged attack meant to shatter the brothers like ice.

But Jon had other plans.

He was waiting, yes.

But not for Mance’s signal.

He was waiting for his moment. To slip away. To run, so he could warn his brothers before it was too late.

If they even still counted him as a brother.

His fingers brushed the hilt of Longclaw at his side, and he exhaled through his nose, breath white and curling.

She had fallen to save him.

So he would survive.

So he would fight.

Tension carved itself across Jon’s face, his eyes turning back toward the horizon.

The Wall loomed somewhere behind them, unseen now but never far. And Castle Black—his home, his duty, his burden—lay ahead.

If he made it back, if he could warn them…

Maybe her death wouldn’t be for nothing.

But that hope was small and cold.

Just like everything else.

Jon led the small band of wildlings up a gentle rise, the earth beneath their boots turning from frost-hardened soil to patches of brittle grass. From the crest of the hill, they could see the faint outline of a home in the distance—an old, weather-beaten farmhouse surrounded by leafless trees and a scattering of stalls. Smoke curled lazily from its chimney, a sign of life in the stark northern expanse.

Tormund crouched low beside Jon, his eyes gleaming with that familiar wild excitement as he scanned the homestead. He silently signaled the others to spread out before he lurked off towards the house.

Jon’s stomach twisted. He wanted to protest, to remind them that this was not their war to fight—not here. He didn't want bloodshed, especially not against an innocent man, even if the house belonged to some elderly horse breeder with little to offer. But he knew better. If he was to survive this—if he was to make it back to Castle Black—he had to stay with them, to play his part.

So he fell silent and followed, every step heavy with reluctance.

As they crept closer to the farmhouse, the crunch of boots over dry leaves was muffled by the tension thick in the air. Jon’s senses sharpened, every muscle taut.

Suddenly, a voice drifted from just behind him.

“Not scared, crow?” Ygritte’s tone was sharp, teasing—laced with something more dangerous. “Or is it just your bloody heart that’s frozen?”

Jon grimaced but didn’t turn. He hated how her words pricked at him, how they stirred a coil of anger and something deeper he tried to bury.

“Don’t think you can rattle me, wildling,” he muttered under his breath, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “I’ve faced worse than you.”

Ygritte chuckled low, stepping closer so her breath was hot against his ear. “We’ll see if you still talk that big when I’m the one taking your sword away.”

Jon’s mouth tightened, the tension coiling tighter in his gut. He hated the way she pushed him, the way she seemed to toy with his nerves. But he couldn’t let himself slip, not here, not now.

He swallowed hard, nodding slightly before moving forward. The raid was coming, and whatever games Ygritte played, he had a mission that weighed heavier than any provocation.

Ahead, the farmhouse awaited. And with it, the next step in the dangerous path he’d chosen.

As they reached the edge of the sparse woods surrounding the farmstead, the wildlings moved like shadows—silent and eager, weapons already drawn. Jon followed reluctantly, heart pounding not with excitement, but with dread. The small house stood quiet and alone, wisps of smoke still drifting from its chimney, a horse hitched lazily outside.

Tormund signaled with a short grunt. The others fanned out in practiced motion, preparing to strike.

Jon clenched his sword in his hand. His gaze lingered on the modest dwelling. He couldn’t do it—couldn’t be part of this. These were not soldiers, not enemies. Just people.

He took a quiet step to the side, crouching low, then let his blade scrape deliberately across a rock jutting from the frozen ground. The sharp ring cut through the quiet like a bell.

Inside the home, movement. A door burst open.

An old man bolted out, all instinct and fear, running for the woods with surprising speed. He didn’t look back—just ran, cloak flapping behind him.

Tormund’s head snapped toward the sound. “Shit—after him!” he bellowed.

The wildlings surged forward. Jon stood still, heart in his throat. He hadn’t meant for this. Not like this.

They chased the man through frostbitten trees and over crumbling stone fences, until they reached a decaying windmill that stood crooked against the gray sky, like a relic from a forgotten time.

The old man ducked inside, gasping for breath. The wildlings surrounded it like wolves circling a trapped deer.

Orell turned to Jon, his eyes narrow and glittering with suspicion. “Your turn, crow,” he glowered. “Prove you’re one of us. Kill him.”

Jon stared at him, then to the others—Ygritte watching with that unreadable look, Tormund silent, expectant.

Swallowing hard, Jon stepped into the windmill.

The old man was huddled in a corner, trembling, a small knife clutched in shaking hands. Jon raised his sword, the weight of it unbearable.

The man looked up at him. There was no fight in his eyes. Only terror.

Jon’s hands trembled. His blade hovered at the man’s neck.

He heard the wind howl through the broken slats of the old mill. He saw a flicker of memory—Edd, Grenn, Sam. Pyp. Castle Black. His brothers. His oath.

And Elynor, falling, vanishing into the mist.

His chest ached. He couldn’t do it.

He lowered his blade, and the moment it fell deftly at his side a twang split the silence.

Jon whirled around.

Ygritte stood at the threshold of the mill, lowering her bow with practiced ease. The old man crumpled behind Jon, the arrow buried deep in his chest, his last breath rattling out into the cold.

Ygritte met his gaze, no remorse in her eyes—only something cold and knowing.

“I knew you couldn’t do it, crow,”

The silence after Ygritte’s words didn’t last long.

Tormund strode forward, his broad frame casting a long shadow in the fading light. He looked at the dead old man, then at Jon—eyes narrowed, mouth set in a grim line.

Tormund’s snarl echoed like thunder.

“You lied to us,” he spat. “You never stopped being a crow.”

Jon tightened his grip on Longclaw as the others circled in, blades drawn. Wind rustled through the trees, the scent of pine and blood thick in the air. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. He was frozen—not with fear, but something deeper. A sense of inevitability.

Tormund’s voice was final. “Kill him.”

They came fast—two at first. Jon sidestepped the first swing, letting his attacker’s momentum carry him forward. He spun, drove Longclaw through the man’s side with a wet crunch, yanked it free. The second wildling was on him in an instant, a hatchet whistling toward his neck. Jon ducked low, rammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, then slit his throat as they fell.

He rolled, breath ragged, as another swung a spear down at him. Jon blocked it with the flat of his blade and kicked the man’s knee backward until it snapped. The scream barely left the wildling’s mouth before Jon ended it.

Another came from behind—Jon turned just in time to catch a knife in the arm. The pain made his vision blur. He grunted, grabbed the man’s wrist, and slammed his head into the nearest tree. Once. Twice. Until he dropped like a sack of meat.

A heavyset raider with a massive hammer rushed him, howling. Jon couldn’t dodge in time. The hammer caught his ribs—he flew backward, crashing into a half-fallen tree trunk. Pain exploded through his side. He couldn’t breathe.

The hammer-wielder came again. Jon rolled at the last second. The ground cracked where he’d just been. He scrambled to his feet, swung wildly—his blade glanced off thick hide armor. The wildling raised the hammer again.

A desperate lunge. Jon buried Longclaw deep under the man’s chin.

Blood gurgled. The big man dropped.

Jon was soaked in it now—his, theirs. His chest heaved. His knees nearly gave out.

Another pair came at him—twin axes, moving like dancers. Jon barely blocked the first blow, ducked the second. He parried one swing, dodged the other, slashed a thigh open. One of them screamed. Jon pivoted and plunged his blade into the other’s gut.

A sharp pain ripped into his calf—someone had cut him from behind. He kicked backward, caught them in the gut. Turned, drove his sword through their collarbone.

He was bleeding from his side, his shoulder, his leg. The world spun—but he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Through the haze, he saw his only hope.

The old man’s horse.

He staggered toward it. A shout rang out behind him. “Stop him!”

He leapt into the saddle just as a blade slashed across his back. Gritting his teeth, he dug his heels into the horse’s sides. It took off in a burst of motion, hooves tearing up dirt and grass.

Behind him—more shouting. And then—

The thwip of a bowstring.

Agony exploded in his thigh. Then again—his ribs. He cried out, nearly falling from the saddle. He turned his head.

Ygritte stood among the trees, her bow still raised. Another arrow flew, grazing his shoulder.

Jon lowered his body, pressing against the horse’s neck. He clutched the reins like a lifeline, urging it forward. Trees blurred. Blood soaked his clothes. Every hoofbeat was a drum of survival.

He didn’t know how long he rode. He didn’t know how he was still breathing.

But Castle Black was ahead. Somewhere. And he would make it.

He had to.

Chapter Text

Everything was shadow. No sight. No shape. No form.

Only sensation.

She felt the stone first—cold, damp, biting against her furred belly and paws. Then the ache, dull and relentless, radiating from where metal met flesh. A sharp scent of rust and blood filled her nose, curling sickly around something more acrid—urine, rot, old death. The stink of forgotten things.

A distant clink echoed as she shifted, chains scraping against stone. She tried to move, but the collar around her neck yanked her short. Her limbs trembled—weak, heavy, drained. She didn’t understand why. She didn’t know where she was.

She didn’t even know what she was.

In her mind, everything was still black, still silent. But her senses were waking. And they told her everything was wrong.

The room around her was still and stale, no breeze to stir the rank air. Her ears caught faint skittering—rats, maybe. Drips of water plinking in a corner. But nothing human. No voices. No footsteps. Just her breath, ragged and shallow.

A low beat reverberated in her skull, like the earth before a quake. Her heart, she realized. Still beating. Still fighting. And underneath it all, the fire still smoldered in her chest, low but alive. That same blaze of magic, wild and unfamiliar, coiled like a serpent beneath her ribs.

It should’ve frightened her.

But it didn’t.

What frightened her more was the stillness—the helplessness, the cage of bone and fur and chain.

Something had brought her here. Something had survived the fall.

But she wasn’t free.

She didn’t know how long she’d been in this body—this half-state of fur and fang and chain. Minutes. Days. Maybe longer. Time meant nothing in the dark.

She floated somewhere between thought and instinct, caught in that eerie, liminal place where the spirit drifted while the body endured. Her consciousness flickered like a dying candle, tethered to something primal, something not quite her.

South of the Wall.

The realization had come slowly, piece by piece—through the smells, the feel of the air, the absence of frost in her lungs. She hadn’t walked this land in fifteen years. Not since she was a child. And now, here she was.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep.

She had always feared the South, feared what it meant to be seen, to be known, to be hunted. But there had been a piece of her—small, quiet, buried deep—that had wondered. What did the forests look like without snow? What did a summer wind feel like across a field of green? What was it to live without hiding?

She would never know. Not like this.

She couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t shift back. Her animal form still controlled her body, moving when she could not, reacting on instinct, not thought. Her magic—the thing that had always defined her—now bound her just as much as the iron around her throat.

And worse, it was changing.

It roared inside her, wild and molten and unrecognizable. She felt it clawing for control, bending her limbs, curling around her thoughts like smoke. There was no clarity, no division. Only confusion. Resistance.

A fight.

She didn’t know who she was battling—herself or the beast. But it was there, and it was relentless.

She was a prisoner. Not just here. Not just chained to stone in some filthy Southern cellar. But trapped within. Trapped by magic she no longer understood, by instincts that were not her own.

And she felt herself slipping.

Little by little.

Creeaak.

The sound cut through the recesses of her mind.

A door. Hinges groaning.

Footsteps followed. Slow. Measured. Coming for her.

More footsteps echoed beyond the door—heavier ones, slower, deliberate. She heard them approach, then pause. Keys jangled. Chains clinked.

Elynor’s body tensed, her animal instincts sharp, screaming to fight or flee, but neither option was hers. The door creaked open wider, and a rush of colder air swept into the chamber, carrying with it the scent of blood, straw… and something fouler, something sickly sweet like rotting meat beneath perfume.

Steel scraped against steel, and then her chains were rattling—tugged taut. A command was muttered in a voice she didn’t recognize, and then they yanked. Hard.

Pain lanced through her neck and limbs as her body was dragged forward across the uneven stone floor. Her claws scrabbled for purchase, but it was useless. They were pulling her—several of them. She tried to resist, to dig in, but every tug of the chain choked her.

They didn’t care.

She was hauled from the room like a carcass, her body scraping and lurching with every step. The corridor beyond was colder, filled with the lingering scent of old iron and mold. Her senses picked up every sound—bootsteps on stone, whispered words between the men, and the ever-present clink of chains.

Her heart pounded.

She couldn’t see where they were taking her, couldn’t even form full thoughts beyond get away, get away, get away—but her body wouldn’t respond. Her spirit still drifted somewhere between flesh and magic, her mind trapped in a fogged prison.

Then came the shift in air again—the sense of openness. They’d taken her outside.

Grass brushed against her underbelly, cold dew dampening her fur. She smelled smoke on the breeze, horses, leather, wet earth.

And fire.

Wherever they were dragging her now, it wasn’t just some dungeon. It was a place meant for spectacle. A place for pain.

She tried to retreat further into the black, but the world would not let her go. Every link of the chain vibrated against her skin. Every movement scraped her ribs. Then came the voices—hoarse, male, jeering. Their boots stomped the ground around her like a cruel drumbeat.

One pair stopped near her head. The air shifted. Heavy.

Then the cold metallic shhhhhnk of a blade being drawn. A sharper chill pierced the air, and something primal inside her howled—not aloud, not even in her mind, just in the bones of her being. The moment before a wound.

"You’ll look prettier with a bit of pink," the man drawled.

Then—pain.

White-hot, sharp, real. A searing line of agony ripped across her flank. The scent of her own blood hit her, rich and iron-thick. Her animal form convulsed, a twitch deep and wrong, and she tried to lunge—but the chains held her fast. She wasn’t even sure if the motion had been real. She couldn’t tell what part of her moved anymore.

The man made a pleased sound, low and intimate.

"There. Now you’re mine."

Laughter followed. Not loud, but cruel—the kind that came from men who enjoyed making beauty into ruin.

She felt it still—her skin, flayed open. Something ancient in her screamed, not from pain, but from violation. It wasn’t just her flesh. It was herself. Her magic. Her story. Marked. Claimed.

Somewhere inside, the fire sparked again.

But she was still trapped.

And the world turned darker as the chains pulled her forward once more. Each rattle was a reminder that her body was no longer her own. Her paws—or hands—she couldn’t tell anymore—slid helplessly against the blood-slick stone as she was dragged through the snow. She floated in and out of herself, the world a blur of white, gray, and red.

“Easy now, mutt,” the voice drawled, smooth and mocking. “Don’t die on me yet. Haven’t had my fun.”

Her head lolled. The world tilted. She caught only fragments—torchlight against a black sky, the glint of steel, the burn of cold air in her lungs. Her animal body felt small and weak, like a puppet yanked along by someone else’s strings.

The air changed, thicker now, fouled with the musk of beasts and old blood. The sound of chains, barking, and claws scrabbling on wood echoed around her. Then the stink hit her—dogs. Hungry, restless, starved for the kill.

“Here we are,” the man’s voice cooed, almost cheerful. “Let’s see how a little mutt like you does in here.”

The chain yanked hard, and she was hauled into the kennel yard. The dogs erupted in a frenzy—snapping, snarling, froth flying from their jaws. She felt herself flung, her side slamming against the iron bars of a small cage. Pain lanced through her flayed skin, and she whimpered—an animal sound she barely recognized as her own.

The door clanged shut. A lock turned. The man crouched to meet her dull, dazed gaze through the bars, his smile the shape of cruelty.
“See, you’re nothing special. Just another beast in my pens. Let’s see how long you last before they forget you’re even here.”

The dogs threw themselves at the cage walls, teeth bared, their growls vibrating through the floor. Ramsay rose, his boots crunching in the straw and dirt as he left her there, his laughter curling through the dark like smoke.

Her heart thudded in her chest, heavy and slow. The spark of fire deep inside her flickered against the darkness, against the cold and the fear. But the sound of the dogs, the sting of her chains, the echo of his laughter—

It made her feel like nothing at all.

—

When Elynor came to, she was still in her cell.

Or maybe she never truly slept. Time meant little here—only pain and silence, broken by the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the stone above. Her limbs trembled. Her body ached. Her side—where he had carved into her—throbbed with a deep, raw sting. Flesh flayed from bone. Branded like a beast.

The scent of blood lingered, hers and others. Rank. Sour. The metallic tang of it stirred something deep in her.

Outside her cell, dogs barked—snarling, yipping, pacing. She could feel their bodies shifting through the earth, the pads of their feet thudding against the packed ground. They were hungry. Restless.

So was she.

Her ribs pressed tight against her skin, every breath a brittle thing. She had not eaten in—how long? Days? More? Her stomach had twisted in on itself, a shriveled knot of pain. Her tongue lay heavy in her mouth, her throat like sand.

The pain in her side pulsed again. Her skin pulled tight where it had been torn. She could feel every edge of it. Raw. Claimed.

She tried to lift her head but couldn’t. Her body felt distant, foreign. Her mind spiraled deeper into the dark. The beast inside her stirred—closer now. Hungrier.

She wasn’t sure which of them had the strength to survive.

Her thoughts slipped—torn away by a memory. Not from long ago, but vivid, sharp. As if her mind clung to it out of desperation.

She remembered him—the man, the one they all obeyed—sitting just beyond the bars of her cell. A chair scraped across the floor. The soft clink of silver against ceramic. The scent of roasted meat and herbs filled the room like smoke.

He had eaten in front of her slowly, deliberately. Ripping the meat from the bone with his teeth. Sucking at his fingers. His eyes never left her.

Then, when he’d had his fill, he tossed the bones toward her feet with a flick of his wrist, as though feeding a mutt.

“There,” he’d said, grinning. “Don’t say I don’t treat my hounds right.”

She hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. Not then.

But now her teeth ached. Her mouth watered.

She was starving. And something inside her had started to change.

Not just the shape of her bones or the instincts in her blood, but something deeper. Darker.

Something that didn’t want to stay chained.

She tried to think. To remember who she was.

But thoughts were slippery things. Her name... yes. She had one. She was Elynor. She held that like a stone in her palm—solid, grounding. But the longer she sat in the dark, the more it wore down, until even that felt foreign.

Memories surfaced, then vanished. Faces she couldn’t name. Laughter, maybe hers, echoing in some long-forgotten place. A flicker of warmth, snow melting against her skin. The scent of pine. Fur beneath her feet.

And him.

A boy with dark hair. A voice rough with sorrow.

A sword. A fall.

Nothing.

The rest unraveled.

Something else had taken hold of her—something old, powerful, wild. She could feel it in the way her breath came faster when the dogs barked, in the twitch of her limbs at every sound. Her animal self was closer now, stronger, and it no longer waited for permission.

Her magic had always lived just beneath her skin, but now it roared through her like a river in flood. It swept her up, took her limbs, her voice, her sight.

She wasn’t sure who was in control anymore.

She tried to remember her mother’s face, the sound of the knight’s laugh, the wind over the Wall as she soared.

But the blackness was louder.

She didn’t sleep. She didn’t wake. She simply… existed. Chained, broken, half-feral.

And every hour, the part of her that remembered being a girl grew quieter.

Chapter Text

Time no longer moved in hours. It bled.

Days—or weeks, maybe moons—slipped past like water through a broken hand.

Elynor no longer tried to count them.

Her thoughts came in fragments now. Shards. Animal-slick and bone-deep. Hunger. Pain. Cold. The deep ache in her side where flesh had been torn, the crust of it splitting when she moved too much.

Sometimes she remembered words.

Other times she forgot what they were for.

She growled now. She knew that. Not from her throat—no, not her human one. From somewhere else. The low rumble of threat, instinctive, mindless. The way a wolf might warn with its breath before its teeth.

She no longer thought of herself as a girl. Or woman. Or even Veyari.

Just: me.

Me. Hurt. Alone. Hungry.

Kill, if can.

Free, if can.

The scent of mold lived in her nose. She barely noticed it anymore. Her fur was matted, dried with blood, piss, sweat. Her paws ached, bent unnaturally by the chains. Her body sagged more than stood. Her belly hollowed in on itself like a dead thing.

Voices came and went. Some laughed. Some threw scraps. Some spat. She snapped once, when a boot came too close, and tasted leather and blood. She never got that close again.

Light never visited her. Only sound and scent. Her ears twitched at every scrape of boot, every clang of gate, every slosh of water down the corridor. She knew when he was near. The man. His smell was sharp, spoiled.

She hated him most.

But hate… was a word. And words didn’t last long here.

So she felt instead.

Snarled.

Clung.

And then—one day, maybe night—there were new sounds.

Footsteps. Heavier than usual. A different cadence. Two, no—three men. Leather and metal. They didn’t speak, only unlocked the gate and stepped in. She didn’t stir at first. She had stopped reacting. Waste of energy.

But then a hand closed around the chain on her neck. Yanked. Hard.

She thrashed—blindly, uselessly—her back legs slipping on the slick stone floor, claws scratching, teeth snapping at air. The collar bit into her throat. She gagged. Her side tore again. Blood, hot and old, ran down her ribs.

She howled then—not in pain, not in fear.

Just instinct.

A wild, raw sound that echoed in the stone like a dying star.

The men laughed. She didn’t understand the words. Didn’t want to.

Dragged. Again.

She clawed at the ground, but it was like trying to claw the sea. Her mind reeled, but her body followed—chained, broken, crawling toward whatever waited in the dark.

And still—somewhere deep beneath the fur and blood and silence—Elynor screamed.

But no one heard.

Elynor was dragged through the chill stone corridors, her body heavy and bruised, her mind a storm of fragmented thoughts and instincts. The cold bit at her fur-covered skin, but the pain in her side was sharper, a constant reminder of the man who waited ahead.

As the heavy door creaked open, the sharp scent of smoke and iron filled her nostrils. The cruel laughter of men echoed in the dim light.

The chains rattled as she was pulled forward.

A voice—smooth, sickly sweet, but dripping with menace—slithered through the air.

“There she is.”

The words were soft, almost tender, but Elynor’s instincts screamed the truth beneath them: the poison, the threat, the cruelty she’d come to know far too well.

She tensed, ready to resist, but the weight of her chains held her fast.

“Sit,” the voice commanded, low and sharp.

Her body stiffened. The wildness inside her surged, urging her to fight.

A whip cracked through the stillness, biting into her side like fire.

“Sit!” the voice snapped again, harsher this time.

Pain flared, sharp and relentless. Slowly, reluctantly, Elynor lowered herself to the cold floor.

Her mind scrambled, a tangle of raw, scattered thoughts—chains, whip, pain, beast, fight, trapped.

The voice laughed, cold and cruel. “That’s my good girl.”

“Do any of you know what she is?” the cruel tone asked, voice calm but carrying an edge of menace.

The men muttered uncertainly, none bold enough to answer.

“Of course you don’t,” the voice sneered. “She’s a direwolf.”

There was a pause, thick with tension.

The voice continued, circling her like a snake.

“A direwolf,” he repeated, almost to himself, with a chuckle. “Do you know who bears that sigil? The great house of the North. The Starks.”

Elynor stirred—deep inside, the name pulled at something. A sound echoing down a long, dark corridor in her mind. Stark. It fluttered there, like a half-remembered dream. Important. Familiar. But she couldn’t grasp it. Couldn’t hold it.

Everything inside her was slipping. The name pressed against the walls of her fading self, but it was muffled, dulled beneath the growl of her animal blood.

“She’s a long way from Winterfell, now,” the voice continued, amused. “But maybe she still has some bite left.”

Another laugh. A shuffle of boots on cold stone. Elynor didn’t know what they were seeing. Couldn’t see anything at all. But she could feel the way they looked at her—curious, cruel, eager.

Stark.

She clawed for it, but it was already gone. Just another piece of herself lost to the dark.

The voice took a darker turn, the amusement curling like smoke into mockery.

“The Starks are gone,” the man said, louder now, speaking to his men. “Scattered. Dead. Or hiding like rats beneath the floorboards.”

He stepped closer to her—Elynor could feel his presence before she heard the leather of his boots shift. The air thickened, heavy with the scent she’d come to dread: sweat, blood, and something sweetly rotted beneath it all.

“Winterfell is ours now.”

He knelt beside her. She felt the closeness of his body, the heat of it, and then—his hand. A slow, deliberate stroke down her side. Petting her. Mocking her.

Elynor flinched, her body recoiling instinctively, chains clinking with the motion.

Winterfell.

The word echoed in her hollow mind, vibrating against something buried.

And then—his voice. Soft. Quiet. Spoken long ago. The voice of a boy. No—a man. His voice.

Jon.

The name was just out of reach, hovering like mist. She couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t grasp the memory. Just a shape in the dark, a warmth that cut like cold.

But even that was fading. Her mind snarled and twisted, the animal inside her stronger now, louder, pushing the rest down, deeper. Drowning her in scent, in fear, in rage.

And still, the man stroked her like a beast, claiming her with every breath.

The chain attached to her collar jerked suddenly. 

Elynor felt herself being dragged, the cold floor biting at her underbelly. The world spun and shifted—scent first, thick with earth and leather and the stench of blood-soaked metal. Then the sound: the rattle of iron as the chain at her throat was grabbed, yanked taut. A boot scraped against stone. A hand, rough and unrelenting, pulled her forward.

Then he let go. She crashed into the dirt, a cloud of dust lifting around her.

Dogs barked. The deep, guttural kind—hunting hounds. Bows creaked, strings being pulled taut. Men murmured, amused.

Then that voice again.

“Let’s see if this wolf can make it back home.”

There was a snap—a chain unhooked. The sudden slack of it made her jolt. The man had loosed her.

She didn’t wait.

Her legs moved before her mind could catch up. Pain screamed from her flayed side, exhaustion clawed at every step, but instinct screamed louder. Run. The ground pounded beneath her as she bounded forward, lungs burning, her heartbeat drumming in her ears.

The forest swallowed her in shadow and snow.

Elynor ran.

The pain in her side pulsed with every stride, hot and ragged where the skin had been stripped away. Her breath tore from her chest in short, frantic bursts. Her paws—bleeding, raw—pounded against the frozen dirt. Branches whipped at her. Her lungs burned. But she didn’t stop. Behind her, the hounds howled. She could hear them gaining—their snarls slicing through the trees, closer now. Their scent flooded her senses: sweat and hunger. They were trained for this. Bred for this.

She darted left, through underbrush, leaping over a fallen tree. The sudden turn threw off one of the hounds—a yelp behind her, a crash—but more followed, their nails scraping bark, their teeth snapping at air just behind her tail.

Then a whistle.

A horn.

And the high, too-sweet voice of the man—“Run, little bitch!”

It echoed in her skull, mixed with the rush of blood, with the wind and the memories she couldn’t quite remember.

She didn’t know how long she ran. Her legs began to falter, to slow. The pain in her side pulsed harder now, every heartbeat like a drumbeat inside her skull. Her breath hitched.

And then—

Hoofbeats.

Ahead.

She skidded to a halt, mud splashing under her paws. A horse snorted, rearing back.

A man.

He was a silhouette of leather and iron above her. He shouted. Drew his sword.

She launched.

Teeth found flesh. Her body slammed into his chest. He toppled from the saddle with a crunch, the sword flying from his hand. They hit the ground hard—him underneath, her above.

He was shouting. She didn’t hear the words.

She bit down.

Blood filled her mouth. Warm, metallic, alive.

He spasmed—once, twice—then fell still.

Silence.

Elynor hovered over him, jaws slack now, her breath fogging in the cold. She could feel his blood soaking into her fur. She could hear her own breath, uneven, trembling. Something inside her shifted. Stirred.

She didn’t know his name.

Didn’t know where she was.

But she knew what she had done.

What have I done?

It cut through the fog for a heartbeat. A thought, barely formed. A whisper of something old and human.

And then—

The sound of barking again. Closer.

The voice: “Keep going! She's close!”

The echo of her own heart twisted, pulled back down into the dark. That other side of her—wilder, deeper—snarled, rising to shield her.

No time.

She turned and ran. Blood still clung to her fur. Her breath steamed from her mouth in sharp, angry bursts.

She didn’t look back.

The forest blurred around—green and black, grass and bark, wind and shadow. Elynor ran.

Behind her, the hounds still howled. Their cries were manic now, urgent. She could hear the crashing of hooves through the brush, the shouts of men trying to keep pace. The scent of blood was thick in her nose—his blood, the man she had killed. It clung to her teeth, her paws, her breath. It was everywhere. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

"Let’s see if this wolf can make it back home," the man had said. His voice lilted through her mind like a mocking song, syrup-sweet and sinister at the core.

"Winterfell is ours now."

Winterfell.

That word.

It struck something, deep in the murk of her mind. A place. A sound. A cold memory half-frozen in time. She staggered for a second, claws scraping rock, the name echoing like a bell toll through her bones.

Then another word.

"Stark."

The sound cut deeper. A tremble rippled through her ribs. She ran harder, pushing through a thicket, the thorns scraping her face and sides. The name clawed at her, not from the outside now, but from within.

Stark. Winterfell. She’s heard of them.

Another voice joined the cacophony in her mind. This one wasn’t mocking. It was low. Rough. Familiar in a way that made her ribs ache.

“Ely.”

A single syllable.

Spoken in warmth.

She saw it—felt it—like light cracking through storm clouds. A fire. The two of them sitting close beside it. Snow falling all around them. Jon turning to her, a rare smile on his face. A flicker of something he had let slip just for her.

She had said something—what was it?—something small and foolish, but it had made him laugh. Really laugh. And then he had said it. That name. A shortened one. Something only he used.

“Ely.”

And then everything broke.

The dark veil she’d been trapped beneath—the numb, distant fog that dulled everything—split wide open. She felt a surge, a scream that started somewhere deep in her chest and didn’t stop. Her claws caught on rock, her legs gave out for a heartbeat—

And suddenly, she was back.

Not just the beast.

Not just the hollow shell.

Elynor.

She felt the air rush into her lungs—not the wolf’s lungs, her lungs. She could feel the pads of her feet, her fur matted with mud and blood, the aching throb of her flayed side. But she could also see now—truly see, for the first time since the Wall. Moonlight painted the trees in ghost-light, the frosted ground glinting like glass shards. The world was sharp. Real.

The beast hadn’t vanished—it still paced in her bones, howling in her heart—but she was no longer its prisoner.

She was both.

Joined.

One.

And she ran with a new purpose. Not just to survive. But to return.

Chapter Text

The cold wind bit less now. Or maybe she was just too numb to notice it.

Elynor didn’t know how many days had passed since she’d escaped the hounds, since she’d torn the flesh of the man on horseback and felt her body surge with something both awful and alive. She remembered running. She remembered the sound of her own breath, fast and shallow. She remembered blood. Hunger. Snow.

Now, the world was quiet.

She walked, mostly. Ran when she had to. Sometimes, she couldn’t tell if she was four-legged or two. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she had a name. But the pain in her side was still there, the flayed skin burning like it was carved with fire. Her legs ached. Her belly was hollow. She was still more wolf than woman, but something had shifted.

She could feel herself again. Dimly.

The trees changed around her—tall, ancient pines rising like watchful sentinels. The forest felt heavier, older. The smell of damp moss and pine needles flooded her nose. There was something about this place. Something familiar.

She staggered forward, leaves crackling beneath her paws—no, feet? Her limbs blurred in her mind. Her thoughts, too. They came like fog drifting between branches. Flashes of faces. A voice. A boy’s laugh.

“Ely.”

She stopped. Closed her eyes. That name again. Her name. It anchored her for a moment.

A rustle of movement snapped her eyes open—ears alert, her body crouched without thought. She smelled them before she saw them: wolves.

A pack.

Their scent was sharp and earthy, wild and alive. She crept through the undergrowth and peered through the bramble. There they were: six of them, lean and rangy, their coats dark with mud and wind. One lifted its head. It stared straight at her.

She froze.

The pull hit her deep—like something ancient twisting in her gut, something written in her blood. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t human. It was older than that.

Join them, something whispered.

Her body ached to move forward. But her soul flinched. What if she lost herself again? What if she surrendered and never came back? What if the woman inside—the girl who laughed in the snow with Jon, who shapeshifted for joy, who feared and hoped—was lost for good?

She took a step back.

Then she remembered him. Jon. The way he looked at her before she fell from the Wall. The way he said her name like it was a promise. 

Her breath caught in her throat.

If she was going to find him, if she was going to see him again, she needed to live. She needed to rest. She needed to heal.

The wolves hadn’t moved. They watched her. Waiting.

Slowly, she stepped forward and lowered herself to the forest floor. Not as a beast. Not fully as a woman either. Just as something between. Something becoming whole again.

The wolves made room.

She lay in the silence of the trees, pressed against warm fur, and for the first time since coming south of the Wall, she slept without fear.

The wolves accepted her, in their way. No words. No questions. Just breath, movement, instinct. They hunted, they slept, they loped through the forest’s hush with the ease of creatures who had never known chains. She followed. And she healed.

The flayed flesh on her side had sealed at last. It left a scar that throbbed when the wind touched it, but it no longer burned. More than her body, it was her mind that mended slowest. But every day, the fog lifted a little more.

She remembered how to move like herself. How to think in full thoughts.

The trees of the Wolfswood sheltered her, cradled her as if the old gods themselves had woven a sanctuary of pine and snow. She hunted with her pack—no longer out of mindless hunger, but out of survival. And she felt the rhythm of her old self pulse beneath the wolfskin.

Then came the voices.

She’d been crouched low beside the river’s edge, teeth sunk into the warm haunch of a hare, when the sound of clinking armor and boots on dirt made her ears flick.

Men.

She stopped cold, crouching low in the brush. Her pack scattered silently into the trees, but Elynor stayed, heart pounding against her ribs. She lowered herself further, barely daring to breathe.

They were close. Two of them, from the sound. Not quite soldiers, not quite peasants—traders maybe, or messengers. Their boots were worn, their voices rough with travel.

“Bloody shame, what happened at the Twins,” one of them muttered.

“Aye,” said another. “Lions and flayed men, hand in hand. Bastards. Slaughtered the King in the North and his lot like dogs at a feast.”

Elynor stiffened. Her nostrils flared.

“Robb Stark,” the first man continued. “Didn’t stand a chance. Killed him in front of his mother. And she—gods, heard she went mad.”

Elynor’s breath caught. Stark.

It was a name she'd heard before, tasted on her tongue in fragments of dreams. A memory stirred—sharp and fragile, like glass in snow.

Jon's voice, soft in the dark.

“Robb was the closest thing I had to a brother. Truly. We trained together. Bled together. He used to say I was faster, but I knew it was only because he let me be.”

Elynor's chest ached.

Robb. Jon’s brother. The King in the North. Dead.

She pressed herself tighter to the earth, her claws curling into moss. She felt grief like a cut in her soul—not just for Robb, a man she’d never met, but for Jon. For what he must have lost. For the weight he must carry now.

The men passed by, muttering curses and shifting packs. Their footsteps faded.

Still Elynor didn’t move.

Only when the forest swallowed the last of their sounds did she lift her head.

She looked toward the north—where snow fell heavier, where the air grew thinner, where a black wall rose beyond mountains.

Jon.

She didn’t know how far. But she would find him.

She would not let him bear the weight of loss alone.

She had lingered long enough.

The forest had healed her—body and spirit in fragments—but it could not hold her forever. Every day she remained, she felt the tension in her bones pull tighter. There was a war inside her now, one of memory and instinct. One that would devour her from within if she didn’t move forward.

Elynor left at dawn.

The wolves had not stirred when she slipped away. Whether they understood or simply didn’t care, she didn’t know. The wild didn’t mourn departures. It simply endured.

She padded across moss and root and rock, her paws silent but swift. Her body still ached in places where the flayed skin had once bled, but it was healed now. The scars were ghost-thin beneath her fur. Her senses were sharp—too sharp, perhaps. The wind felt like a scream, the rustling of the trees like whispers she couldn’t quite understand. She had been gone too long.

She needed to go north.

To Castle Black.

To Jon.

If he still lived.

Hours passed beneath gray skies. The woods thinned behind her. The air grew colder. She didn’t know how many days it had been—how many weeks. The wall felt impossibly far.

But then something stopped her.

It was scent first—sap and snow and something ancient. Something deep. Her paws slowed, her ears twitching toward the hush in the wind. The forest dipped here, nestled in a hollow that the sun barely touched. The trees grew strange—pale and bone-colored, their bark smooth as skin. Blood-red leaves fluttered without wind.

A weirwood grove.

She stepped forward cautiously, her heart pounding harder than it had in days. The air shimmered. Her vision blurred at the edges. There was something in this place that made her feel small—seen.

And then the pull hit her.

Her knees buckled. The wolf inside her whimpered.

She fell to the ground, claws digging into frozen soil, panting. Magic coursed through her veins like fire and ice all at once. The beast within thrashed—but it wasn’t fear. It was release. Her ribs ached, her spine seared with pain as her form began to shift. Her breath caught in her throat.

This was different. Not forced. Not panicked.

It was like something had unlocked in her chest, a door she had long forgotten.

The wolf peeled away.

And when the wind fell silent, she was no longer on all fours.

She lay curled at the base of the heart tree—naked, shaking, and very, very human.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her skin prickled from the cold, her limbs stiff and fragile after so long beneath fur. Her hair was tangled, her nails cracked, her body weak. But the haze had cleared. Her thoughts were her own.

Elynor.

She whispered it to herself like a prayer. Her voice felt like stone dragged across ice. She hadn’t heard it in so long.

For a time, she stayed there, knees drawn to her chest, the bark of the weirwood pressed against her back. She did not weep. There was no time for that. The world hadn’t stopped in her absence. It had marched on, bloody and brutal, and she had catching up to do.

By dusk, she forced herself to stand.

There was a road not far beyond the grove, half-hidden by brush and snow. She followed it with her head down and her arms wrapped tight around her body. Every step was agony, her feet raw, but she pressed on.

And then she saw it.

A home.

It leaned like it had been born tired. Smoke curled from the chimney. Light flickered from shuttered windows. She could smell the warmth inside—bread, ale, sweat, fire.

And danger.

She crouched low, heart racing, instinct urging her to turn back. To flee to the trees. But she couldn’t. She needed clothes. She needed to be seen as a woman again, not a creature skulking in the dark.

Carefully, she crept around the back of the cabin, where the shadows were thickest. A small shed stood half open near the stables. Inside, bundles of cloth, grain sacks, tools. Someone’s cloak lay across a barrel, weathered but whole. Beside it, a pair of boots and a linen tunic, slightly stained but warm enough.

Elynor moved fast, snatching the garments and slipping back into the shadows.

She dressed beneath a low awning, teeth clenched against the cold. The tunic scratched her skin, the boots too large, but it didn’t matter.

When she looked down at her hands, they no longer trembled.

And when she stood tall, she looked like a girl who might’ve simply come in off the road. Dirty, tired, worn—but human.

Elynor wrapped the cloak tight around her shoulders, drew the hood up, and stared back at the road that would take her north.

She didn’t know what she’d find at Castle Black.

But at last, she was ready to go.

Chapter Text

The road was more a suggestion than a path.

Frost crusted its edges, half-swallowed by weeds and years of neglect. It wound through empty fields, long-abandoned farms, crumbling stone fences with no homes behind them. The wind whispered secrets through broken branches. Ravens watched her pass.

Westeros.

The name had once been a curse in her mouth. A place of stone halls and sharpened steel, red banners and redder blood. She had known it through a caged window, through whispers in the Red Keep’s darkened halls, through the soft sound of her own mother’s voice telling her stories of what lay beyond the walls: rivers, hills, godswood groves, wind-swept moors.

And now she was here.

The air tasted different here. Not just cold, but sharper somehow. Touched with ash and old stories. There were no trees to shield her now, no undergrowth to soften her steps. Just wind and empty space and the pale sky stretched wide above. There was no fear in her though. That realization struck her slowly, as the miles passed beneath her feet. She should have been terrified. She hadn’t walked through Westeros since she was a child, before the Siege of King’s Landing, before her people—her family—were hunted down like rabid dogs and butchered. 

She should have felt the weight of history on every step—paranoia, dread, the memory of silk-covered cages and steel.

But instead, she felt… lighter.

Not free, not exactly. But unburdened. As though the land itself had forgotten the Veyari. Or perhaps had simply never cared.

They don’t remember, she thought, marveling at the silence. The Veyari. Me. We’re a forgotten children’s story now.

She passed a crumbling tower by the roadside—once a watchpost maybe, now overgrown with thorn and moss. No banners. No guards. Just stones and time. A raven croaked from the empty slit of a window high above.

There was no one to stop her. No one to recognize her strange eyes or the way the magic still shimmered faintly in her skin. No whispers of the old powers. No southern tongues muttering the name of her people in fear or disgust.

Westeros had moved on.

I thought it would be harder to be back here, she admitted to herself. I thought I’d be swallowed up by it. But instead… it’s like walking into a story someone else told me.

The landscape was different from what she remembered, even if her memories were more dream than detail. She had been so young when Ser Merek smuggled her from the Red Keep. She remembered the walls, the blood, the screams—yes—but also the way he spoke of what lay beyond them.

Back then, Westeros had felt like a place out of a song. Cities with marble fountains, rivers so wide the sun bled into them at dusk, cliffs where the stars hung close enough to touch. She hadn’t known that most of it was dust and bone and rotted stone.

Maybe that’s just the North, she thought. Maybe that’s why Jon’s so broody all the time.

Though, there was still a kind of beauty here too. Even in ruin, Westeros was alive.

She walked for two days with no destination but north. Her legs ached, her cloak growing thinner with each gust of wind. 

And then—lights.

Flickering ahead, past the trees, across a wide field: a tavern.

She stopped at the crest of a low hill, it had seemed harmless enough—warm light spilling from its windows like the promise of shelter, smoke drifting lazily from the crooked chimney. 

The sight pulled her forward and held her still all at once.

You’ll have to go in eventually, she told herself. You can’t run wild to Castle Black. You need food. Warmth. Rest.

But her legs wouldn’t move. Not yet.

She crouched in the brush, heart thudding, watching the front door swing open and closed as travelers entered, their voices slurred with ale. She tried to summon fear. They’ll see me. They’ll know. But no one had known her so far. 

She exhaled slowly. You’ve been hiding for fifteen years. Maybe it’s time to stop.

The tavern was a lot louder than she expected.

Heat and sound hit her all at once. Not just warmth, but thick, alive heat, like breathing in someone else's breath. The air was saturated with smells—meat roasting, damp wool, ale, unwashed bodies, burning wood, dog. Somewhere beneath it all, the faint tang of blood. She stilled, nearly staggered.

And the sound—gods, the sound. It bounced and crashed off the walls like waves. Laughter. Voices raised in cheer and argument. Mugs clanging. Boots thudding against the floor. A woman somewhere singing, low and off-key.

Elynor kept her head down, pulling her cloak closer around her face. Her heart was drumming like a warning bell, her hand lingered near the knife hidden in her belt.

She moved along the wall, trying to stay small, unnoticed. No one paid her much mind—too absorbed in their drinks, their tales, and the women. She found an empty table near the back, half in shadow, where a timber beam cut across the firelight just enough to hide her face. She took the seat against the wall, the one with a view of both exits.

Every creak of wood, every raised voice made her flinch. She didn’t understand the rhythms of this place, how people moved through it without fear. She kept waiting for someone to notice her—really notice her. To sniff the magic on her. To name her for what she was. Veyari.

But they didn’t. Not even the serving girl, who came around with a heavy-laden tray and a practiced, impatient look.

Elynor swallowed hard. Her voice came out rough. “Food. And ale.” She didn’t know what ale was, not exactly, but everyone else had been ordering it around her and it seemed good enough.

The girl gave her a look, more curious than suspicious. “Stew’s all we’ve got left. That fine?”

Elynor nodded.

“Two coppers.”

Elynor blinked. Two... what?

There was a beat of silence, her stomach tightening. She hadn’t understood at first—hadn’t realized—that there was a price.

Then it hit her. Coins. Payment. You have to pay.

With a jerk of movement too sudden, she pulled the satchel she had stolen from the cabin and fumbled with the clasp. Her fingers were clumsy, shaking a little as she dug through its contents—dried herbs, an old map, a bit of jerky. Then her fingers brushed metal. Relief flooded her.

She pulled out the coins, clutching them too tightly, and dropped them into the girl’s hand without meeting her eyes. She felt heat spread across her cheeks as the serving girl gave her a once-over but said nothing, only disappearing back towards the hearth.

Elynor let out a slow breath. Her heart still beat too fast, and too loud in her ears. 

Once she calmed a bit, she allowed herself to look around some more. It was strange, seeing so many people gathering together like this—laughing, eating, swapping tales over fire and ale. Not whispering in fear. Not skulking through shadowed woods or sleeping half-buried beneath snowdrifts.

Strange indeed, but oddly comforting. 

It reminded her of the nights with Tormund, of the wildlings crowding around the fire after a long march. Loud voices, hearty laughter, the warmth of bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder. There had been singing, too—rough and off-key, but full of life. She hadn’t always joined in, but she’d listened. She’d smiled.

For a flicker of a moment, this place felt like that. A little less foreign. A little more bearable.

She watched some more. The way people leaned toward one another when they spoke. The way a man draped his arm over a woman’s shoulders and she laughed into her cup. There was a language to it all, a choreography she didn’t quite understand.

And gods, she wanted to.

That startled her most of all. She had expected fear. Terror. To be back in the open, south of the Wall, in a land that left her nothing but scarred. But what she felt, as the warmth seeped into her cloak and the voices swirled around her, was something else entirely.

Wonder. It felt like waking into a story she’d only ever half-believed. A dream she’d told herself she didn’t want.

The serving girl returned with a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread, steam rising in soft curls. Elynor mumbled thanks and took the mug of ale with both hands, wary. She sniffed the frothy liquid cautiously, before taking a sip.

It hit the back of her throat like fire.

She coughed—sharply—nearly choking, her eyes watering as she thumped a fist against her chest. A few nearby patrons turned to glance at her. Elynor lowered the mug quickly and hunched over, blinking back tears, trying to look casual.

Gods, smooth, she scolded herself. You’re really doing a fine job of blending in.

She tried to recover by picking at the food, forcing herself to chew slowly while her pride simmered alongside her tongue. The ale sat in front of her like a challenge. She narrowed her eyes at it.

“Next time,” she muttered under her breath, “smaller sip.”

The stew was thick and salted, mostly turnips and potatoes, but there were real chunks of meat in it. The bread was coarse, but she tore it into small pieces, using it to soak up the broth. Her hands stopped shaking somewhere between the second bite and the third sip of ale.

So this is Westeros, she thought. The real Westeros.

Not the sharp halls of the Red Keep. Not the half-frozen villages at the edge of the wilds. But here, in the quiet towns, in the hearth-lit places where stories were traded and spilled ale was no tragedy.

This was the heart of it.

And somehow, she almost enjoyed it.

Perhaps it was the fire. Or the food. Or the fact that no one had looked at her twice. But Elynor sat a little straighter. She drank a little more. She was no longer a ghost, no longer a prisoner. She was here. In plain sight.

And no one knew.

She stayed until her bowl was clean and her mug nearly empty. Until the noise didn’t rattle her bones so much anymore. Until the room stopped feeling like a trap.

When she finally stood and slipped back into the shadows, no one tried to stop her.

Outside, the night was quieter. Cool air brushed against her cheeks, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her boots crunched softly on the packed dirt road as she turned away from the glow of the tavern and wandered further down the street.

She didn’t know where to go, exactly—but she knew she couldn’t sleep in the woods tonight. Not after that food. Not after having to act like she belonged somewhere.

A modest building came into view just beyond the last row of houses—a low-roofed inn tucked against a stone wall. The sign above the door was worn and unreadable, swinging slightly in the night breeze.

Elynor hesitated outside, glancing at the dark windows, then squared her shoulders and stepped in.

The room was smaller than the tavern, quieter too. A single lantern glowed behind a desk where an old man sat dozing with his chin tucked to his chest, a small ledger open in front of him.

She approached slowly, clearing her throat.

He jolted upright. “Eh? What’s this now?”

“I—I need a bed,” she started, sheepishly. “No, wait. I mean… I’d like to sleep here.” A pause. “For the night.”

The man squinted up at her, brow furrowed.

“A room,” she corrected quickly, fumbling into the satchel at her hip and pulling out the pouch of coins. “Just for one night. I have the money. This time.”

He raised an eyebrow at this time, but said nothing as she placed a few coins on the desk—more than she needed to, though she wasn’t sure of the exact amount. She just hoped it was enough to keep questions to a minimum.

The man took the money, counted without a word, then slid a wooden key across the surface toward her. “Up the stairs. Second on the right. Water basin’s in the room. No fires.”

Elynor snatched up the key, muttered a soft “thank you,” and turned before she could embarrass herself further. Her cheeks were warm for the umpteenth time tonight.

You’re not a fool, she reminded herself. You’re just… learning.

She climbed the creaking steps two at a time, bare wooden floor underfoot and the smell of old pine lingering in the air. The room was small, just a bed, a stool, and the basin the man had mentioned but it was hers for the night.

She shut the door gently, slid the bolt into place, and leaned against the wood with a long sigh. Then, slowly, she made her way to the bed and sat down, curling her legs beneath her.

The blanket scratched, but it was warm. And safe. And for the first time in moons, there were walls around her, and a roof above her head.

Elynor lay back and stared at the ceiling.

She was back in Westeros. Really back.

And in the morning, she’d be closer to Jon.

Chapter Text

Snow was falling.

She stood barefoot in a forest clearing under a sky dusted with stars, the snow catching in her hair and melting on her shoulders. She wore only a simple shift, light and thin, but she didn’t feel the cold. The trees around her were quiet, watchful.

And then she heard his voice.

“Elynor.”

She turned, breath catching.

Jon.

He stood a few paces away, dark curls damp with snow, face shadowed but unmistakable. He looked just as she remembered him—solemn eyes, strong jaw, the kind of quiet sadness that lived in his bones. But there was something softer in him now, something open. He wasn’t wearing his cloak or his sword. Just a plain black tunic and the look of someone who had waited a long time.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he whispered, voice a little hoarse.

She didn’t answer with words.

She stepped to him, slowly at first, then faster until she was running—and when she reached him, she crashed into his arms like a wave. He caught her easily, his hands on her back, his mouth against her hair.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the warmth of his hand on her cheek, brushing the tears away.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought I was too.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, and before she could lose her nerve, she kissed him—hungry, bold. The moment their mouths met, it felt like something inside her cracked wide open. Jon froze for half a breath—then he kissed her back, fiercely, desperately, like he’d been waiting just as long.

She felt his hands tighten on her waist, then slide down to her hips. Her own fingers tangled in the laces of his tunic, fumbling them loose, needing to feel him—real, warm, alive.

Jon pulled back only slightly, eyes locked on hers. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, she tugged the fabric from his shoulders and pressed her palm flat to his bare chest. His heart was pounding.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she professed, breathless.

He groaned softly, as if the sound had been pulled from somewhere deep inside him, and then he kissed her again—harder this time. She felt him move them back until her spine met the trunk of a tree, rough bark at her back, his body flush against hers. Their hands were everywhere—clumsy and urgent—clothing pushed aside, skin to skin, the fire between them building fast.

She pressed her mouth to his throat, nipping lightly at the hollow beneath his jaw. His breath hitched, his hips stuttered against hers, and he muttered something she didn’t catch, half-swearing under his breath in the old Northern way.

He looked at her like she was the only thing he wanted. Like he didn’t care if the world burned.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he said roughly, cupping her face like he was afraid she’d vanish. “Ely…”

She smiled at that, flushed with heat and something more tender. “Then show me.”

Their mouths met again, and everything else vanished—the trees, the snow, the years between them. There was only the slide of his hands, the rasp of their breaths, the slow undoing of a man she had once thought untouchable.

And just when it felt like she would fall completely into him—

A shift in the air.

A sound—distant, but wrong. Cold.

The forest began to fade, colors bleeding from the dream like water from a wound. Jon’s face blurred. His warmth slipped from her fingers.

“No—” she whispered, reaching for him, “Jon—wait—”

But he was gone.

And Elynor woke.

Sweat cooled on her brow. Her breath came hard, her body still aching with want and confusion and longing. She blinked into the shadows of the inn room, hand clenched in the blankets, heart still racing.

She was alone. Just a dream.

But she remembered the way he said her name. How badly she wanted to hear him say it again.

Not even a bucket of ice water could cool her down right now.

With a soft exhale, she pushed the blanket off and stood, her bare feet brushing the cold floorboards. The room was plain, but it had a basin and a pitcher, and for the first time in what felt like ages, she washed. Properly. Not with melted snow or stream water, but warm water scented faintly of lavender, probably from the innkeeper’s wife.

She scrubbed the grime from her skin, combed her fingers through her tangled hair, and took a long, quiet moment to look at her reflection in the small, fogged mirror nailed to the wall.

There was color in her cheeks again. Her eyes were brighter, less haunted.

It was strange, comforting even, to feel like herself again.

She stepped outside not long after, the wind crisp but not biting, and made her way back into the small village square. With the few coins she had left from the satchel she’d taken, she purchased a set of simple travel clothes from a merchant near the stables—a wool tunic, dark trousers, a cloak with a clasp that didn’t look too fine, but sturdy enough to last. She also bartered for a new satchel and a spare set of clothes, just in case. 

She paused as she folded the extras into the bag. 

Just in case.

“I’d rather not be naked the first time Jon sees me again,” she muttered under her breath, cheeks warming.

Gods.

She pressed her fingers to her face, half-laughing, half-mortified.

The idea of seeing him again—really seeing him, not in dreams, but in the flesh—stirred something fierce in her chest. Nervousness, anticipation, and something dangerously close to longing.

But she had miles to go still. Roads to walk. Time to think.

She slung the satchel over her shoulder, tugged the cloak tighter, and took one last look at the inn behind her.

Then, without another word, she turned north—toward Castle Black. Towards Jon.

------

The road stretched long and narrow beneath her boots, winding through frost-hardened soil and the last stubborn patches of snow. Her breath misted in the morning air, though the chill no longer bit as cruelly as it once had. She had grown used to it—numb to it, in more ways than one.

Then, just beyond the next rise, she saw it.

Castle Black.

A black spine against the gray horizon, rising like a fortress carved into the sky. The Wall loomed behind it, stretching east and west farther than her eyes could follow—massive, otherworldly, glinting like ice-forged stone. Even from this distance, she could make out the towers, the gate, the faint movement of men along the top.

It was still standing.

Relief crashed into her like a wave.

Her knees almost buckled. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself together until that moment. She closed her eyes and let herself breathe—really breathe—as the sight settled over her like balm. After everything—after the torture, the pain, the madness, the run through the snow and blood and memory—Castle Black was still there.

Jon could still be there.

Jon.

Her heart clenched hard, a knot forming in her chest that no amount of breath could loosen. She opened her eyes again, staring at the fortress on the horizon, and felt excitement rise in her belly—but it was tangled with something else. Fear. Apprehension. A quiet, gnawing panic.

Jon thought she was dead.

She had died, in a way. Not just the girl he once knew—Elynor the half-shadow, the whisper in the woods, the ghost in the trees—but the version of herself who had trusted in nothing at all. The girl who kept walls high and thick, who never let anyone close because she didn’t believe happy endings were meant for her.

But after everything, that girl was gone. Broken apart, scattered like leaves in the wind. And what remained… she wasn’t sure who that was yet. Not the girl she had been, and not someone she recognized.

How would she explain how she survived? What she’d become? Would he understand? Would he look at her with that same quiet, steady gaze—or would it falter, turn cold, uncertain?

She stopped walking.

The wind tugged at her cloak as she stood motionless, Castle Black framed ahead like a monument to a future she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Would she tell him the truth? About the shifting, the animal that clawed at her insides when things got too loud, too hard? About what she had done to survive—who she’d become?

The weight of it pressed down hard.

Would he even believe her?

Would he still want her near?

She scrubbed a hand over her face and let out a sharp exhale, forcing herself to keep walking.

And then another thought hit her—sharper than the last.

Castle Black didn’t allow women. It never had. It was the law of the Night’s Watch, ancient and unyielding.

She let out a bitter laugh under her breath, shaking her head.

Of course it wouldn’t be simple.

After all the distance, after clawing her way through snow and shadow and sorrow, it still wasn’t going to be easy. She hadn’t exactly considered how she’d get in—only that she had to. But now, with the black gate on the horizon and her feet aching on the road, reality hit.

This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

She glanced back once—toward the woods behind her, toward the quiet, safe places where she could vanish.

Then she turned back to the Wall.

No turning back now.

She kept walking, but slower now, every step toward Castle Black dragging a new thought behind it like a chain. She needed a plan.

Think, Elynor.

She couldn’t fight her way through the gate—that would be suicide. Even if she managed to take out one or two guards, they’d raise the alarm before she got ten steps inside. And the last thing she wanted was to make enemies of them, especially not now—not when Jon might still be among them.

She could march right up to the gate, announce herself, and demand access.

She scoffed out loud.

Brilliant. What would you say? Hello, I’m a magic shapeshifter woman who’s supposed to be dead, and I’m looking for a man named Jon Snow, is he here? Oh, and I used to live with wildlings. Please let me in.

She rolled her eyes.

Another stupid idea.

She paused near a bend in the road, stepping off the worn path and crouching near a tangle of brush. Her fingers dug into her temples as if she could massage a plan out of her skull.

Nothing came.

The wind whispered through the trees behind her, and The Wall loomed ahead like an unblinking watchman.

She hated this—hated feeling cornered, uncertain. She had survived so much, clawed her way through blood and ice and pain, but now? Now she couldn’t even think of a way to get through a gate without risking everything.

A low growl rumbled in her throat before she caught herself. Old instincts rising. She exhaled slowly, deeply, pressing her palms to her knees. There has to be a way. But the harder she tried to think, the emptier her head felt. No map. No plan. Just a burning need to see him again, to hear his voice, to know that she hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

And with every failed idea, the frustration grew.

You’ve come all this way, Elynor, and this is what stops you? A gate? A few rules? Her lips curled into a bitter line. You went through hell, for gods’ sakes. You can survive this.

But surviving and getting through were two different things.

She sighed and leaned back against the cold bark of a crooked tree. Castle Black loomed in the distance, silent and unwelcoming.

And Elynor, for the first time in a long time, felt small. 

The word lingered oddly in her mind.

Small.

Her breath caught.

Small.

The thought unfurled like a thread tugging at the edge of her mind, and then suddenly—an idea. Her heart gave a sharp, startled beat.

She could be small. Not just in feeling, but in form. She could shift.

A cat, a bird, a mouse—anything that might slip through cracks and corners unnoticed. Her magic hadn’t fully healed from the trauma, but she could still manage smaller forms. She knew that now.

The plan fell together piece by piece, both reckless and oddly comforting. First, she would shift into a bird—something swift, maybe a rook or a crow—and fly ahead, find a place to hide her pack and clothes before shifting again. She’d have to stash her things somewhere outside the walls, somewhere she could find again once she was safely inside.

Then, when the sun dipped and the men of the Watch were distracted, she’d go small—truly small. A mouse, perhaps. Quick and silent, able to scurry beneath doors or along shadows. Forgotten. Invisible.

She could sneak in. Get close. Find Jon.

It was dangerous, of course. If she got stuck in one of the cracks of the ancient keep, or if one of the black brothers stomped her underfoot without ever knowing what she was… But she’d faced worse.

And it was better than walking up to the gates and demanding entry as herself. That would end in chains—or worse.

Her lips parted as a breath of cold air spilled past them. Her fingers curled around the strap of her satchel.

She’d do it tonight. Fly close, find a safe place, stash what she couldn’t carry in her smaller form. Then sneak in, slow and careful. She just needed to get inside. The rest… the rest she’d figure out when she saw him.

She swallowed hard. The knot was still there in her chest—tight with nerves, twisted with dread and something else she didn’t want to name. Hope, maybe.

She looked again at the Wall, impossibly tall, impossibly old. It had stood for thousands of years. And tonight, she would be next to it again—not as a girl in chains, not as an animal hunted, but as something else entirely.

A shadow. A whisper of fur and feet.

She exhaled. “Let’s see if Castle Black can catch a mouse.”

And then she smiled–just slightly–as the wind tugged at her cloak.

She had a way forward.

—

The wind picked up as dusk draped its cool fingers over the land. Castle Black loomed ahead, its looming walls and ancient timbers dark against the sky, a silhouette of stone and shadow. Elynor kept to the treeline, moving with quiet purpose.

She found a hollow beneath the gnarled roots of an old tree, not far from the northern wall. There, hidden beneath fallen needles and soft moss, she unshouldered her satchel and opened it carefully. Her fingers lingered on the fabric of her spare tunic, the worn leather of her boots. She tucked them deep into the hollow, then covered the space with a lattice of broken branches and pine boughs. A marker—a rune scratched lightly in the soil—was her quiet promise she’d come back for them.

Her cloak was the last to go. She folded it neatly, like she imagined a proper lady might, and set it on top.

She closed her eyes. And let go.

The shift came without resistance. Her magic, once fragile and uncertain, now surged with clarity. There was no pain, no faltering. One moment she stood beneath the pine as a woman. The next, the world expanded around her, and she was a mouse—small, quick, silent.

The air sharpened, crisp with woodsmoke and frost. Each sound was magnified: the creak of a branch above, the distant clang of a gate, the rustle of wings overhead. She blinked up at the towering trees, now massive monoliths, their trunks stretching into the sky like watchful gods.

She darted from the trees, fur brushing the earth. Blades of grass whipped past like reeds in a river. Her heart beat steady, focused. She felt no fear—only purpose.

The outer wall of Castle Black loomed ahead, built of ancient timbers blackened by wind and war. She found a narrow crack near the base, and without hesitation, slipped through.

Inside, warmth mingled with the sharp tang of iron and sweat. Boots stomped overhead. Voices laughed and barked orders. The keep breathed around her—alive with men, with stories, with ghosts.

She scurried between shadows and boot heels, past barrels and torchlight. The scent of meat and ash clung to the air.

She was in.

And somewhere, within these walls of stone and old vows…

Jon Snow waited.

She would find him.

Even if she had to cross the world a hundred times more.

The world inside Castle Black was a thunderous, stomping labyrinth.

Elynor crept low, her tiny claws skittering over the ground, weaving between boots caked with snow and soot. The scent of sweat and smoke clung to the floor like a second skin. The vibrations of every step trembled through her bones. Towering wooden beams stretched toward ceilings far above, casting long shadows in the flickering torchlight. Every corner, every hallway, every breath of air was sharp with chill and laced with men’s voices—some gruff with orders, others laughing, one or two muttering to themselves.

A sudden boot came down with the weight of a falling tree. Elynor let out a high-pitched shriek—inaudible to the men but loud in her own small ears—and darted backward, tail whipping as the heel narrowly missed her skull. She pressed herself to the edge of a crate, panting. Her whiskers trembled.

“Bloody rats,” one man muttered nearby. Another barked a laugh. “Too cold for ‘em. You’re imagining things.”

She didn’t wait to hear more. She bolted.

Through corridors that stank of boiled cabbage. Past a hearthroom where men sat crowded, cloaks draped over their chairs, tankards thumping on wood. She scurried under benches, between walls, down narrow halls lit by hanging lanterns. Everything was impossibly big. Somewhere above, she could hear the faint creak of the Wall’s winch system, the wind curling around the ropes like claws.

She tried to focus. Jon. Jon. Jon. But the sheer immensity of Castle Black pulled her under like a wave. There were so many men, so many rooms, so many paths. Her senses swirled—burnt meat, melting snow, wet leather, pine tar. Her heart beat too fast.

Where was he?

She ducked beneath a door as it swung open, nearly catching her tail. A storage room. Barrels. Boots. No Jon.

She raced back out. Past the yard, where men sparred with dull blades in the slush. She watched from the safety of a slat in the fence, wondering if he might be among them. But no—no familiar voice, no face she recognized.

Was he even here?

The thought hit her like cold water. What if she was too late? What if he had gone with the Wildlings, or—gods—what if he’d died?

She stopped in the shadows beneath a stairwell, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her small sides trembled.

What if I came all this way… for nothing?

But something within her stirred—something deeper than fear. A pull. A tether. He was here. He had to be.

And she would find him.

Even if she had to crawl through every corner of Castle Black, one heartbeat at a time.

Elynor pressed on.

She scurried beneath thresholds and darted behind crates, dodging firelight and boots alike. The inside of Castle Black was a twisting maze—walls of stone, floors of packed dirt and ice. Every hallway looked the same, and yet none of them led her to him.

She slipped into what must have been the library. It smelled of vellum and smoke, of dry ink and old wood. Shelves loomed like trees, creaking in the chill. She climbed the leg of a table, small claws finding purchase in its grooves. From the tabletop, she glanced around. Parchment was scattered everywhere, some torn, some ink-stained. She tried to make sense of the markings, but her mouse eyes blurred the lines. No trace of him. No voice. No scent.

She scuttled back down and through another corridor.

Into the kitchens. Into an armory. A barracks. She paused at every voice, every silhouette—just in case—but none of them were him. Her limbs began to ache from the constant motion, her mind fraying at the edges. Still she pressed on.

Then came the scent: hay, damp fur, the tang of iron. She followed it.

She ducked beneath a wide door and emerged into the stalls.

Horses snorted from their pens, some stomping the cold stone, their breath misting in the frigid air. The smell was overpowering—musky, earthy, alive. She crept along the wall, past hooves, past crates of oats and dried grasses.

And then she saw it.

At the far end of the stables, separated from the horses, was a cage. Low light spilled across the hay-strewn floor, and in its shadowed corner lay a creature both ghostly and wild.

A white direwolf.

Elynor froze.

The beast was immense—larger than any wolf she had ever seen—but still and silent. His fur was like fresh snow, luminous against the gloom. His red eyes burned like coals, and as if sensing her, they turned, and locked onto hers.

The world stilled.

In that moment, something beyond words passed between them. A recognition. A memory not quite her own. Her heartbeat slowed.

She took a trembling step forward, whiskers twitching.

You’re not just a beast, she thought. You’re... his.

The direwolf didn’t growl, didn’t move. He simply stared, and in his gaze was something knowing, something almost human. Elynor shivered. It was as though he could see her, truly see her, even through the veil of her magic.

He knows I’m not just a mouse.

The wolf stirred. Slowly, he rose to his feet and stepped to the edge of the cage, his massive frame soundless. He pressed his nose through the bars and sniffed—once, twice—and then turned his head to the side.

Not away.

Toward something.

He glanced toward a narrow door half-hidden behind stacked feed sacks.

And then he looked back at her.

Elynor’s little heart pounded. She followed the direction of his gaze, the tiny bones in her limbs vibrating with sudden clarity.

Was he showing me the way?

She looked back at the direwolf. He had returned to his haunches, silent and still once more—but his eyes never left her.

“Thank you,” she whispered in her mind.

And with that, Elynor crept toward the door the direwolf had indicated, skirting the edges of the feed sacks and slipping through a gap in the wood just wide enough for her small body. The passage beyond was colder, darker. Wind whistled somewhere up ahead, carrying with it the sting of snow and stone.

She padded forward, the corridor narrowing into a spiral stair of icy stone. But she didn’t need to climb. At its base, tucked in a great alcove of timber and rusted iron, sat a massive wooden platform—a lift. She had heard stories of it, whispered among wildlings. A creaking, swaying beast of chains and levers that carried men to the very top of the world.

Elynor hesitated.

The thing loomed like a leviathan, all splintered beams and spoked wheels, with thick chains vanishing into the darkness above. Snow had gathered on the platform’s floor in clumps. No one was near. It looked dormant—waiting.

With a deep breath, she bounded across the threshold, her tiny form nearly swallowed by the grain of the planks. The wind clawed through the gaps in the boards, tugging at her fur, the cold biting deep. She reached the center of the lift and paused.

Then, with a groan like a waking beast, the mechanism jolted to life.

Elynor flattened herself instantly as the platform lurched upward, the chains groaning, the iron gears clanking with a painful grind. The ground dropped away beneath her, swallowed by shadow.

The ascent was slow—but harrowing.

Wind screamed through the latticework. Snow danced in from every direction, carried by sharp gusts. The Wall loomed above her, an infinite stretch of blue-white ice that glistened in the starlight. The further they climbed, the more the world dropped away—buildings, stables, the firelit keep—until all that remained below was a black sea of trees and stone.

Her paws slipped as the ice thickened beneath her, the grain of the wood slick with frost. She scrambled to stay upright, claws clicking uselessly on the surface. A particularly strong gust hit, and she nearly tumbled through a crack in the planks. Her breath caught. She pressed low to the floor, heart hammering.

She was a speck, alone in the sky.

Gods, she thought, trying to still her trembling. How did men ride this thing every day and not go mad?

When she dared to look up again, the top of the Wall was visible—flat and windswept, like a frozen plain in the clouds. The lift slowed, shuddering against the wind. Chains rattled. Ice cracked. And then, with a final groan, the platform came to rest.

She waited, frozen in place.

No voices. No movement. Just the ever-howling wind and the breath of winter on her whiskers.

She darted forward, paws numb as they skated across the ice. Each step was a struggle. The cold was no longer biting—it was consuming, absolute. The wind pushed at her like a living thing, forcing her sideways. Snow stuck to her fur, her tiny feet barely finding purchase. She slipped more than once, nearly tumbling down one of the subtle dips carved into the slick surface by boots and sleet.

But she pressed on.

Stone ramparts loomed ahead, thick as towers, and beyond them—watch posts, small shacks of black timber, and a few distant torches casting lonely glows. She stayed to the shadows, shivering, eyes scanning for movement.

He has to be here.

Her heart beat in time with the wind—wild, searching.

She had come this far. She would not stop now.

She almost missed it at first—muffled by the wind, the crunching snow, the creak of wood against ice.

But then it came again: a voice. Low. Familiar.

Elynor’s ears perked. Her breath caught in her throat, paws frozen against the ice. Her tiny heart pounded. Another voice followed, warmer, rounder—unfamiliar—but it was the first one that mattered.

Her whole body went rigid. That voice.

Jon.

Without thinking, she darted forward, skidding awkwardly across a slick patch of frost. Her claws scrambled for purchase. Snow scattered around her in tiny sprays. She dashed past crates and shadowed beams, around the corner of a squat black shack, and then—

She saw him.

There, standing in the firelight cast by a lantern fixed to the wall, two men talked. One was shorter, softer, bundled in layers, his cheeks round and red from the cold. But the other—

The other stole her breath.

Jon Snow.

He was real. Alive. Whole.

He stood with his arms folded, back leaning casually against the wall, a faint furrow between his brows as he listened to whatever the rounder man was saying. His black cloak billowed slightly in the breeze. The edge of his longsword—Longclaw—glinted faintly at his hip.

He hadn’t changed—and yet he had.

His hair was longer now, curling just past his ears in dark waves. His jaw was sharper, dusted with snow and stubble. The shadows under his eyes were deeper, his mouth tighter, more controlled. There was a heaviness to him, a weariness. Like the weight of command had sunk into his very bones.

And still, he was him.

His eyes—those eyes—dark and watchful, carried the same haunted softness she remembered. The same gravity that had drawn her to him in the coldest hours. The wind caught the edge of his cloak, and it flared for a heartbeat behind him like a raven’s wing.

The cold was nothing now. She barely felt her paws against the ice. Her whole world had shrunk to the outline of him, the sound of his voice—quiet, thoughtful, a touch hoarse from disuse or sleep.

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, joy and relief and disbelief crashing all at once. Her throat tightened—if she’d had one. She wanted to cry out, to run to him, to say his name aloud just to hear it hang in the air between them.

But all she could do was watch.

A knot formed deep inside her—one of aching relief, and the tremble of something she hadn't let herself feel in weeks.

He was here.

And gods, he looked good in black.

Elynor nestled closer into the shadowed corner, tiny paws folded beneath her, eyes fixed on the two figures not far away. The flickering firelight cast long, wavering silhouettes over their faces, but it was Jon’s voice that held her attention — low, rough, and threaded with a softness she hadn’t expected to hear.

Jon glanced at the darkening sky, exhaustion tugging at his every muscle. “I can take the shift, Sam. Get some rest. I’ll watch out here.”

The man he called Sam nodded gratefully, slipping away quietly without another word.

Left alone, Jon settled deeper into the shadows, his gaze distant, lost in thought.

Elynor’s heart hammered in her tiny chest. She hesitated, frozen by the sight of him—alive, well, but so very distant.

Slowly, almost without thinking, she scurried closer, desperate to see him more clearly, to feel the truth of his presence.

Every small step brought a flood of memories she couldn’t yet name, every breath filled with the weight of all they’d lost—and the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, they would find each other again.

As she drew closer, she could see Jon’s face more clearly—etched with a weariness that ran deeper than any battle scar. The pain in his eyes was raw and real, though he fought to keep it locked away, hidden beneath a mask of stoicism.

Her chest tightened. She was just so relieved to see him alive—whole—and yet the sight of him so weighed down, so haunted, tugged at something deep inside her. She wanted, for a fleeting moment, to reach out, to offer some fragment of comfort, to ease the shadows clinging to him. But even in this fragile, vulnerable instant, she knew she couldn’t. Not yet. So she stayed quiet, watching him from the safety of her small form.

Elynor’s gaze lingered on Jon a moment longer, her heart heavy with reluctance. She wanted—needed—to stay close. But the truth was clear: she couldn’t transform back here, not with him so close. She had to find her strength first, alone. Begrudgingly, she turned away, her tiny form slipping silently through the shadows as she went to retrieve her clothes and satchel.

Her paws barely brushed the cold stone when a sudden, sharp horn blasted through Castle Black, tearing through the stillness like a bolt of lightning. The hallways erupted into chaos—boots pounding, voices shouting orders, the clatter of weapons being seized.

Elynor's blood ran cold, confusion flooding her senses. From the cacophony, she caught fragments of voices—one in particular slicing through the noise: “The wildlings... they’re here.”

Mance’s plan was underway. The siege was coming.

Panic churned inside her chest, tightening with every frantic footstep echoing off the walls. She thought of Jon—up on the wall, standing between the wildlings and the men he’d sworn to protect. She couldn’t leave him to face this alone.

Her resolve crystallized. Without hesitation, she slipped into a quiet corner, shedding her small form, her magic humming as her body shifted back into herself—naked, trembling, but whole. She quickly pulled on her clothes, heart racing as she crept through the turmoil of the castle preparing for battle.

A hood shielded her face as she moved silently, weaving between busy soldiers. In a weapons room, she found a bow and a quiver of arrows. Her fingers wrapped around the familiar weight, steadying her nerves.

Then, a glance back to the stables stopped her cold.

There, in his cage, sat the white direwolf—its eyes meeting hers with a knowing, urgent gleam.

With a quiet breath, she slipped into the stable and released the great beast, feeling the surge of wild power ripple through her.

Outside, the gates were bursting open as the wildlings surged forward.

Together, she and the direwolf prepared to face the coming storm.

The clash of steel and screams filled the night as Elynor sprinted across the courtyard, arrows clutched tightly in her hand, bow slung over her shoulder. The chaos was deafening—flames flickering against the stone walls, shouts echoing from every direction. Shadows danced in the firelight as men of the Night’s Watch scrambled to hold the gates, their black cloaks billowing like torn wings.

Elynor kept her head low, her hood drawn tight around her face. She moved quickly, with purpose, darting up the long stone staircase that spiraled up the side of the Wall. The cold bit at her cheeks as she reached a ledge just below the top battlements. She crouched, pulling an arrow from her quiver and nocking it silently.

Below her, wildlings surged through the shattered gates like a black tide. She could make out their snarling war cries, their crude weapons flashing in the light. They were many—far more than she expected. Too many.

She loosed her first arrow, and it flew swift and true—striking a wildling clean in the chest and sending him toppling backward into the snow. She drew again, her fingers quick and sure despite the tremor in her limbs. Another shot—another body down.

She fired again. And again.

Each arrow flew like vengeance, slicing through the cold night, guided by rage, by fear, by the need to survive.

Still, the wildlings kept coming. Rope ladders were thrown over the Wall’s edge. Grappling hooks clanged as they caught hold of the stone. More and more climbed, screaming their fury into the night.

Below, the Night’s Watch fought with grim determination, but they were being overrun. The clash of swords rang like thunder. A man fell from the battlements, screaming all the way down. Another was dragged into the shadows by two wildlings, his cries cut short.

Elynor’s breath came fast. Her quiver was already half empty.

A wildling turned sharply toward her ledge, spotting the shimmer of movement beneath her hood. He raised a spear and hurled it.

Elynor ducked, the spear striking the stone behind her with a clatter. She rolled, came up on one knee, and let another arrow fly. It struck him in the thigh—he howled and collapsed, clutching the wound.

She couldn’t keep this up forever.

From her perch, she could see the white direwolf tearing through the melee below, fangs flashing, its massive form bowling over enemies with ease. The sight sent a shiver through her—it was like watching the wind pick up before a downpour, movement without warning.

But even that wasn’t enough. The wildlings pressed in from all sides, relentless.

The blood painted the snow crimson. The Wall itself seemed to groan beneath the weight of the siege.

Elynor drew another arrow. Her hands were shaking now. Not from the cold, but from the sheer force of it all. The death. The fury. The knowing that she might not survive this. And yet she stayed. She stayed for Jon.

Arrows sang from Elynor’s bow like furious whispers, each one aimed with precision, each one dropping another enemy into the red-streaked snow. Her breath came in gasps, clouding the air before her, the string of her bow cutting into her fingers. She didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Every time she looked out across the battlefield, her heart clenched with more fear than she wanted to admit.

A wildling spotted her on the ledge—tall, broad-shouldered, blood already smeared down one side of his face. He let out a guttural roar and charged. Elynor’s next arrow hit him square in the shoulder, but he didn’t stop. He barreled forward, closing the distance.

She didn’t have time to reload.

He swung a spiked club, and she ducked beneath it, the force of it cracking the stone beside her. She rolled, drawing the small blade she had tucked into her belt. As he turned, snarling, she lunged and buried the blade deep into his thigh. He stumbled, howling, and she kicked him hard, sending him tumbling backward off the ledge.

Her chest heaved.

No time to breathe.

She slid down the narrow stairwell, boots scraping on the icy stone, descending toward the chaos below. The sounds of clashing steel and cries of pain only grew louder. When she reached the base of the wall, she stepped over fallen bodies—Night’s Watch and wildling alike. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

And then something caught her eye.

Across the courtyard, moving through the thick of the fray like a red-bearded bear, was Tormund. He was a whirlwind of rage, his axe carving through black-cloaked men like parchment. His face was twisted in war-fury, a bellow on his lips.

Elynor stood paralyzed, breath caught in her throat. The man who had once laughed beside the fire, who had stood beside Mance, who had helped her survive the North. And now he was—

Her hesitation lasted too long.

Something slammed into her from behind.

The air was knocked out of Elynor’s lungs as she and the wildling tumbled across the stone. Pain shot through her side as she hit the ground hard. She rolled instinctively, but the man was on her in an instant, straddling her chest, his knife raised high. His breath reeked of smoke and blood.

The blade hovered inches from her throat.

She strained, hands locked around his wrist, fighting to keep the dagger from plunging into her skin. Her arms trembled. She could feel its cold kiss already brushing her neck.

The wildling snarled, forcing the blade down.

“No,” she hissed, digging her heels into the ground, every muscle screaming with effort.

And then—

A blur of white.

A savage growl.

The weight on her chest vanished in an instant as the white direwolf slammed into the man, its massive jaws clamping around his arm. The wildling shrieked, flailing, but the white wolf didn’t let go. With a violent shake, the direwolf tore the attacker away from Elynor and flung him aside like a ragdoll. Blood sprayed across the snow.

Elynor lay there a moment, stunned, chest rising and falling rapidly. The direwolf stood beside her, its red eyes locked onto hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely, voice barely audible over the battle cries still echoing around them.

The wolf blinked, then turned his head, ears twitching.

The fight wasn’t over.

And neither was she.

Elynor pushed herself to her feet, muscles aching, blood dripping from a gash on her forearm. The wolf bounded forward, snarling, driving into another group of wildlings, his white fur streaked with crimson.

She didn’t stop to thank him again.

With a growl of her own, she grabbed her bow, notched an arrow, and loosed it into the chest of a man charging a Watch brother. Another turned toward her, swinging a rusted axe—she ducked, drove her knife into his gut, twisted. The man crumpled.

Another arrow flew from her bow.

Then another.

A wildling tried to wrestle her to the ground—she drove her knee into his groin, slammed her forehead into his nose, and finished him with a swift slash across the neck. Her vision went blurry for a split second, breathing ragged.

But then—something made her stop cold.

There, across the yard, in the thick of the chaos—

Jon.

He crept forward like nightfall stalking the light, Longclaw gripped in his hands. His face was set in grim determination, a mask of cold fury as he cut down one attacker, then another. She couldn’t look away.

Her heart lurched.

He was alive. Real. Fighting.

But before she could even take another step toward him, she saw a figure barrel through the smoke and blood.

A Thenn.

Massive, bald, his skin crisscrossed with white scars. Elynor recognized him instantly—the one they tried to convince to bring them back to Mance, the one who had looked at her with a sinister hunger in his eyes. He was locked onto Jon like a hound sighting prey.

“Jon,” Elynor breathed, her voice lost in the chaos.

The Thenn roared and charged.

Jon turned just in time to meet him. Their blades crashed together with a sharp metallic scream. Jon stumbled back under the sheer force of the Thenn’s strike. He countered, swinging Longclaw in a wide arc, but the Thenn ducked it and slammed a fist into Jon’s gut. Jon staggered, gasping.

Elynor’s chest seized.

She began to run.

The two men circled, exchanging brutal, heavy blows. Jon’s movements were slowing—he was tired, wounded. The Thenn was relentless, slamming his axe again and again, each strike pushing Jon back further across the courtyard.

Jon tried to parry, but the Thenn caught him across the ribs with the blunt end of the axe. He hit the ground hard, gasping for air.

“No,” Elynor hissed, feet pounding across the dirt.

The Thenn raised his axe over Jon’s head, eyes gleaming with triumph.

And Elynor was still too far away.

Jon’s body tensed as the Thenn’s axe came down. At the last possible second, his hand shot out and seized a length of chain lying in the snow—cast aside in the chaos, meant for securing horses or prisoners. With a desperate, guttural shout, he yanked the chain up and wrapped it around the Thenn’s wrist, twisting with all his might.

The axe clattered to the ground.

The Thenn roared in frustration, but Jon was already surging forward, slamming a fist into the man’s jaw, then again into his ribs. It wasn’t enough.

With terrifying ease, the Thenn lunged and grabbed Jon by the collar. Before Jon could react, the man drove his face into the cold steel of an anvil.

A sickening crack echoed through the yard. Blood sprayed across the blacksmith’s tools.

Elynor cried out—a strangled sound lost in the clash of war—as she sprinted toward them.

The Thenn didn’t stop. He flung Jon into the forge behind him. Jon crashed into the coals and embers, sending sparks flying into the air. He didn’t rise.

“Jon—” Elynor choked, her legs burning as she tore towards him.

Then an arrow sliced past her face.

It missed her cheek by an inch.

She skidded to a halt, turning sharply—and saw her.

Ygritte.

The red-haired wildling stood perched on a set of steps above, bow drawn, a second arrow already notched. Her eyes narrowed the moment they met Elynor’s. Recognition flared—and rage.

Elynor’s own fury surged, scorching and unrelenting. All her grief. Her fear. Her guilt. They ignited like wildfire.

She charged.

Ygritte loosed another arrow—Elynor twisted just in time, the shaft grazing her ribs and tearing through her cloak. She closed the distance fast, ducking behind a support beam as Ygritte fired again, then lunged upward, grabbing a chunk of ice-covered beam to hoist herself onto the platform where the woman stood.

Ygritte drew a dagger. Elynor unsheathed her own.

Steel met steel in a flash.

They grappled fiercely—Elynor kicked Ygritte backward, but Ygritte rolled and slashed, opening a shallow line on Elynor’s thigh. Elynor snarled and came at her again, fast and relentless. Ygritte was quick, but Elynor fought like someone who had everything to lose.

They crashed into the wall. Ygritte slammed her elbow into Elynor’s jaw—Elynor retaliated with a headbutt that sent them both reeling.

Ygritte slashed again—Elynor caught her wrist, twisted. The dagger fell. Elynor punched her in the gut, then spun and drove her knee into Ygritte’s face. The wildling staggered.

Elynor didn’t hesitate.

She grabbed Ygritte’s collar, dragged her forward, and slammed her into the stone wall. Once. Twice.

Ygritte fought—bit and clawed—but Elynor wrenched free, kicked her legs out from under her, and drove her own blade into Ygritte’s shoulder.

The red-haired woman gasped, eyes wide, frozen in pain and shock.

Elynor knelt beside her, chest heaving, the blood of battle hot in her veins.

They stared at each other. Elynor’s hood had fallen back. Ygritte saw her fully now.

“You...” the wildling rasped, eyes narrowing.

But Elynor didn’t say a word.

She stood. Left Ygritte there, bleeding.

And turned back toward the forge, toward Jon.

The air was thick with the stench of blood, fire, and steel. Screams rose and fell like waves against a cliff. Blades clanged. The world around her blurred, but one thought burned bright in her mind—Jon.

She rounded the edge of the forge, heart hammering in her chest—and halted.

Jon stumbled out of the smoke like a wraith, face bloodied and raw, the front of his tunic scorched and smoldering. Ash clung to his hair, streaked his cheeks, and his lip was split, his eye already swelling shut. But he was alive.

A rush of relief surged through Elynor so violently she nearly dropped her bow. He looked disoriented, blinking hard against the sting of smoke and blood, swaying slightly as he tried to get his bearings.

But something moved behind him.

Elynor’s breath caught in her throat. A wildling, axe raised, closing in on Jon’s unguarded back.

Jon hadn’t seen him.

He wouldn’t.

Elynor didn’t think—she moved.

She raised her bow in a single fluid motion, the string already taut beneath her fingers. Time slowed. Her heartbeat faded to a whisper. Her eyes locked on the space between the wildling’s shoulder blades.

Breathe.

Loose.

The arrow cut through the air with a sharp whistle.

It struck true.

The wildling’s body jerked, then collapsed to the snow, lifeless. The axe tumbled from his hands with a dull thud.

Jon spun around, eyes wide—searching. The arrow jutted out from the man’s back, and Jon’s gaze followed its path, turning toward where the shot had come from.

And there she stood.

Elynor, hood fallen, hair wind-whipped and wild, her face smeared with dirt and blood, bow still lowered in her grasp. Her eyes were locked on his.

Jon’s body locked into place.

Their eyes met, across a courtyard ablaze with turmoil.

The noise fell away.

He stared, as if seeing a ghost.

And in truth, he was.

His lips parted. His features drew inward, disbelief crashing across his face like a wave.

Elynor felt the world still beneath her feet, as though every breath of wind and flurry of snow had gone silent, holding itself in place for this moment.

He’s alive.

She’s alive.

Neither moved.

Everything between them—the fire, the screams, the war—faded.

And in that space between heartbeats, time gave them back to each other.

Elynor took a step forward, heart in her throat, eyes still locked onto his.

And then—slam.

She was flat on her back again, snow in her mouth, ribs screaming.

Gods, she groaned inwardly, how many times am I going to get knocked down today?

She blinked up at the blurred outline of a man—massive, wild-haired, red-bearded.

Tormund Giantsbane.

He looked down at her with wide eyes, both shocked and oddly fond.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, grinning through bloodstained teeth. “You really are alive, girl. You’ve got more lives than a snow-cat.”

Elynor grunted and pushed herself onto an elbow. “Glad to see your face again too, Tormund. Though I imagined our reunion with fewer bruised ribs.”

He laughed—a booming, full-bellied thing, even as fire flickered all around them and bodies littered the snow. “You always were sharp as a viper. But this?” He gestured broadly to the Night’s Watch brothers behind her. “You’re on the wrong side of the wall now.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Says the man who just tried to crack my spine in half.”

Tormund snorted, the laughter still there, but something darker beneath it now. “I like you, little bird. But I can’t let you stand in our way.”

He roared, lifting his axe, and surged toward her.

Elynor scrambled, barely managing to raise her bow in defense—but before she could act, a sharp twang rang out.

An arrow sliced through the air and thwacked deep into Tormund’s shoulder.

The wildling let out a cry and crumpled forward, groaning, the fight knocked out of him. Not dead—just downed.

Elynor snapped her head toward the direction it had come from.

Jon stood on the edge of the chaos, holding a crossbow, his face a storm—pain, fury, disbelief, all battling in his eyes. Smoke curled behind him, and blood streaked his forehead, but he stood tall.

Their eyes met again.

Her lungs forgot what to do for a moment.

But Jon didn’t hold her gaze for long. His expression shuttered, and he turned, calling something over his shoulder—orders, maybe, she couldn’t hear.

Her eyelids fluttered, brain catching up to the moment. Around them, the clamor of swords and screams had faded into groans and the crackling of fire. The clang of steel on steel was gone.

She turned in a slow circle.

The battle was over.

Bodies lay twisted in the snow, black cloaks and fur and leather mingled in a tangle of red and ash. The Night’s Watch men were regrouping, tending to the wounded, collecting the fallen.

They’d won.

But only just.

And now, Elynor stood in the aftermath—alive, bloodied, breathless.

And face-to-face with a past she thought she'd lost.

Chapter Text

JON'S POV

Jon stood alone on the Wall, high above the world, where the air was thin and the cold was enough to bite the inside of his lungs. Snow swirled in the wind around him, soft flakes catching on the fraying black wool of his cloak, the silence vast and almost sacred after the chaos of battle.

Below, Castle Black was quiet now—burned, bloodstained, but still standing.

He gripped the icy edge of the parapet until his fingers ached. His knuckles were split open from the fight, but he welcomed the sting. It kept him present.

He had come up here seeking clarity, but instead, all he had found was her.

Elynor.

He still didn’t know if he believed it. Still half expected the wind to carry her away, like she’d never been there at all. That she was a fever dream, born of too little sleep and too much loss.

He’d seen her die.

Or what he thought was death. That moment—the sickening weight of it—had haunted him night after night, sleep never offering rest, only memory. The rope slipping from his grip, her eyes locked to his as the mist took her. And the scream that tore from his throat, raw and useless.

He had buried her with silence. With grief. With a wall he didn’t know how to break.

But then today, she was there. Not a whisper in the dark, not a face in a dream—but there. Solid. Bloodied. Fighting beside them, against them, it didn’t matter. She was alive.

And he couldn’t breathe.

He had wanted to run to her. He had wanted to shout, to curse, to fall to his knees. He had wanted to hold her, feel her body beneath his hands, press his forehead to hers and ask, How? Why? Where have you been? 

But he hadn’t moved.

Cowardice had rooted him to the ground.

Even after the fight ended, after Tormund went down, he hadn’t gone to her. He couldn’t.

Because somewhere inside him, deeper than words, deeper than wounds, a voice whispered that if he reached for her, she’d vanish. That the gods had only loaned her to him for a moment. That if he touched her, if he said her name, it would be like naming a dream: it would fade at once.

So he kept his distance.

Watched her from afar like she was something sacred.

Or cursed.

And yet—gods, how the sight of her had undone him.

She had changed. He could see it in the way she moved—sharper, heavier, as if carrying more than just the satchel on her back. Her eyes were harder now, darker. A shadow lived in them that hadn’t been there before.

And still… It was her.

Still unmistakably Elynor. Still wild. Still stubborn. Still with that same spark in her gaze like she knew more than she ever said and had no plans to explain herself.

He thought he had forgotten how it felt to be seen. But when she looked at him, truly looked at him—it all came back.

And now… he didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what he was allowed to feel.

Relief didn’t even begin to cover it. It was too small a word. Too neat.

What he felt was chaos.

A storm rising behind his ribs, pulling up everything he’d buried—the longing, the rage, the guilt, the need. All of it, rising fast and hot.

He wanted to hold her. He wanted to scream at her for making him mourn her, for slipping away like smoke. He wanted to fall into her arms and weep like the boy he’d once been.

But he hadn’t done any of it.

He’d avoided her eyes after the final arrow fell. He’d turned away and mumbled orders, pretended there were bodies to count, ground to sweep. He’d given her no words, only silence.

Because he was afraid. Afraid she’d fade again. Afraid this was borrowed time. Afraid that if he touched her, he’d lose her all over again. And Jon Snow didn’t think he had it in him to survive that a second time.

So he stayed on the Wall, alone in the cold, her name on his lips but never spoken.

And below, he knew she was there.

And the only thing that kept his legs from moving toward her was fear, hope, and something deeper. Something that had never died—even when he thought she had.

He leaned forward, elbows on the ice, and looked past the Wall, toward the endless stretch of white and dark—snowfields and forest and shadow. Jon’s thoughts faded. Somewhere out there, Mance Rayder watched. Waited.

The King-Beyond-the-Wall.

A muscle twitched beneath his eye.

They had barely survived this attack. They hadn’t won—they had endured.

If the wildlings had gotten through the gate… if one arrow had flown truer, one blade swung stronger—they would’ve been overrun.

They would’ve fallen.

And gods, they still might.

Mance’s army hadn’t even fully come yet.

This was a taste. Only the beginning.

The full force of it was still out there, like thunder building in the clouds.

And when it came…

They wouldn’t survive it.

Not with what they had left.

Not with the Wall bleeding and the Watch broken.

He closed his eyes and saw them—his brothers. Faces that would never open their eyes again.

Pyp.

Grenn.

Grenn had held the gate, had stood tall as the tunnel shook and splintered and cracked. Had shouted the words of their oath as death bore down on him. Had made a stand that would never be seen by any living man.

Jon had only heard the aftermath—the silence where there should have been voices, the blood that trickled from the tunnel, dark and final.

For the Watch, Grenn had said.

Jon gritted his teeth.

He hadn’t even had time to mourn him. To speak his name aloud.

And that ate at him worse than the cold.

His hands curled into fists on the Wall’s edge. The pain helped anchor him.

Mance had done this. Mance had sent his people to die for a war he’d started. Had whipped together clans and giants and told them the only way was through fire and blood. Jon didn’t blame the wildlings. Not entirely. He had lived with them. He had bled with them. He knew what they feared.

But Mance…

Mance had lit the match. And unless someone stopped him, the flame would devour them all.

Jon opened his eyes and stared at the treeline.

He could almost see movement in the shadows. Almost hear the drums again.

They would come back. Stronger. Smarter. More desperate. And this time, Castle Black wouldn’t hold. Not unless something changed. Not unless the war ended before it could begin again.

Jon straightened slowly, the idea solidifying inside him like ice hardening on steel.

Take out Mance.

Cut off the head. Break the will. Leave them leaderless.

Without Mance, the wildlings wouldn’t be one army anymore. They’d be scattered clans again—lost, divided, mistrustful. There’d be no force to drive them forward, no voice to rally them to climb the Wall again.

He could end it. He had to end it. His brothers were dead. Castle Black stood on splintered bones. He wouldn't let it fall again. Even if it meant slipping past the Wall once more. Even if it meant dying to do it. Because Grenn had given his life for the Watch, and Jon Snow would give his for what remained.

-----

Jon’s boots crunched against the frozen snow in the courtyard, the chill sinking deep into his bones. He had just laid out his plan to Sam in the dim light of the library—a plan Sam called a suicide mission. Sam’s voice had been firm, his worry clear. “You shouldn’t go,” he’d pleading for reason, but Jon had barely heard him. He’d ignored the warnings, slipped away before Sam could press further, his mind made up and burning with resolve.

Now, walking back through the silence of Castle Black, every step echoed with the weight of what was to come.  He reached his door and paused, hand on the rough wood. He was ready to leave, ready to face whatever waited beyond the Wall. Slowly, he pushed it open.

Inside, sitting on his bed as if she’d always been there, was Elynor.

She was patched up from the battle—bandages neat beneath her worn cloak—but it was her presence that stole his breath away all over again. At her feet, Ghost lay curled, head resting against her knee, peaceful and still.

A small, almost shy smile played at her lips.

Jon froze, heart hammering hard enough to drown out the wind outside. The ache in his chest returned, fierce and sudden.

She was here. Still alive. And with him.

Elynor looked up from where her fingers had been tentatively brushing through the thick white fur of the direwolf at her feet. Her green eyes caught Jon’s in the doorway—and held. It felt like the world reeled and stilled all at once.

They stared at each other across the small space, silence thick as snow. She sat calmly on the edge of his bed, but her presence crashed into him—cold, bright, and all-consuming. The last time he'd seen her, she was falling—lost to the wind and the darkness.

But she was here. Still her. Still Elynor.

She tilted her head slightly, breaking the quiet. “Your wolf’s been following me all day,” she laughed under a breath. Her fingers resumed petting Ghost, slowly now. “Is this his way of courting someone? Because if so, it’s working.”

Jon didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Her voice was like a song from a life he thought had ended. She was here, but part of him still didn’t believe it. Like if he moved too quickly, she’d disappear into the cold air.

Elynor's smirk faded. Her expression tightened as she watched him with growing concern. “Jon?”

That single word cracked something inside him.

He moved before he even realized he was—three strides, maybe four—and then he was there, standing in front of her. He reached out, arms wrapping around her. He pulled her in, burying his face in her shoulder, and breathed her in.

She tensed for a heartbeat. Then melted into him, her arms slipping around his torso, her forehead pressing gently against his collarbone. The air between them was hot and shaking and real.

Jon felt the ragged breath leave him like it had been trapped since the moment he thought he lost her. His hands gripped her tighter, needing to feel her solidity, her warmth. 

Jon pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. His hands still rested on her waist, like if he let go, she might disappear again.

Elynor looked up at him, the worry in her eyes replaced now with something gentler. Relief, yes—but something warmer too. A small, genuine smile curved on her lips. It hit him in the way that made his chest tighten.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered, voice raw with the truth of it.

Her smile softened, sadness flickering behind her eyes. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Jon Snow,” she replied, her tone light but her voice catching slightly at the end. “You still owe me for saving your ass.”

She pulled her hand up between them and started counting on her fingers, one by one. “Four times now.”

Jon huffed, a short, breathless laugh escaping him before he shook his head and tugged her down beside him onto the bed. Their shoulders touched as they sat, legs brushing lightly. Ghost gave a low sigh and curled beneath them.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The quiet hummed between them, heavy with unspoken things.

“How?” Jon finally asked, turning slightly to face her. “How are you alive?”

Elynor didn’t look at him. Her fingers picked absently at the frayed edge of his blanket. The smile had vanished from her face, washed away and replaced with silence.

“Elynor,” he said again, gentler this time, but firmer too. “Tell me.”

She tensed. He could see it—the way her jaw shifted, the way her shoulders drew up like a rising tide.

“I don’t… It’s not simple,” she stuttered, eyes still trained forward, away from him.

“It never is,” Jon murmured.

“I fell,” she began slowly. “I fell and I should’ve died. I thought I was dying. Maybe I did. I don’t know.” Her voice wavered, just for a moment.

Jon turned more fully toward her now, gaze steady on her profile. “Then what happened?”

She finally looked at him, green eyes sharp and guarded. “There’s things beyond the Wall, Jon. Old things. I didn’t just survive. I… changed.”

His brows furrowed. “Changed how?”

She opened her mouth like she might say something. Then stopped. Her gaze drifted down to her hands. “It’s complicated,” she muttered. “And I’m not ready. Not yet.”

Jon wanted to press her. Every part of him burned with questions, with the ache of not knowing, of losing her once already. But something in her face—something worn and afraid—held him back.

He nodded slowly. “Alright,” he relented. “Not yet.”

She looked up again, eyes meeting his. There was gratitude in them now, and something like fear, still. But beneath it, that spark he remembered—defiant, wild, unbreakable. 

Elynor was quiet for a long while. Then she shifted slightly, her gaze softening as she turned to look at him more fully. “What happened… after I fell?” she asked, voice low. “I remember… the wind, the sound of you shouting my name. Then nothing.”

Jon swallowed, the memory still a wound that hadn’t quite closed. He looked down at his hands for a moment, gathering the words. “We thought you were dead,” he admitted. 

Elynor didn’t interrupt. She simply watched him, green eyes clear and steady.

“I stayed with the wildlings a while longer,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “I couldn’t keep up the disguise though. After we got south of the Wall, it got harder… Ygritte—” He paused. “She knew. Maybe she always did. But I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. Not after you were gone.”

She shuffled closer to him then, their knees touching now. Jon didn’t move. He could feel her watching him with complete focus, like there was no one else in the world.

“I made a run for it,” Jon sighed, as if the memory weighed heavy on his tongue. “They wanted me to kill a man. An innocent. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t.”

Elynor’s eyes were locked onto his face, her body unmoving beside him as though frozen by his words.

“They turned on me the moment I refused,” Jon said, bitterness threading through the quiet. “Tormund, Ygritte—they weren’t going to let me leave alive. I barely got out.”

He took a breath, nostrils flaring. “I was bleeding. My sword arm was nearly useless. I rode for Castle Black. Thought I’d die on the way. Almost did.”

Her face softened with each word, her hand now resting lightly on the space between them. She didn’t interrupt—she only listened, completely encapsulated by his story.

“I remember the wind howling through the trees. My leg was torn open, and I was certain my life would end in the snow, alone. Maybe I deserved it.”

“Jon—” Elynor tried to interject, but he kept going.

“But I made it back. Just barely. Collapsed off my horse at the gate. Sam found me.” He let out a short, humorless breath. “Didn’t think I’d wake up again.”

Elynor inched closer again, her shoulder brushing against his. The contact was light, tentative, but it sent heat through him. She was watching him like nothing else mattered—like she’d come back just to listen, to comfort him.

He turned his head toward her, and for a moment, he forgot the pain, the war, the wall. She looked older somehow, tempered by fire and snow.

“I kept thinking of you,” he admitted suddenly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could think twice. “When I was bleeding out in the woods. When the pain was too much. Your face was the only thing I could hold on to.”

Her lashes dipped, then rose again, with a softness in her eyes that deepened.

“You feel different,” Jon mumbled. “Stronger. Freer. But you’re still her. You’re still… you.”

Elynor didn’t look away, didn’t say anything.

A silence stretched between them, not awkward, but dense—thick with everything that was still unsaid.

Jon was acutely aware of the shape of her beside him, the faint brush of her arm against his, the way she leaned in slightly, almost unconsciously. And for the first time since she had fallen from the Wall, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. He felt like he could breathe again.

“You’re different too.”

He gave her a sideways look, taken aback. “Different?”

She nodded, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Broodier. If that’s even possible.” Her eyes sparkled just a little. “A bit more… weathered, maybe. Like someone took a hammer to your noble features.”

Jon let out a breath that was almost a laugh, shaking his head. Gods, I missed that.

Elynor’s expression softened again, the mischief fading into something quieter. “But it’s still you,” she said. “Still the boy who looked at the world like it was something he had to carry.” Her voice dropped, just above a whisper. “I missed you.”

Jon’s throat felt too tight to answer right away.

Slowly—almost hesitantly—he reached across the space between them. His fingers brushed against hers, testing, waiting, before finally curling around her hand. She let him. Her fingers laced through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He glanced down at where her hand rested in his, then looked back at her face. “Ghost likes you,” he remarked finally. “That’s… surprising.”

Elynor gave him a curious look, glancing down where the great white direwolf lay at her feet, content and watchful. “Should I be honored?”

“He doesn’t warm to strangers,” Jon affirmed. “Not like that.”

“Maybe he sees something familiar in me.” She gave a half-shrug. “Or maybe he just knows I saved your sorry ass four times now.”

Jon rolled his eyes but didn’t let go of her hand. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to.

Neither of them said it aloud, but the space between them had shifted. The trauma was still there, and the war still loomed, but for this one quiet moment, they had each other.

Elynor’s thumb brushed across Jon’s knuckles before slipping her hand free. A glimmer of mischief danced in her green eyes again. She stood up and casually reached for Longclaw. Before Jon could register what she was doing, she had the Valyrian steel blade in her hands, holding it awkwardly, but triumphantly.

Jon leaned back a little, brow raised. “Careful with that,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “It’s not a toy.”

She grinned and gave the blade a little shake. “Then maybe you shouldn’t leave it lying around, crow.”

He sighed dramatically. “Elynor…”

She took a step back, still holding the sword between them like a challenge. “Come and get it.”

Jon stared at her flatly. “You can’t even hold it right.”

“Maybe not,” she shrugged, turning the blade haphazardly in her grip. “But now I’m holding your very important sword hostage, and that sounds like a you problem.”

A small sound of disbelief slipped past his lips. He rose to his feet slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve gotten cockier.”

“You’ve gotten slower,” she shot back, creeping toward the far side of the room with a smirk.

“Give it back.”

“Make me.”

Jon lunged.

Elynor squealed and dodged, ducking behind the bed with surprising agility. Jon followed, half-laughing, half-serious, trying to corral her with his arms as she circled the bed like a fox avoiding a snare. He lunged again—closer this time—but she sidestepped him, still clutching the sword, her laughter lighting the room.

“You’re making this worse for yourself,” he warned.

“I’ve survived worse than a sulking Jon Snow,” she grinned.

He took a running step, intent on pinning her this time—but Ghost, with perfect timing and absolutely no loyalty, stepped directly into Jon’s path. Jon tripped over the direwolf’s bulk with a curse, stumbling forward and nearly crashing into the wall.

Elynor burst out laughing. “Your direwolf just betrayed you.”

“He likes you too much,” Jon muttered, brushing himself off as Ghost returned to his place on the floor with a slow, satisfied thump.

“You trained him well,” she taunted sweetly, brandishing the sword. “Very obedient.”

Jon straightened, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe I missed having someone to annoy.”

“Give it here,” he ordered again, stepping towards her.

“Fine,” she said innocently, and held out the sword. Just as he reached for it, she snatched it back. “Kidding.”

He growled, lunged again—and this time caught her around the waist.

Elynor let out a surprised yelp as he lifted her slightly, wrestling the sword from her grip. They stumbled onto the bed, laughing and breathless, Jon pinning her beneath him as Longclaw dropped with a clatter to the stone floor.

Their laughter slowed. Faded. The only sound left was their breath mingling in the quiet room.

Jon braced himself over her, one hand beside her head, the other resting just near her ribs. Elynor’s hair fanned out against his sheets, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her smile had softened into something gentler, something unguarded.

She looked up at him and he felt it again. That ache. That impossible swell of feeling that he didn’t yet know how to name. He was drowning in green eyes and the intoxicating nearness of her.

Neither of them moved.

The game was over.

But something else had just begun.

Jon didn’t move for a long breath, his body still pressed against hers, the air between them thick and charged. Elynor lay beneath him, her green eyes searched his face, as if trying to read the storm behind his silence.

Then, without quite realizing it, Jon’s fingers found her waist.

It was a tentative touch at first, his hand barely brushing over the curve where her tunic had bunched up from their scuffle. But when his fingertips grazed her skin, he felt her body react beneath him—an involuntary shiver, barely there, but undeniable. Her breath caught, her lashes fluttered.

And something hot and striking curled through him at the sight of it.

He liked that he could do that—make her breath hitch, make her tremble just from a touch. That he could affect her, just as she did him. There was something exhilarating about it, and terrifying too.

His hand lingered at her waist, thumb pressing lightly into the hollow of her side. She didn’t pull away.

Their eyes met again.

His inhale faltered, as though her presence had knocked it loose. There was something in her gaze—unspoken, unreadable, but deep. Something brewing. Something that mirrored what he was feeling: that pull, that ache, that weightless, dangerous thing. He felt it run down his spine like ice and fire all at once.

“Ely,” he whispered.

It left his lips like a plead and a warning all in one. Her name, shortened like only he ever said it. His voice was just above a whisper, hoarse, as if speaking too loudly would shatter what had settled between them.

Elynor’s lips parted. She didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

She inched closer, her face tilting up to his. Her breath brushed his lips, warm and trembling. Jon’s heart pounded in his chest—louder than warhorns and thunder. His hand moved from her waist to her ribs, splaying gently against her side like he was grounding himself.

Or asking permission.

Their noses nearly touched. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin. He wanted to kiss her—desperately, achingly—but the moment stretched between them like a drawn bowstring, trembling with restraint.

And just as their lips were about to meet—

WHUMP.

A heavy weight hit the bed beside them.

Ghost.

The direwolf landed with all his massive, snowy bulk, paws wedging between their bodies like a great, oblivious wall of fur. His tongue lolled out in a panting grin as he nosed between them, shoving Jon back with surprising persistence.

Elynor let out a startled squeak that melted into a laugh, one hand instinctively going to scratch Ghost behind the ear. “Well, someone’s possessive,” she giggled beneath Jon, her body shaking with mirth.

Jon stayed where he was, still braced over her—though now Ghost’s front paws were planted squarely on his chest, effectively shoving him upward. His hair fell into his face, lips parted, the heat in him burning like a fire left unattended too long.

He growled—low, annoyed. “Ghost,” Jon snapped, “down.”

The direwolf blinked, completely unaffected by the command, tail thumping lazily against the bed. He gave Jon a look that could only be described as smug, then curled up between them, as if he were settling in for the night.

Jon exhaled sharply through his nose. The tension radiating off him could’ve scorched the stone walls.

“Of course,” he muttered darkly. “Of fucking course.”

Elynor was still laughing beneath him, eyes alight. Jon turned back to her, face tight, lips twitching with restraint—and something deeper.

There was always something, wasn’t there? An arrow, a warhorn, a watchful eye. And now a bloody wolf.

But this time—this time he wasn’t going to let it go.

“Fuck it,” Jon muttered.

Before Elynor could fully process the words, he reached down, grabbed her by the front of her tunic, and pulled her up into him.

The kiss was hard, unrelenting—full of all the want and weight and time lost. It stole the breath from both of them. Elynor made a small noise of surprise, but then melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she kissed him back with equal fervor. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only heat and hunger and finality.

Ghost huffed and flopped down beside them with a groan, but neither of them noticed anymore.

Elynor’s fingers slipped into his curls, tugging—not gently. Jon let out a rough breath against her mouth, the sudden sting of her grip fanning the heat in his chest into something near feral. He leaned harder into her, bracing himself with one arm beside her head as the other trailed down her side, barely resisting the urge to claim more, to take more.

When he bit her bottom lip—lightly, deliberately—her gasp lit through him like a spark to dry tinder.

Her mouth parted, and he didn’t hesitate. He deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips, hungry and searching. Her hands moved over him like she was mapping a coastline she already knew but wanted to rediscover. One hand curled into the back of his neck—but the other…

She slid it under his tunic.

Jon shuddered.

Her fingers, warm and slow, grazed the bare skin of his lower back, then pressed flat against him, drawing him closer. The feeling of her touch—so intimate, so bold—made his breath catch in his throat. His hips pressed forward without thought, their bodies now flush.

He tasted her sigh, felt it mold into him. His heart thundered like a war drum, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was dangerous, that the path they were tumbling down had no clean end. But gods, he couldn’t stop. Not when she touched him like this. Not when she looked at him like that.

He pulled back just enough to see her face.

Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen from the kiss. Her green eyes stared up at him—wide and so alive. There was laughter there still, but it danced now alongside something deeper. Want. Need. Maybe even something unspoken that terrified him in the best of ways.

Jon ran his thumb over the edge of her jaw, his voice low and hoarse. “Ely…”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she leaned up and kissed him again—slow, this time. More deliberate. And that somehow made it worse. Better. Everything.

Beneath them, Ghost let out a long, tired sigh.

But Jon didn’t even hear him.

Elynor’s fingers found the edge of Jon’s tunic, and she began to undo it. The leather ties loosened one by one under her hands, and Jon kissed her like he needed her to breathe—like the world outside the door could burn and he wouldn't care so long as she stayed beneath him.

His own hands moved without thought, instinct guiding them to slip beneath the worn fabric of her shirt. His palm splayed across her side, her skin warm and velvety against the calluses of his fingers. She arched into him, lips parting again—half gasp, half invitation.

Jon’s control began to unravel.

He pressed his hips harder against her, a low sound escaping the back of his throat when he felt the shift of her legs around him, the heat of her through their clothes. He moved slowly, purposefully, grinding against her in a rhythm that made the searing heat pooling in his stomach rise faster. Elynor’s body responded to his with maddening ease, as if they were made for this moment. For each other.

Then her hand slid down his chest, fingertips trailing across his stomach, down to the edge of his waistband. Jon shivered, the muscles in his abdomen tensing, a groan slipping free despite himself.

“Ely…” he murmured against her mouth, his voice rough, reverent.

Jon's lips hovered just above hers, breath ragged, heart thundering against his ribs. His hand slid higher beneath her shirt, feeling her shiver beneath his touch. Her hand was still resting on his stomach, fingers edging lower, dangerously close to the point where thought would cease to matter—

And then Ghost shoved him.

Not just a nudge—this time the direwolf barreled into Jon's side with the full weight of a snow-covered boulder, sending him sprawling off balance and back onto his elbows.

“What the—Ghost!” Jon sneered.

Before he could recover, Ghost, with all the grace of a creature who knew exactly what he was doing, climbed onto the bed and plopped himself down directly on top of Elynor—or tried to, his massive form half-sprawled across her chest, tongue lolling, tail thumping the furs.

Elynor burst into laughter beneath him, her shoulders shaking as she reached up to push Ghost’s bulk off her face.

“Guess he’s decided I’m his now,” she gasped between giggles. “Better get used to sharing.”

Jon sat back on his heels, rubbing both hands furiously through his hair, still breathing hard. The tension in him hadn’t gone anywhere—it coiled hot and sharp in his gut, thrumming through his veins like wildfire denied flame.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath. “Why now?”

Ghost blinked at him with those pale, unreadable eyes and then nestled his snout into the crook of Elynor’s neck like a guard claiming his post. His tail wagged once, proud.

“Off,” Jon ordered. “Go on, Ghost. Go.”

Ghost did not move. Not an inch.

“Off,” Jon ordered again, more forcefully this time. He shoved at Ghost’s thick shoulder, trying to dislodge the direwolf from where he was sprawled across Elynor like a heavy, overprotective cloak.

Ghost didn’t budge.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “I mean it.”

Another shove. Nothing. The wolf gave an almost imperceptible sigh and settled in deeper, stretching one massive paw across Elynor’s stomach like a final declaration.

Jon tried to wedge his hands beneath Ghost’s flank, straining to lift the beast with all the strength in his arms. “You are not a bloody castle wall—move!”

Ghost finally responded—with a lazy, deliberate flick of his tail that smacked Jon squarely across the face.

Jon froze. Elynor burst into a fresh fit of laughter beneath Ghost’s mass, her eyes shining with amusement, her lips parted in delight.

“I think he’s winning,” she managed to say through laughs.

Jon glared at Ghost, or rather the back of his head. “You’ve ruined it.”

“Ruined what?” Elynor teased, her grin wicked beneath the white fur. “A bit of innocent swordplay?”

Jon shot her a dark look, but even he couldn’t fully suppress the twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“I hate that damn wolf sometimes,” he muttered, throwing a defeated glance to the ceiling. “Swear he knows. He always knows.”

Ghost yawned in response, eyes half-lidded, entirely unbothered.

Defeated, Jon collapsed back beside them.

“Every time,” he grumbled. “Every time we get close, something gets in the way.”

Elynor turned her head toward him, still half-trapped under fur and direwolf, her smile softening. “Maybe the gods are trying to save you from yourself.”

Jon let out a sharp breath of laughter. “Or maybe Ghost is.”

“He’s got good instincts,” she teased.

“He’s a bloody menace,” Jon shot back—but the grin on his face betrayed him.

Ghost huffed again, this time more contented than defiant, as if he’d completed his duty and was settling in for the night.

Jon tilted his head to look at Elynor. She was watching him too now, laughter faded but warmth still lingering in her gaze. And though Ghost had ruined the moment—for now—the feeling between them hadn’t left. It lingered like the echo of a flame, not extinguished but banked. Waiting.

Jon’s fingers brushed hers, tentative.

He sighed, frustrated but still warm with everything that had nearly happened. He ran a hand through his stubble, glancing around the dim room until his eyes landed on the lantern near the door. The fire inside it had burned low, shadows casting soft shapes across the walls.

He rose, padding quietly over to snuff the flame. The room sank into near-darkness, only the faint blue light of the moon slipping in through the small window.

He stood there a moment longer, the sudden quiet making his thoughts too loud. The silence meant something now. He was going to lie beside her. Not by accident. Not for survival. But because he wanted to. 

His cheeks flushed before he could stop them.

Gods, Snow, he scolded himself, you had your hands all over her—her skin, her hips, her breath against your mouth—and this is what gets you? 

He shook the thought off with a sigh and returned to the bed, climbing in beside her. Ghost, predictably, had claimed the space between them like some oversized, furry mountain. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Jon lay back and let his arm brush against Elynor’s, close enough to feel her warmth.

“So,” she said after a moment, voice low, teasing, “is your wolf always this much of a cockblock?”

Jon turned his head to look at her, a smirk twitching at his lips. “Only when it’s important.”

Elynor snorted. “Convenient.”

He chuckled, shifting a little to get comfortable. They lay like that for a while, the silence not awkward now but… settled. Safe.

Then, Elynor shifted too, drawing in a breath. Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “Before all this,” she began, “when I was still learning to fight, I couldn’t hit a target to save my life. Could barely hold a bow without it shaking.”

Jon tilted his head, intrigued. She had rarely shared anything about her past with him—and certainly nothing like this.

“It was Ser Merek who taught me,” she continued, her voice growing softer. “He used to stand behind me, guiding my arms. Wouldn’t let me leave the woods until I hit the target’s center, no matter how long it took.”

Jon listened, holding onto every word like it was part of some forgotten story only she could tell. Her voice wrapped around him like the night air.

“He said it was patience. That it wasn’t about strength, or speed. That the bow had to feel like an extension of your breath. Like it belonged to you.”

She smiled faintly at the memory, green eyes distant but bright.

“Did you hit it?” Jon asked quietly.

“The first time?” she laughed. “No. Took me weeks. But he stayed. Every day.”

Jon felt his chest tighten.

“He saved me,” she admitted then, quieter still. “When… when my family was killed. He was the one who found me. Raised me like I was his own.”

Jon said nothing, sensing the edge of something raw there. She didn’t explain further. He didn’t ask.

The silence that followed was different—deep, understanding. She’d given him something, a piece of herself she rarely showed. And he held it gently, careful not to drop it.

Outside, the wind sighed against the wall, soft and cold. Inside, they lay close but not touching, the space between them alive with everything that lingered.

After a while, Elynor shifted, her shoulder brushing his. “Don’t go all quiet on me now,” she murmured.

“I’m just thinking,” Jon whispered. “About arrows, and breath, and a girl I once knew who never missed.”

She smiled. “She still doesn’t.”

They both fell quiet again, the hush between them comfortable now. Jon let his eyes drift shut, the weight of the day finally beginning to lift from his chest.

Ghost’s breathing was steady. Elynor’s even softer.

And for the first time in a long while, Jon felt almost at peace.

Chapter Text

Elynor stirred as the first hints of morning crept in through the window, that pale, bluish-grey light of dawn just beginning to bleed across the stone walls. For a long moment, she lay still, tucked beneath the furs, the quiet of the room pressing soft against her ears.

Then she turned.

Jon was still asleep beside her.

He lay on his side, facing her, one arm loosely flung over the wolf nestled between them. Ghost’s thick white fur rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, but it was Jon that held her gaze.

His mouth was parted slightly, breath slow and even. The creases that usually lived between his brows had softened in sleep. The worry he wore like armor, even when he smiled, was gone. In its place was something gentler, quieter.

Younger.

She blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness that rose in her chest. There was a time when he might have looked like this more often—before the Wall, before the sword, before the weight of duty had carved itself into his bones. She could almost imagine him then, a boy dressed in fine wool, wandering the stone corridors of Winterfell with a puppy trailing after him, eyes too serious for his age but not yet hollowed by war.

She let her gaze drift down to the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that had grown in overnight. Her cheeks warmed, memory rushing back before she could stop it.

Last night.

His lips against hers.

His hands on her waist, steady and sure.

The fire between them that had flared—brief, blazing, and then… snuffed.

She smiled, burying her face in the pillow for a moment, trying to will away the heat rising in her skin.

Gods, she’d almost—

Her lungs stalled for a beat. The space between them still hummed with everything that hadn’t happened. And yet, there was no regret in her chest. Just that slow, warm thrum beneath her ribs, like something waking up. Like something waiting.

Ghost shifted slightly, his heavy tail thumping once against her leg, and Elynor reached out to scratch behind his ear. The direwolf leaned into it with a quiet sigh, his fur brushing against Jon’s wrist.

Jon didn’t stir.

She watched him another moment, letting the quiet settle again.

She didn’t know what today would bring. They were still surrounded by cold and shadow, with war ahead and ghosts behind.

But here, in this narrow band of morning light, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just this: Jon Snow asleep beside her, his face finally free of sadness. Her heart beating a little faster because of it.

And, for now, that was enough.

She watched him a little longer, letting her eyes trace the curve of his cheekbone, the way his hair had fallen messily over his forehead. The strands were softer than they looked—she knew that now, having run her fingers through them only hours before. His lashes were thick and dark, casting faint shadows on his cheeks, and his lips, slightly parted in sleep, still held the ghost of a frown, like he couldn’t quite let go of the weight he carried.

Even in peace, he guarded something.

Elynor felt the ache of it then, deep and quiet, the way one might feel a song stuck in the chest. He was beautiful, in a way that wasn’t showy or meant to be seen—something carved by time, weathered by sorrow, and still standing. A northern kind of beauty. Winter-hardened. Steadfast.

She sighed softly and shifted beneath the furs, careful not to wake him.

Sliding her legs out from under the blankets, she moved slowly, easing herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath her feet. She stretched her arms up, rolling her shoulders with a quiet groan. A few joints cracked in protest.

Behind her, Ghost gave a faint whine, the kind of noise that might’ve passed for a question if she didn’t know better. Elynor glanced over her shoulder and smirked at the great white beast blinking at her with squinting eyes.

“You’re more spoiled than dangerous,” she murmured, reaching over to ruffle his fur. “Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

Ghost huffed and lay his head back down on Jon’s arm, thoroughly unconvinced by her accusation.

Elynor stood and pulled her tunic over her head, folding it over the back of a nearby chair. The chill of the room kissed her skin, raising gooseflesh along her arms. She stood there in her undershirt for a moment, fingers slipping beneath the hem to lift it slightly. Just enough to check.

The bruises were fading now—yellowing around the edges, no longer the angry purple they had been after the siege. The gash along her ribs had knit well, thanks to the poultices Sam had insisted on putting on before she came to Jon’s room. But the skin there was still tender, a soft red line trailing down her side like a ribbon pulled too tight.

Her fingers hovered over it, and she drifted back to the night she’d first spoken to Samwell Tarly.

The battle for Castle Black had ended in chaos—shouting, firelight, blood soaking into the snow. She’d tried to disappear into the shadows of the yard, but the pain in her side had been gnawing at her, and she was losing more blood than she wanted to admit. That’s when he had found her.

“Seven hells—uh, I mean, oh no—” Sam’s voice had cracked like he wasn’t sure which reaction was proper, panic or prayer. He’d stumbled toward her, his cloak half-torn, his face pale in the torchlight. “You’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” Elynor had lied, pressing a hand against her ribs.

He had given her a look she suspected he usually reserved for Jon—half-exasperation, half-concern—and shook his head. “No, you’re not. Here, before anyone—uh, just—come with me.”

She didn’t argue. He led her through the quieter corridors of Castle Black, keeping to the shadows, until he finally pushed open the heavy door to the library. The smell of parchment and candlewax wrapped around her like a different kind of cloak, almost comforting.

“Sit—no, up here,” Sam had said, hastily clearing a pile of books off a sturdy table. “So I can reach properly.”

She hopped up, biting back a hiss as her wound protested. Sam fumbled with a bundle of bandages and a small jar of salve, muttering under his breath about how Gilly had shown him some things but that he was “not really a proper maester, not yet anyway.”

“I’m Elynor,” she offered finally, her voice soft but steady as she leaned back a little so he could work.

“I—I know,” Sam said sheepishly, eyes darting to the wound, then back to the bandages as if the words themselves embarrassed him.

Her brows lifted. “You know?”

He nodded, cheeks pinking. “Jon told me about you.”

That caught her off guard. Her head tilted as she studied him, trying to gauge if he was teasing or sincere. “Did he, now?”

“Yes,” Sam answered. “He said you saved his life once. Or…more than once, maybe. He didn’t say it like a story. More like—like you were always just there.”

She had blinked at that, the words sinking in like snowmelt into cracked earth. Always just there. Her chest felt tight in a way she wasn’t ready to examine.

“Well,” she said after a long pause, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the pain, “he’s dramatic. I’m hardly anyone worth telling stories about.”

Sam gave her a small, awkward grin. “I don’t think he sees it that way.”

The sting of salve against her rib made her wince, and she muttered a low curse under her breath.

“Sorry!” Sam flinched.

“It’s fine,” she reassured quickly, forcing a smirk. “At least you didn’t pour vinegar on it. That’s what Tormund would’ve done.”

Sam chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could survive a day traveling with wildlings. Or…with you, maybe.”

She arched a brow. “Careful, Samwell Tarly. I might take that as a challenge.”

He finished wrapping the bandage carefully, tucking the end into place with gentle fingers. “There,” he murmured, stepping back. “That should hold until it heals properly. But you need to rest—really rest. No running about.”

Elynor slid off the table, ignoring the sting in her side. “Right. I’m going to find Jon.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “Find—? No! You should be lying down, not—”

She gave him a sidelong glance, the kind that said she’d already made up her mind.

Sam spluttered, his hands flailing helplessly. “Well—well—let me at least show you to his room! You can’t just wander about with stitches like that.”

Elynor’s lips curved into a triumphant little smile. “Lead the way, Samwell Tarly.”

Her fingers drifted lower now, brushing the scar that came long before Sam’s careful bandages, the one that hadn’t healed clean. That was where the real scar lay. The skin there was no longer raw, but it would never be smooth again. It was where the hot blade had caught her as a wolf, carving through fur and muscle, slicing down to bone. Her shifting had saved her—forced the wound closed as her body changed back—but it hadn’t been clean. It hadn’t healed like the others.

The scar was jagged, slightly raised. A mark she would carry always.

Her fingers ghosted over it, not pressing, just... remembering.

The pain was gone. The memory wasn’t.

She clutched the shirt in her hand and exhaled slowly. She tried to ground herself in the chill and the quiet. She didn’t know if she’d ever tell Jon everything—not yet. Maybe not ever. But she felt something shift inside her, a kind of resolve she hadn’t named before now.

She was still here. Still healing. It was enough for now.

Her fingers lingered over the scar, not quite touching it anymore but not ready to pull away either. The cold of the room barely registered now—only the weight of that memory, the pain sewn into her skin. It was one thing to survive. Another to carry the evidence of it.

Then she heard it.

A quiet shift behind her.

She turned, startled.

Jon was awake.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t moved loudly. Just propped himself up slightly on one elbow, the furs slipping off his bare shoulder. But it was his eyes that caught her breath in her throat. Not sleepy. Not soft. He was staring at her. No—at the scar.

His gaze was sharp, the brown of his eyes darkened by something that wasn’t quite anger but too fierce to be anything else.

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

Jon didn’t look away.

Elynor’s face flushed hot. She dropped the hem of her shirt, fingers suddenly clumsy. She hadn’t meant for him to see that. Her body tensed slightly as she looked down and turned away, trying to breathe past the sharp prickle in her chest.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she mumbled.

Still, he didn’t speak. The silence was thick, pressing in around them like frost.

She could feel the weight of his gaze on her back, heavier than any hand. Not pity—thank the gods—but something else. Something worse. The kind of fury born from helplessness.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, more sharply this time. “It’s old. I barely notice it.”

She didn’t turn back around. Didn’t want to see the look in his eyes again. It wasn’t that she was ashamed. She’d survived. She knew what that meant. But being seen like that—marked and raw in ways she hadn’t chosen—it dug under her skin in ways no blade ever had.

Behind her, the bed creaked softly as Jon shifted upright. Still no words. Only breath, quiet and strained.

Ghost whined again and nudged his nose against Elynor’s leg, breaking the moment just a bit. She reached down, grateful for the distraction, running her hand over the direwolf’s thick fur. But the scar still burned, and Jon still hadn’t looked away.

She stayed facing the window, hand still resting on Ghost’s head, jaw clenched tighter than she realized. The scar felt too loud now, too exposed, as if it had unspooled something inside her just by being seen.

Behind her, the bed shifted again. Then the soft sound of bare feet against stone. Slow. Measured.

Jon was getting up.

She didn’t dare move.

A moment later, she felt him—one hand settling gently at her waist, the other sliding under the hem of her shirt, warm and tentative. His fingers found the scar, brushing over it with a touch so light it made her shiver. Not from the cold. From the softness. The care.

She sucked in a breath but couldn’t force herself to turn around.

He let his thumb trace the edge of the old wound, like he was trying to learn it the way she had—slowly, painfully, with time.

Then he leaned in, breath brushing against her ear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The words struck harder than any she’d been expecting.

She bit her lip, her throat tightening.

Not what happened?

Not who did this to you?

Not gods, Ely, why didn’t you tell me?

Just that.

A quiet apology, like he was carrying the weight of it too.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out at first. She stared ahead, watching the light shift on the stones, the air between them humming with something raw and wordless.

He stayed close, his touch still gentle, his breath steady behind her.

And for the first time since she’d gotten that scar, she didn’t feel quite so alone with it.

Elynor let the silence stretch a moment longer, letting his touch stay, letting the words sink in. I’m sorry.

She didn’t need him to say it. But gods, it still meant something that he had.

Her hand brushed his lightly where it rested against her waist. She turned just enough to glance at him over her shoulder and gave him a small, grateful smile. It was faint, fleeting—but real.

Then she pulled away.

Too much. Too close. Too real.

She stepped aside and grabbed her tunic from the chair, shaking it out as if it hadn’t just been folded with trembling fingers. She slipped it back on over her head, tugging it down and smoothing the hem like she could press the moment out of existence.

“Well,” she started, voice light but edged with mischief, “do you know you drool in your sleep?”

Jon groaned behind her, the sound half-muffled in his hand. “You made that up.”

She turned just enough to shoot him a smirk. “I did not. You were practically drowning in it. I considered throwing you a rope.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded very much like a curse, but it only made her grin wider.

She perched on the edge of the bed, arms resting on her knees, watching him now as he moved around the room. He pulled on his tunic with that absent, soldier’s efficiency—no wasted motion, no need for mirrors. Then he ran a hand through his curls, pushing them back, trying in vain to tame the wild mess sleep had made of them.

Elynor tilted her head.

He’d look good with it tied back.

The thought hit her unbidden, clear as sunrise. She could picture it—his hair pulled back, the sharp lines of his jaw more visible, that quiet intensity of his gaze even more pronounced.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. No. Absolutely not.

She shook her head and looked away sharply, scowling at the stone wall like it had personally offended her.

Get it together, she scolded herself. You’re not some lovesick girl at a feast watching the brooding lord's son drink wine and sulk.

Elynor sat there and watched him for a little longer, the playful warmth from moments ago fading under the weight that always found them in the end.

She sighed quietly, letting her gaze drift past him, toward the faint morning light curling through the window.

The memories came in pieces, slow and jagged—the battle just the day before, the way the sky had burned with smoke and the air had filled with screaming. How the wildlings had nearly breached the gates. How Castle Black had trembled beneath the weight of Mance Rayder’s assault. How close it had all come to falling.

Mance almost got his wish.

She bit the inside of her cheek. The ache in her ribs reminded her just how close they’d come.

“What happens now?”

Jon froze.

She saw the change instantly—how his spine stiffened, how his jaw set. Like the question had slammed reality back into place, and whatever peace he’d found in the early morning light had shattered on the spot.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her.

Elynor eyed him carefully. The silence wasn’t just hesitation. It was familiar.

She’d seen it before—this exact stillness, the way he went quiet before dropping some plan on her like ice breaking underfoot. The way he’d looked the night he told her he was going to infiltrate Mance’s camp and pose as a deserter. He’d worn that same storm behind his eyes then, too.

She stood slowly, crossing the space between them with a measured calm that belied the tightness in her chest.

“Jon,” she pressed, a pointed edge to his name.

His gaze dropped to the floor at the mention of his name, shoulders coiled tight, brooding enough to make even Ghost lift his head in concern.

Elynor crossed her arms but didn’t stop. “Please tell me you’re not thinking of doing something totally reckless and stupid,” she deadpanned.

That got a reaction, if only slight—his jaw shifted, his mouth tightening like he was chewing the words before spitting them out. Still, no words left his mouth.

She let out a frustrated breath, then softened—just barely. Let her voice dip quieter, gentler.

“Jon please.”

This time, something shifted.

His shoulders sagged—just a little—but enough to know he’d heard her. Enough to know something in him had cracked, however reluctantly. He ran a hand through his hair again, slower this time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and grim. “I have to go north of the Wall,” he said. “Find Mance. End it. Before more of them die… before we all do.”

She stared at him, incredulous. Then she scoffed. Very loudly.

“That,” she sneered, hands gesturing wide like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, “is a completely idiotic idea.”

Jon didn’t react. Just stood there, staring past her like he already saw the road stretching out, cold and impossible and waiting. And he was going to walk it anyway.

Elynor stared at him, stunned for a moment at his lack of response, then took a step forward, arms still crossed. “You’re serious.”

His face had gone closed again—stone and shadow. But his silence was answer enough.

She could see it in his eyes. Under the frustration, under the stubborn tilt of his chin—he knew it was reckless. Knew it was stupid. But that had never stopped him before.

“Gods, Jon,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose like the sheer weight of his idiocy gave her a headache. “Why do you do this?”

His gaze narrowed, sharp and searching.

“Why do you always think it has to be you?” she pressed, her voice rising. “Why is it always your head that needs to roll for the rest of us to stand a chance? Why is it always you who has to climb onto the bloody pyre?”

Jon’s heated stare pressed down on her. “Because someone has to.”

“And it’s always you?”

“Yes!” he snapped, voice rising suddenly like a crack of thunder in the still room. “Someone has to do it. Someone has to end this before more people die. There’s no other option.”

Elynor wasn’t going to back down. Her hands flew out in exasperation. “Did something fall loose in that thick, brooding skull of yours?”

Ghost’s ears perked. Jon looked away.

“What exactly do you think is going to happen?” she demanded. “You’re going to just march up to Mance’s camp? Draw your sword? Remove his head from his shoulders like you’re slicing bread?”

He didn’t respond, but the way he gripped the table in front of him told her he’d been imagining just that. That he’d been walking that path in his mind since the battle ended.

“You’ll die,” she chided flatly. “You know that, right? You’re not just throwing yourself at danger—you’re throwing yourself into the middle of a war camp full of men who hate even the thought of you.”

He just stood there, still and silent, staring somewhere past her shoulder like if he focused hard enough, he could make the world simpler than it was.

Then, finally, his voice low, resigned—

“I know.”

Elynor’s eyes widened. For a second, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. Her lips parted slightly. The shock cracked through her anger like a blade through ice.

“You know?” she repeated, voice rising again, raw now. “You know this is going to get you killed—and you’re still planning to go?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t try to argue.

The tension in her chest snapped tight.

“You selfish bastard,” she spat, taking a step toward him, the air between them thick with heat now—not the kind that drew them closer, but the kind that scorched. “I nearly died. I fought to stay alive. Clawed my way back here through blood and fire and godsdamned ice—and you’re just willing to throw your life away?”

Jon’s expression twisted, some ugly mix of pain and fury, but still he said nothing.

His silence was infuriating. She pushed further, voice cracking at the edges. “Do you even care what that would do to me? To Ghost? To the few of us who actually give a shit whether you live or die?”

Jon slammed his fist against the table, the impact echoing through the room. “Don’t say I don’t care.”

Elynor didn’t flinch. “If you did,” she snapped, “you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Her chest was heaving now. She hated the burn behind her eyes, the way it felt too much like grief already. Like mourning something that hadn’t happened yet—but would. Because he always did this. Always ran toward the blade.

“This isn’t just about you and your damn duty, Jon. This is about me. About us.”

He turned to face her fully then, eyes blazing. “It goes beyond us, Elynor! This is bigger than—”

“I don’t give a shit what happens to the Night’s Watch!” she shouted, the words slamming out of her before she could stop them. “I don’t care about the wildlings or the politics or the godsdamn war! I only care about you!”

That stopped him.

The words landed like a blow—like she'd finally found the softest part of his armor and struck true. His shoulders dropped, and for a moment, his face looked… lost. Like the breath had gone out of him.

Elynor’s pulse drummed in her ears. She could feel the air between them shift—sharp and cold, heavy with everything unspoken and now suddenly laid bare.

Her voice was quieter now, but no less fierce. “You keep talking about sacrifice like it’s the only path you know. But I didn’t come back to bury you, Jon. I came back for you.”

Outside, the wind howled against the keep’s walls, but inside, everything had stilled. She watched him, breath ragged, the silence between them pulsing with tension. His eyes were on her now, really on her, and something in them was breaking open.

And for the first time, he didn’t look like a soldier or a martyr.

Elynor looked at him, chest still tight, her voice falling lower—not gentler, but heavier. The anger hadn’t burned out, only dimmed into something more hollow, more worn.

“It’s exhausting,” she said, her words dragging like a weight behind them. “Watching you try to be the hero. Watching you convince yourself that if you just sacrifice enough of yourself, everything else will hold together.”

Her eyes burned as they met his. “Maybe Mance was right,” she sighed. “Maybe you are just a boy playing at honor. Chasing ghosts with a sword in your hand, thinking if you die well enough, it’ll make the world better.”

That hit him. Jon flinched—not physically, but something in his expression broke. His mouth opened slightly, and he dragged a hand through his curls like he was trying to hold something in, like if he didn’t grip hard enough, he might fall apart.

“I have to,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Because it’s right. Because no one else will. No one else is even thinking about doing it. They’re too afraid. Or too proud. Or too blind. But if I can stop this war before it burns everything to ash, then—then maybe it’s worth it.”

Elynor closed her eyes. That was the worst part—he believed it. Every word. And that meant she wasn’t going to change his mind.

She let out a breath, long and slow.

“Fine,” she relented. “Go.”

Jon took a step forward, surprise etched onto his features. “El—”

“But I’m coming with you.”

He stopped in his tracks like she’d struck him again. “No. Absolutely not—”

“I wasn’t asking,” she cut him off, already pulling her cloak from the back of the chair. “You’re not doing this alone. Not this time.”

“Elynor—”

She turned to face him, her eyes fierce and final. Inside, though, her chest felt like it was splintering. She wouldn’t let him go out there without her—not after everything. Not after the nights she’d spent wondering if he was dead, if she’d ever see him again. She couldn’t go back to being the girl who watched people walk away, who let the world take what it wanted from her. Not him. “You don’t get to die while I sit back and wait for the smoke. I didn’t survive all that shit just to lose you the moment I get you back.”

Her voice cracked slightly then, her throat tight with something she didn’t want to name.

“I told you, Snow,” she teased, a crooked, broken little smile pulling at her lips. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I know,” he murmured.

Elynor could see it in the way his gaze shifted, the subtle flicker of resignation in his eyes—he realized he’d lost this argument the second she’d opened her mouth. He knew her well enough by now to understand she couldn’t be shaken once she’d made up her mind.

Inside, her thoughts tangled into a tight, burning knot. Good. She wasn’t going to let him walk into death while she stayed behind, useless and waiting. Not after she’d finally gotten him back—breathing, alive, stubborn as ever.

She didn’t care if it was reckless, or foolish, or exactly the kind of thing Jon Snow would do. She had followed him into danger once, again and again, even when he hadn’t asked. He owed her this. 

If the world wanted to take him from me, it’s going to have to go through me first.

Chapter Text

The wind had teeth again.

It howled through the black, skeletal trees like it was trying to tear something from her, something fragile and half-remembered. Snow fell in slow spirals, fine and dry, coating everything in a thin shimmer that turned the world pale and silent.

They were north of the Wall now. Deep enough that the cold was no longer a sensation but a presence—an old, silent god that pressed against her skin and settled in her bones.

Elynor pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her breath fogging in front of her as she walked beside Jon, the crunch of their boots the only sound for miles. Ghost trotted ahead, a pale shadow in the snow, nearly invisible if not for the occasional flick of his ears.

Her thoughts drifted—not to what lay ahead, but to what they’d left behind.

She thought of the gate.

The way it had groaned open behind them, ancient and heavy, the massive iron chains clinking like old bones. She remembered Jon standing just before the threshold, saying goodbye to Sam.

Sam had tried to be brave. He’d smiled through his worry, blinking too much, holding his arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. He’d hugged Jon awkwardly, and Jon had clapped him on the shoulder like they weren’t both thinking this might be the last time.

Elynor hadn’t known Sam well—but she liked him. He was… sweet. Not sweet like softness, but like kindness without apology. Earnest. Honest. She didn’t think she’d met anyone quite like him when she’d lived in the North. Most boys up there had pride carved into them before they learned to swing a blade. Sam just had a heart.

She remembered meeting him after the fight. Her wounds had still been fresh, her body half-held together by adrenaline and bandages, and he’d led her to Jon’s room nervously, mumbling about corridors and candle shortages and how cold the stone got at night, like if he just filled the silence with enough talk, the pain wouldn’t feel so loud.

She smiled faintly now at the memory, but it faded quickly as her gaze lifted to the wild expanse around them.

The land beyond the Wall stretched forever in shades of grey and white. Trees leaned like wounded beasts, their bare branches clawing at the sky. The snow underfoot was crusted with ice, making each step slower than usual. In the distance, mist clung to the edges of low hills, curling around rocks like smoke from an unseen fire.

She used to feel something like comfort out here. Something primal and familiar. This was the land she’d fly over as a raven, when the night belonged to her and her blood knew the shape of the forest better than her feet did. There had been a strange freedom in that once—wild and sharp and untouchable.

But now?

The North felt different.

Harsher. Lonelier.

There was no welcome in the trees, no recognition in the wind. The magic she used to feel in this frozen wild was quieter now, buried beneath frost and fading memory. Even her skin itched at the cold differently. As if something inside her was pulling away from it, not toward it.

And gods help her, but she missed the South.

The firelit halls of Castle Black. The way warmth seeped up through the floor stones in the kitchens. The smell of smoke and stew and wet wool. Even the way Sam always managed to knock something over whenever he got nervous.

The realization sank like a stone in her stomach.

She longed to go back.

Not far, not all the way—but just… far enough to be where people were. Where laughter still echoed in corridors, where things were hard but not hopeless. Where Jon didn’t carry silence like a shield and she didn’t keep flinching at the wind like it might whisper her name.

She took another step forward, her breath catching in the cold.

The North hadn’t changed. She had. And that was the part that scared her most.

The trees began to grow thinner in places, revealing rolling mounds of white-blanketed stone and long tracts of open snowfield. Ghost padded along silently ahead, his thick fur dusted with frost. Jon walked beside her with that same brooding calm he always wore north of the Wall—like the cold fit him too well, like he could disappear into it if he tried hard enough.

The silence had stretched between them long enough that it felt part of the land now. But Elynor, her face half-numb, finally tilted her head toward him and asked, “Do you even know where we’re going?”

Jon didn’t slow. “No.”

That was it. One word. Said like she’d just asked if he wanted another bowl of stew.

She blinked at him—and laughed.

A small, genuine sound, sharp and warm against the cold. She hadn’t expected it, but there it was, bubbling out of her chest. It should’ve made her angry, that kind of blind certainty, but something about the way he’d said it—so casual, so terribly matter-of-fact—it caught her off guard.

Jon glanced at her sideways, a single amused brow lifting beneath his mess of curls. Then, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

Not a full smile. But enough to warm her in places the fur couldn’t reach.

Elynor looked away, her breath visible in the air, curling like smoke toward the pale sky.

If she let herself think about it—really think about it—this could be the last time. The last stretch of time they’d ever get to spend together, alive. And not just alive, but free in a way they rarely were. No eyes on them. No thrones, no kings, no walls to guard. Just them. Two figures cutting a path through the snow toward something uncertain.

She swallowed that thought down, tucking it away like a letter she wasn’t ready to open.

Elynor glanced at Ghost up ahead, the direwolf gliding through the snow like a phantom, silent and sure-footed. His fur was dusted in white, and every so often, he’d stop and sniff the air, ears twitching, eyes scanning.

She tilted her head, watching the way he moved—graceful, alert, untouchable.

“Does he like to play catch?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the quiet.

Jon made a sound in his throat—half scoff, half chuckle. “He’s a direwolf, not a dog.”

But there was something in his voice, something in the way he didn’t quite meet her eyes, that made her narrow hers. That little twitch at the corner of his mouth—that was a lie if she’d ever seen one.

“Oh, he does,” she smirked.

Jon didn’t argue.

Elynor glanced around, then spotted a gnarled stick poking up through the snow beside a tree trunk. She stooped to grab it, testing its weight in her hand. Light, but sturdy enough.

She whistled low. “Ghost!”

The direwolf turned, ears perked and eyes bright as she waved the branch.

“You want it?” she teased.

He gave a low huff and bounded toward her.

“Gods,” Jon muttered, mostly to himself, shaking his head, but he was smiling now—really smiling—and she swore there was a flicker of fondness in his eyes as he watched his companion dash through the snow.

Elynor reared back and flung the stick across the open field. It spun awkwardly, landing half-buried a dozen yards away.

Ghost sprinted after it without hesitation.

She laughed, arms crossed, breath puffing around her in little clouds as she watched the massive white beast pounce on the stick like a pup and trot proudly back with it in his jaws.

“Direwolf, huh?” she said under her breath, grinning.

“He’s… complicated,” Jon admitted, that faint flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks.

They kept at it a while—Elynor throwing, Ghost retrieving, Jon pretending he wasn’t thoroughly enjoying watching his great beast act like a snow-slick hound. The laughter warmed her, a flickering flame in the frozen expanse. For a few heartbeats, the weight of what lay ahead didn’t matter. For once, they weren’t a soldier and a Veyari marching toward war.

Jon slowed beside her, hands tucked into his furs. His eyes were still on Ghost when he spoke, his voice softer than the wind.

“I was there when we found them,” he began. “The direwolves.”

Elynor glanced at him, curiosity stirring, the echo of his voice tugging her back from the quiet joy of their game.

“We were riding back from an execution,” Jon continued. “Me, Robb, Theon, my father, the younger boys... It was just beyond the Neck. Summer snow had fallen hard. That’s when we saw her—dead in the snow. The mother. Killed by a stag’s antlers.” He paused, breath curling in the air. “The pups were curled up beside her. Tiny things. Eyes not even open yet.”

She stayed silent, walking close enough to catch every word.

“Lord Stark wanted to put them down. Said they wouldn’t survive without her. It was the merciful thing to do.” His voice was flat, but Elynor caught the way his mouth tugged down at the corners. “But I convinced him otherwise. Said it was the House’s sigil—there were five pups, one for each of his children.”

He hesitated, then added, almost bitterly, “His trueborn children.”

The word landed heavy between them. Elynor felt the ache of it, saw it linger in the line of his jaw, the way he blinked hard like he could force the thought away. The silence that followed was heavier than the snowdrifts.

She wanted to reach for him. Instead, she listened.

“There was a sixth,” Jon said finally. “Smallest of the lot. Theon called him a runt, said It was perfect for me. I claimed him.”

They both looked at Ghost then, now circling back toward them with his tail low and content.

“Named him Ghost. He didn’t make a sound—not once.”

Elynor’s breath hitched slightly, but she masked it in a soft exhale. She found herself watching him more than listening now, tracing the way his voice dropped when he spoke of his past. It wasn’t often he shared things like this—stories from when he was just a boy, not a crow, not a leader or a ghost in his own skin.

And gods help her, she liked hearing them. Hearing him.

When he opened up like this, it spread a warmth inside her chest she didn’t know what to do with. Something flickering and delicate, like it didn’t belong in this cold.

Ghost trotted up again, tail wagging slightly, and dropped the stick at Elynor’s feet with a wet thud.

Jon crouched to scratch behind the direwolf’s ear. “You’re not fooling anyone,” he mumbled to Ghost.

Elynor let a quiet laugh escape her lips, and Jon looked up at her with the faintest curve of a smile.

The North stretched wide before them, frozen and uncertain—but for the first time in days, the weight didn’t feel so impossible.

Until Ghost froze.

His head snapped up, ears rigid, nostrils flaring as if the wind had whispered something only he could hear. Then came the low, guttural growl, deep in his chest—barely audible, but unmistakable.

Elynor tensed. Her fingers instinctively moved toward the dagger at her side.

Jon’s entire posture shifted. The playfulness vanished from his face in an instant as his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. His eyes swept the trees ahead, sharp as flint.

Ghost stepped in front of them, hackles rising, body taut like a drawn bow.

The trees had grown thicker here, hunched low with snow and silence. Not the quiet that soothes, but the quiet that stalks. It pressed around them like a held breath.

Something had changed.

They were close.

The air shifted. Not colder, but heavier. And it was no longer just the two of them and the direwolf. Elynor felt it like pressure behind her eyes—the presence of many. Eyes watching. Weapons within reach.

Then, through the trees, she saw them.

Dark shapes clustered across the frostbitten rise. Smoke climbed from several fires, steady and unhurried. Tents arranged in organized ranks, fortified rather than haphazard. Watchers at the perimeter—wildlings, but disciplined. Armed.

Mance Rayder’s camp.

And it wasn’t what she expected.

This wasn’t a scattering of survivors. This was a force.

The camp spread wide beneath the northern sky, a black stain against the white snow. She could see movement: fur-clad warriors sharpening blades, tending fires, standing guard with purpose. The wounded tended to, yes, but the rest... the rest looked ready.

A cold realization settled into her bones.

They hadn’t fled. They’d regrouped. Reorganized. They weren’t retreating—they were waiting.

And Mance had numbers. More than the Watch could match. The chaos at Castle Black hadn’t broken them. It had only hardened their edge.

Jon took a step forward. He stood tall, though Elynor could feel the tension in his shoulders from where she stood behind him. He reached for the hilt of his sword—but only to let his hand fall from it slowly, purposefully, to show he came without threat.

Then he turned and looked at her.

His eyes found hers—calm, but grave. An unspoken message rested in them like a drawn bow.

Follow my lead.

She didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. But a knot formed in her throat. Her fingers hovered by her blade a heartbeat longer before she let them fall too. Reluctantly. But she trusted him.

They began their descent toward the camp, snow sighing beneath their feet. The wind was sharp against her face, but her focus tunneled inward. She stayed close to Jon, every step deliberate.

The smoke was thicker now, tinged with meat and ash and old blood. Ghost padded ahead, silent as a shadow, but Elynor could still feel the tension vibrating under his fur.

No one had sounded an alarm—but they’d be seen soon. That much was certain.

As the trees thinned and the camp drew nearer, the weight of it all pressed down on her chest. The stillness. The size. The certainty that they were stepping into something they couldn’t control. And yet Jon didn’t falter. So she didn’t either.

The North, vast and ancient, bore witness as they walked the last few paces together, into the lion’s den.

They hadn’t made it ten paces into the outer ring of the camp before figures emerged from the snow-draped woods like ghosts conjured by frost.

Wildlings.

Dozens of them, cloaked in patchwork furs, axes and spears in hand. Some were grizzled and scarred, others young and bristling with eagerness—but all of them wore the same wary fire behind their eyes. They circled fast. A snarl of movement, snow crunching beneath heavy boots.

Ghost let out a low warning growl, his stance defensive, but didn’t lunge.

Jon raised his hands, but it didn’t stop the hands from grabbing him. Elynor felt a rough arm around her bicep, jerking her back. Her muscles coiled, her blade practically humming under her cloak.

But then a voice cut through the crowd and everyone turned their attention towards it.

“Well, well,” it mused, dry and sardonic. “What do we have here? Come to surrender?”

Mance Rayder stepped out from a wide-flapped tent at the camp’s center. He looked the same as she remembered—leather armor lined with fur, streaks of grey in his dark hair, eyes sharp with calculation. He moved with the ease of someone who knew he had power. Because he did.

Jon didn’t flinch. His spine straightened, face hardening. “I came to negotiate.”

Mance’s brow rose faintly. He studied Jon, then flicked his gaze toward Elynor, eyes narrowing like he was confirming a rumor spoken on the wind.

“I thought you were dead.”

Elynor jerked out of the wildling’s grip with a sharp elbow and stepped forward. Her glare was all ice and steel. “Gonna take a lot more than the Wall to kill me.” It came out dry, a touch of snarl undercutting her smirk. A threat in disguise.

Mance chuckled—amused, not threatened—and turned his attention back to Jon. “Well then,” he said, voice smooth as aged wood. “Let’s talk like old friends.”

He nodded once, and the men holding them eased their grip. Elynor shot her captor a scalding look as she shrugged off his hand and stepped closer to Jon’s side. Her fingers twitched. Every instinct screamed at her to stay ready.

She scanned the circle of wildlings—counted numbers, noted blades, looked for gaps. If things went wrong, they wouldn’t last long. But she’d make damn sure it wasn’t easy for them.

Mance turned, gesturing toward his tent. “Come in. No sense freezing our arses off in front of an audience.”

The interior of the tent was warm from a central firepit, lit with a low orange glow. Furs lined the ground. There were maps stacked on a table, a small chest, two mismatched wooden chairs. Everything utilitarian, nothing wasted.

Mance gestured for them to sit, then poured three drinks from a battered flask into mismatched cups.

“To old friends,” he raised his cup. “And fallen ones.”

Elynor eyed her cup wearily. The liquid shimmered dull brown in the firelight. She lifted it slightly, mirroring Mance’s actions. She saw Jon glance at her, then lift his own.

They drank, and the taste hit her like a slap.

It wasn’t ale. It was sharp and smoky and bitter—like someone had steeped bark in gods knows what. Her throat seized. Her eyes watered. It tasted like rot and dirt and ten-year-old regret. She fought the urge to gag. Fought harder not to spit it back out.

Somewhere deep in her chest, her stomach recoiled like it had been kicked.

Jon grimaced—openly—and she almost laughed. Almost. If the moment weren’t so taut, she might have. Instead, she swallowed fire and watched. Watched Mance lean back in his chair with a faint smirk, eyes gleaming. Watched Jon square his shoulders and place the cup back on the table like it was heavier than it looked.

Elynor said nothing. But she was thinking a hundred things. And not one of them had to do with surrender.

Mance leaned back in his chair, cup still in hand, though he hadn’t touched the drink since the first swallow. The fire cracked quietly between them, shadows flickering across the tent walls like watching eyes.

He gave Jon a long, measured look.

“I’ll admit,” he drawled, each word deliberate, “I expected more from you.”

Jon didn’t respond.

“After all the nights around the fire, after everything we shared—you, of all people, walking back into my camp with the crow’s breath still hot on your neck?” Mance’s voice tightened. “I thought I saw something different in you, Jon Snow.”

Jon’s jaw flexed. “You did.”

“No,” Mance snapped. “I saw a man torn between duty and heart. A man who understood there was more to this world than oaths and walls. But look at you. Crows never change their feathers.”

“I haven’t come with swords,” Jon gritted through his teeth. “I came with a chance.”

“You came with a lie,” Mance spat. “You think I can’t smell it on you? You show up with your ghost and your shadow-cat of a girl and tell me you want to negotiate?”

His voice cracked with scorn.

Elynor’s eyes shifted back and forth between them, the tension snapping tighter with every breath. Jon’s shoulders were taut, hands resting near the edge of the table. Mance leaned forward, elbows braced, eyes boring into him.

Then, a flicker.

Small. Barely perceptible. But she saw it.

Jon’s eyes darted—not to Mance, not to her—but to the side of the table. To the knife. A kitchen blade. Dull, but sharp enough if you knew where to strike. It sat half-buried under a folded cloth. Too convenient. Too close.

Elynor’s stomach turned to ice.

Mance saw it too.

He stilled. His gaze followed Jon’s just a beat behind—and when he looked back at him, the room felt suddenly colder.

“Ah,” Mance said softly. “So that’s why you came.”

Jon’s mouth parted, as if to deny it, but Mance was already rising from his chair.

“You’re not here to talk.” His voice was low now, coiled with betrayal. “You’re here to kill me.”

“No,” Jon denied, standing too, fast enough to knock over his chair. “I came to—”

“Spare me,” Mance barked, his tone brittle and full of fury. “You came to gut me like the traitor you’ve become. Thought you could get close, lift a cup, earn a second of trust, and drive a blade through my ribs.”

“Mance—” Elynor started, but he cut her a look, wild and burning.

She rose with Jon, her body angled between them. Her pulse beat fast in her ears, and her hand hovered inches from the dagger at her hip.

She knew how this would go. Knew how many waited outside this tent. Knew this wasn’t a fair fight—not here, not now. 

But Jon didn’t move toward the knife. His hands stayed open at his sides, knuckles white, voice steady but tight.

“I came to offer peace,” he reasoned. “Not blood.”

Mance let out a bitter laugh. “Peace? You think peace comes from betrayal? From trickery?”

He stepped closer, until they were nearly nose to nose, eyes locked in a fury forged by too many winters.

“You should’ve stayed on the Wall,” Mance hissed. “At least then I could’ve respected you.”

The fire popped, and for a moment no one moved. Elynor’s breath caught, and it seemed the tent held its breath too.

Before anyone could move—before steel could flash or words could be forced between gritted teeth—the deep, bellowing cry of a war horn tore through the air.

It sounded again, low and mournful, carrying across the frost-laced camp like thunder rolling across the sky. Elynor almost stumbled at the sound.

“What—?” she breathed, the word catching in her throat.

She turned to Jon, her eyes wide, searching his face for anything—recognition, clarity, intent—but he looked just as stunned. His brows were furrowed, mouth slightly parted. Whatever this was… it wasn’t his doing.

The tent flaps burst open.

Mance surged forward, grabbing Jon by the front of his cloak and dragging him out into the open. Elynor followed, her legs already moving before her mind could catch up, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears.

Outside, the world had erupted.

Over the rise of the hill came hundreds of horses—massive war beasts clad in dark metal and snarling leather, their riders a tide of armored men. Banners flapped violently in the wind. Iron hooves tore up the snow. The wildlings’ camp, haphazard and exposed, was no match for it.

Steel met flesh in a sickening symphony. Screams rang out. The smell of fire and churned mud filled her nose.

They were being overrun.

Knights—real knights—charged into the heart of the camp, cutting through wildlings with brutal, practiced efficiency. She watched one man in a blackened plate skewer a howling raider without even slowing his horse.

Elynor stood frozen in place. Her blood seemed to drain all at once. Since she was a child, she hadn’t seen an army like this. Men trained for war. Men bred for it. These weren’t scavengers. These weren’t survivors. They were nobles. Lords and soldiers of the southern kingdoms. She hadn’t seen this kind of force since the days before her world had turned to ash.

One rider stood ahead of the others.

He sat atop a coal-dark steed, his face set like carved stone beneath a closely cropped beard, eyes shadowed under a steel crown helm. His armor was deep crimson and black, flames licked gold along the edges of his cloak, and his banner fluttered high above him.

A crowned stag, burning.

Elynor’s eyes fixed on it, her mind racing to place it.

House Baratheon? The name came half-remembered, like something from a dusty book or a childhood story. The stag was familiar—but this version was wrong. The flames. The red. Something about it gnawed at her.

Something about him gnawed at her.

The man didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

He pointed.

And his men obeyed.

Elynor stepped backward, her hand going to her blade out of instinct more than reason. All around her, chaos unfolded—wildlings scattered, some dropping weapons to surrender, others dying with war cries on their lips.

Jon had gone still beside her. Mance’s face was locked in fury and disbelief.

Elynor didn’t know who this man was, but whatever side he was on, he had brought the storm with him.

The chaos ebbed slowly, like a fire guttering to its last glow.

The sounds of screaming and steel faded to muffled groans, the shouts of men corralling prisoners, and the ragged panting of survivors trying to make sense of the carnage. Smoke drifted on the wind, curling from broken tents and scattered fire pits, mingling with the sharp iron scent of blood.