The days in Winterfell grew subtly shorter with slow arrival of autumn, the sun reluctant to rise, the cold reluctant to leave. Frost coated the ramparts like a silvery skin, and your breath misted in front of you when you rode out with Robb in the mornings, always under the watchful eyes of Ser Rodrik or your mother. Your fingers ached even through your gloves, but you welcomed the sting. It gave you something to focus on—something other than the longing in your chest, the ache that had taken root ever since Jon began keeping his distance. Not out of cruelty or disinterest, but necessity. Eyes were always watching. Especially now that the royal party was due to arrive any day. Your father was preoccupied with preparations, your brothers with training and idle chatter, and your mother… your mother had eyes like a hawk when it came to you. And to Jon.

You had to be careful. You knew that. But it didn’t make the ache any easier to bear.

He was just ahead of you in the courtyard now, sparring with Theon. His dark curls were sweat-damp and stuck to his brow, his cheeks flushed with exertion. You tried not to stare, tried not to let your gaze linger too long on the way his shoulders moved, broad and controlled, or the way he gritted his teeth as Theon lunged. Jon parried quickly, twisted, and knocked Theon flat onto his back in the snow with a practiced sweep of his leg. You should have smiled. You would have, once. But the tension between you both had grown taut—too taut. A string pulled too tight, ready to snap.

Jon’s eyes met yours for the briefest second as he helped Theon up. There it was. That flicker of want, buried beneath his usual self-control. And then it was gone, shuttered away as quickly as it came, and he turned his attention back to the fight. Your heart thudded, angry and needy all at once. You were tired of passing glances and strained silences. Tired of the weight of your own longing.

That night, at supper, he sat far down the hall, wedged between Jory Cassel and Benjen Stark. You could barely hear his voice over the chatter. Robb leaned close to you, nudging your arm with a grin. “You’ve barely touched your food, Y/N. Not still sulking about Ma insisting you wear the blue gown to the feast?”

You shook your head, managing a tight smile. “No. Just… tired.”

But your eyes flicked to Jon again, betraying you as they always did. He didn’t look at you. He hadn’t looked at you all evening. You hated how good he’d become at pretending.

Later, you found yourself wandering the godswood, hoping—perhaps foolishly—that he might do the same. It was your place, after all. It always had been. How many times had you curled beneath the heart tree with him, your hands twined in his, your head on his shoulder? How many kisses had you stolen beneath the reddening leaves?

But not tonight. The godswood was empty, and your frustration boiled over as you sat against the weirwood roots and buried your face in your knees.

“Y/N.”

His voice was quiet, careful, but it struck you like thunder. You looked up sharply to see him standing a few paces away, his brow furrowed, his breath curling in the cold.

“You came,” you breathed.

“I had to wait until everyone was asleep,” Jon said, stepping closer. “I’ve wanted to see you every damn day.”

You stood, voice cracking with the sudden swell of emotion. “Then why haven’t you? You won’t look at me. You won’t touch me. I’m going mad, Jon.”

His expression shattered, all restraint slipping away as he reached you in three long strides. “Do you think it’s any easier for me? I see you in the yard, at meals, walking with Robb, and I can’t do anything. I have to act like you’re just a lady—like you’re nothing to me.”

You grabbed the front of his cloak, fists trembling. “I hate pretending.”

His mouth crashed against yours before either of you could think better of it, and you melted into him, fingers tangling in his hair, desperate to feel something after days of nothing. His kiss was fierce, needy, tasting of withheld longing and frustration. You broke apart only when the cold made your lungs burn, both of you gasping.

“You’re not nothing to me,” he said hoarsely, cupping your face in his gloved hands. “You’re everything. You always have been.”

“Then don’t keep away from me,” you whispered. “I don’t care if they watch. Let them watch.”

Jon rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing. “We have to be careful. Just a little longer. Once they’re gone—”

“We’ve been saying ‘just a little longer’ for moons.”

His silence said everything you needed to hear. But then he kissed you again, softer this time, his hands trembling against your cheeks. And for a moment, just a moment, the cold disappeared, the worry vanished, and the godswood belonged to only the two of you.

The cold crept deep into the stones of Winterfell that night, the kind of chill that lingered long after the fires were banked, that clawed at your skin even beneath thick furs. But you barely noticed it. Not when your chest ached with something colder still—an ache that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with him. You had barely seen Jon for more than a passing glance since the king and his retinue arrived. There were always eyes. Nobles crowding the great hall, lords vying for your father’s favor, your mother’s gaze like a blade upon your back. And Jon… he had been quieter than ever. Dutiful. Distant. It was unbearable.

But tonight—tonight was different.

The feast had ended. Sansa was still chatting with the southern ladies, Arya had long slipped away to gods-knew-where, and you had made your excuses to your mother as quickly as you could. You slipped through the hall like a shadow, heart pounding against your ribs, footsteps muffled on the flagstone as you ducked out through the servants’ corridor and into the night. You didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to ask. You knew where he would be. You always knew.

He was waiting in the stables, in the stall of his direwolf Ghost, who raised his head at your approach but made no sound. Jon looked up sharply, his eyes wide with a mix of hope and despair, and when he saw it was you, his shoulders fell in relief.

“Y/N…”

You didn’t give him the chance to say anything else. You closed the space between you in a breath, grabbing the front of his cloak and pulling him into a kiss that tore the breath from your lungs. He stumbled back against the wooden wall, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he could hold back the tide of time itself.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” he said against your mouth, voice thick, raw with hunger and something deeper—grief, maybe.

“I had to,” you whispered, clutching at him like you were drowning. “You’re leaving.”

He nodded. “At first light. With Uncle Benjen. The Wall…”

“I know.” The words splintered on your tongue. “Gods, I know.”

He kissed you again, more desperately this time, his hands sliding up into your hair. You tangled your fingers into his curls, and for a moment neither of you thought—just felt. The months apart, the weeks of silence and stolen glances, the weight of everything unspoken—it all unraveled as your mouths met in fevered urgency.

He fumbled with your cloak, unfastening it with shaking hands, and you yanked his jerkin open, breath hitching when his warm skin met yours. There was no gentleness to it—no slowness. Just the frantic ache of two people who knew the night was all they had left. He lifted you against the stall wall, your legs wrapping around his hips, skirts hiked, his hands splayed against your thighs. You felt every inch of him, every tremble, every whispered curse against your throat as he buried his face there, his breath hot and ragged.

“I can’t let you go,” you gasped, clinging to him as he rocked against you, your bodies moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. “Jon—please—don’t go.”

“I’m not,” he growled against your skin, his mouth finding your collarbone, your jaw, your lips again. “I changed my mind.”

You froze for the barest second, panting. “What?”

He cupped your face in both hands, pressed his forehead to yours. “I’m not going to the Wall. I can’t. Not without you. I don’t give a damn what anyone says.”

“Jon—”

“I’ll stay,” he said fiercely. “I’ll stay and I’ll marry you.”

Your breath caught. A whimper of disbelief and joy broke from you all at once. “You can’t—my mother—she’ll never—”

“She’ll have no choice,” Jon whispered, his hands sliding down to your hips again, grinding into you with a need that made your head spin. “Not when you’re carrying my child.”

The words hit you like a firestorm, searing through your veins and melting any hesitation. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t protest. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your thighs tightening around him.

“Then don’t stop,” you said breathlessly. “Give her no choice.”

He groaned, deep and guttural, and thrust into you with a force that made you cry out softly, your back arching against the wooden wall. You welcomed the ache, the burn, the wildness of it all. He kissed you like he was starving, like you were the air he’d been denied for years. His hands were everywhere—your breasts, your waist, your throat, holding you close as he moved inside you, desperate and hungry and home.

“I love you,” you gasped, your fingers in his hair, your nails biting into his skin.

“I love you,” he echoed, again and again like a prayer, like a promise. “I’ll never leave you. Never.”