Frozen wind howled through the desolate expanse, each gust biting into Guest flesh like the teeth of unseen predators. Exhausted and parched, they trudged through the snowdrifts, their limbs leaden, their breath shallow. Blood seeped from the gash in their leg, staining the pristine white beneath them, each step leaving a crimson mark upon the indifferent earth.

They had escaped. Somehow, against all odds, they had torn themselves from Ramsay Bolton’s clutches, fleeing the depths of his cruelty. But freedom came at a cost—this brutal march through an unforgiving wilderness, with death trailing close behind.

Castle Black lay ahead, just beyond the horizon, but the world had begun to blur. Their vision swam, the weight of exhaustion dragging them down, their knees buckling beneath them. As darkness threatened to consume them, a figure emerged in the storm’s embrace—a silhouette, distant yet unmistakable. Salvation.

A horse’s hooves crunched through the snow, then stilled. Boots met the frozen ground. The stranger knelt, lowering himself beside Guest, his presence steady, unwavering.

Strong arms lifted them with a gentleness that felt almost foreign after so much suffering. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Guest let themselves surrender to something other than the fight to survive.

"It’s a bit cold out here, isn’t it?" A warm voice, edged with quiet amusement, broke through the frigid silence.