Chapter Ten
Snowfall and Confession
The first snowfall of deep winter arrived heavy and unrelenting, coating Winterfell's battlements in a thick, unbroken white. The castle lay quiet; most had retreated to warm halls, the clatter of kitchens and hearths muted by distance and stone. Snow drifted in silent eddies, settling into every crevice, softening the sharp edges of the fortress.
Elara knelt in the snow, hands buried in frozen earth, coaxing a small patch of barley to life. Tiny green shoots pushed stubbornly through the white, delicate against the frost. Her fingers were red and stiff, breath curling into the cold air in soft clouds, fleeting as smoke.
Jon's voice cut softly through the stillness. "You shouldn't be out here."
"I know," she murmured, not looking up. "I like it."
He moved closer, kneeling beside her with careful steps so as not to disturb the fragile shoots. "You risk too much," he said quietly, tone low, threaded with concern. "Even for barley."
She smiled faintly, eyes soft, gaze fixed on the green that defied winter. "I can't help it. I want to make things grow. Even here."
A hush settled over the battlements, broken only by the faint hiss of snow brushing stone. For a long moment, they were silent. The wind carried flakes between them, curling around shoulders and boots, catching in eyelashes. It was a private moment in the midst of a world that demanded so much of both of them.
Jon's gaze remained fixed on her, gray eyes searching. "Do you ever think… about leaving?" he asked, voice almost swallowed by the wind.
Elara's hand hovered above the soil. The inventory shimmered faintly in her mind, pulsing like a heartbeat. The Return Scepter called softly, whispering of a world without frost, without blood, without loss — a world where mistakes could vanish, where consequences were temporary.
"Yes," she admitted softly. "Every day."
"And yet you stay," he said, tone threaded with wonder, disbelief, and admiration all at once.
"Yes," she replied, lifting her gaze to meet his. "Because I want to see what happens if I don't reset. If I stay. If I live through it all — real consequences, real growth. Because this is real."
Jon's hand moved slowly, brushing hers, tentative and almost shy. The warmth of contact spread through the chill, grounding, gentle. "And if you fail?"
"I'll grow again," she whispered, steady, resolute, meeting the gray of his eyes with courage born from choice.
He smiled faintly, a mixture of hope and haunted memory, as though glimpsing a possibility he had long thought impossible. "Even here?"
"Yes," she said softly, voice firm but gentle. "Even here."
Snow swirled around them in lazy, silent eddies, clinging to shoulders, lashes, and hair. In that frozen moment, two lives tethered by choice, duty, and something deeper began to intertwine — careful, fragile, undeniable.
For the first time since she arrived, Winterfell felt less like a fortress carved from stone and history, and more like a home. Cold, alive, and fiercely hers to nurture.
And in the hush of falling snow, Elara realized that this world — harsh, unyielding, permanent — was one she wanted to tend, protect, and, perhaps, love.