Katrina hadn't moved in days.

Jon sat beside her bed, his forearms resting on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on her still face. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls of Winterfell, casting long shadows that danced with the wind creeping through the cracks.

She looked so small like this—so still. It was wrong. Katrina was fire, wild and untamed. Seeing her like this, pale and unmoving, made something sharp settle deep in Jon's chest. He had seen death before, had held it in his arms, had buried the people he loved. And yet, this was worse.

Because she wasn't dead.

Not yet.

Bran's words haunted him. She's fighting for her soul. Jon had always thought battles were waged with swords and steel, with blood and bone. But this was a different kind of war—one he couldn't fight for her. And it was killing him.

A soft knock on the wooden door broke the silence. Jon didn't move.

"She's still the same?" Sansa's voice was quiet as she stepped inside.

Jon nodded, running a hand through his hair. "No worse. No better."

Sansa approached, her gaze settling on Katrina's face. "She's beautiful," she murmured, her expression unreadable.

Jon exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "She's strong."

Sansa looked at him, her blue eyes scanning his face. "And you love her."

Jon didn't answer right away. He didn't need to. The truth sat between them, unspoken but undeniable.

"I do," he said finally, his voice low. "I didn't think I would—not after everything. But she…" He swallowed, his throat tight. "She's different."

Sansa sat in the chair across from him, studying him carefully. "You haven't left her side."

Jon scoffed lightly. "And where else would I go?"

"You should rest, Jon," Sansa said gently. "She'll need you when she wakes up."

If she wakes up.

Jon didn't say it, but the thought lingered in the back of his mind like a wound that wouldn't close.

"I'll rest when she's back," he muttered.

Sansa sighed but didn't argue. She reached out, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. "You did the right thing bringing her here."

Jon wasn't sure he believed that. He'd sworn he wouldn't return to Winterfell, that his past here was buried. But he had also sworn to protect Katrina, and if saving her meant swallowing his pride, he would do it a thousand times over.

Sansa stood, giving Katrina one last glance before heading for the door. "Arya's impatient," she said with a faint smirk. "She wants to spar with her when she wakes up."

Jon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "She'd like that."

Sansa hesitated, her expression turning serious. "Jon… if there's anything darker at play here, you need to be prepared."

Jon's hands curled into fists. "I am."

Sansa gave him a small nod before slipping out of the room, leaving him alone with Katrina once more.

The night stretched on, and Jon barely moved. He listened to her slow, even breathing, the only proof she was still here. He thought about the way she had fought, the fire she wielded so effortlessly, how she had burned her father's shadow into nothingness. But he also thought about Reynolds—how he had disappeared, how he had betrayed them and saved them all at once.

Jon didn't believe for a second that Reynolds was gone for good. He had a feeling they would see him again. And when they did, Jon didn't know if he would fight him or thank him.

Ghost let out a soft whine from where he lay near the door. Jon looked down at the direwolf, running a hand through his thick white fur. "I know," he murmured. "I feel it too."

Something was coming.

Jon had spent his life fighting battles. He knew when a war wasn't over.

And this one had just begun.