The sun had barely risen over Winterfell when Jon found Katrina standing on the castle's ramparts, staring out at the vast, snow-covered landscape. She was dressed in her usual layered furs, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and Dream perched comfortably on her shoulder, flicking her tail against Katrina's cheek as if trying to get her attention.

Jon approached quietly, but Katrina didn't startle—she must have heard him coming.

"You're up early," he said, stopping beside her.

Katrina exhaled, the cold air turning her breath into mist. "Didn't sleep much."

Jon studied her profile—the sharp angles of her face, the way her golden eyes flickered in the morning light. "Thinking about Reynolds?"

She let out a dry laugh. "Thinking about everything."

Jon leaned against the stone ledge. "Bran says he's alive. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Katrina nodded. "I can feel it. Not like some magical twin connection or anything." She smirked slightly before her expression turned serious again. "But he's not gone. He'll turn up again. I just don't know if it'll be as a friend or an enemy."

Jon was quiet for a moment before saying, "I don't think he knows, either."

Katrina turned to him, surprised.

Jon met her gaze evenly. "He made his choice when he let us go. But that doesn't mean he's figured out who he really is. You know that."

Katrina sighed, looking back out over the white horizon. "He's done terrible things, Jon."

Jon nodded. "So have we."

She scoffed. "You don't get to be the moral one now."

Jon smirked slightly but didn't argue.

Katrina tapped her fingers against the stone, thoughtful. "We need to find him."

Jon nodded, as if he had been waiting for her to say it. "I thought the same."

Katrina sighed. "Tracking people down isn't exactly my strong suit."

"No," Jon admitted. "But it's Arya's."

Katrina snorted. "Should I be worried about how good she is at it?"

Jon smirked. "Probably."

At that moment, the sound of boots crunching in the snow caught their attention. They turned to see Arya striding toward them, her usual confident smirk in place.

"You two planning something?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Katrina tilted her head. "How do you always show up at the right time?"

Arya grinned. "It's a skill."

Jon nodded at her. "We're going to find Reynolds."

Arya's smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. "Good. Because I don't think he's finished with you yet."

Katrina crossed her arms. "Neither do I."

Jon straightened, a renewed determination in his stance. "Then let's not wait for him to come to us."

Arya nodded. "I'll start tracking. If he's anywhere within the North, I'll find him."

Katrina exhaled, rubbing her temples. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

Jon smirked. "You want the truth, don't you?"

She looked at him, her golden eyes narrowing. "Yeah. And I hope I don't regret it."

Jon's expression was unreadable. "So do I."

As Arya disappeared back into the castle, already preparing for the search, Katrina turned back to the landscape, her fingers tightening on the cold stone.

She had spent her whole life fighting shadows.

Now, she was finally going to chase them down.

The cold air bit at Katrina's skin as she adjusted the furs around her shoulders. She and Jon stood at the gates of Winterfell, their horses already saddled, while Arya strapped her dagger to her belt with practiced ease. Ghost lingered nearby, pacing in the snow, his crimson eyes scanning the horizon as if he, too, sensed the weight of the journey ahead.

Sansa had been reluctant to let them leave. She hadn't said much—she rarely did when Jon made up his mind—but the warning in her gaze had been clear. Be careful.

Katrina had smiled at her before they left, half-mocking. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Sansa had sighed. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Now, as they stood ready to ride, Katrina felt a strange mixture of anticipation and unease. Finding Reynolds wasn't just about closure—it was about understanding who he was, what he could be, and whether or not he had a future beyond the shadows their father had cast over them both.

"Got a starting point?" Katrina asked Arya as she tightened the straps on her saddle.

Arya nodded, mounting her horse with ease. "Bran saw him heading further north, past the Frostfangs. He's been staying with different Wildling groups, but he never stays long."

Jon frowned. "Running from something, or running to something?"

Arya's expression was unreadable. "Both, maybe."

Katrina exhaled, adjusting the grip on her reins. "Then let's move before he disappears again."

The journey was long and quiet. The snow thickened as they moved deeper into the wilds, the cold pressing into their bones even beneath layers of furs. Arya took the lead, her keen eyes scanning the terrain for tracks, while Jon rode beside Katrina, his silence steady and grounding.

Katrina found herself lost in thought as the miles stretched on.

For so long, she had believed her father was gone. That burning him away had meant an end to everything he was. But the coma had changed that. The whispers, the lingering darkness, the way she still felt him lurking at the edges of her mind—it all told her otherwise.

And Reynolds? She had spent months trying to hate him. He had led her into their father's trap, had used her trust against her, had made her question everything she thought she knew about him.

But she had also seen his regret.

She had seen the way he turned against their father, the way he fought for her in the end. He had made a choice. She just didn't know if it had been too late.

"Thinking too much," Jon murmured beside her.

Katrina blinked, turning to him. "What?"

Jon smirked slightly. "You get quiet when you're overthinking."

She sighed. "You don't think this is a little worth overthinking?"

Jon exhaled through his nose. "I think we'll know soon enough if this was a mistake."

Katrina shook her head, her voice softer now. "And if it is?"

Jon was quiet for a moment, then met her gaze. "Then we deal with it."

She smirked faintly. "That's your answer for everything, isn't it?"

Jon shrugged. "It works."

She huffed a laugh despite herself. But before she could respond, Arya raised a hand, signaling them to stop.

They reined in their horses, the silence of the forest closing in around them.

Arya dismounted, crouching low to the ground. "Tracks," she murmured, running her fingers over the disturbed snow.

Katrina leaned over her saddle. "Reynolds?"

Arya nodded, standing. "And he's not alone."

Jon tensed. "Who's with him?"

Arya's expression darkened. "That's what we're about to find out."

Katrina felt her stomach tighten as they moved forward on foot, following the tracks deeper into the frozen woods.

The hunt had begun.

Reynolds' POV

The cold cut through Reynolds' cloak like a blade, but he barely felt it anymore. He had been wandering the North for what felt like weeks, moving from one Wildling camp to another, always keeping moving, never staying in one place too long.

Because he wasn't alone.

Not in the way most people feared.

The shadows followed him. He could feel them, watching from the corners of his vision, shifting in the periphery. His father was dead—he knew that. He had watched Katrina burn him away. But something of him lingered, something that refused to let go.

And it haunted Reynolds every damn night.

He sat by the fire in a makeshift camp, his back against a jagged rock, watching the flames flicker. The Wildlings he had been traveling with—an older man named Tor and his daughter, Fiala—were asleep on the other side of the fire. They hadn't asked many questions when he arrived, and he hadn't volunteered any answers.

But the further north he traveled, the heavier the air felt.

Tonight, the whispers were back.

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You think distance will save you?"

Reynolds flinched, his hands curling into fists. His father's voice slithered through his mind, smooth and calculating, never loud, never rushed.

"You can run to the ends of the world, my son. I will always be with you."

Reynolds gritted his teeth. "You're dead," he muttered. "You can't hurt me."

A low chuckle.

"Haven't I already?"

Reynolds' breathing was uneven as he opened his eyes, staring hard into the flames. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

But the problem was, he wasn't sure of that anymore.

The visions had started ever since he turned against his father, ever since he chose to help Katrina instead of sacrificing her. At first, they had been fleeting—whispers, dark flashes in his dreams.

Now?

Now he saw him.

The flickering of the fire twisted, reshaped into a figure just beyond the flames. The broad shoulders, the sharp jawline, the golden eyes.

Reynolds exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You're not real."

"And yet, here I am."

Reynolds gritted his teeth, gripping the hilt of his dagger. "You don't exist anymore."

The shadow only smirked.

"Then why are you still afraid?"

The air around him felt thinner, colder. Reynolds forced himself to breathe, to ground himself, but it was hard. He had spent so much of his life under his father's shadow—trying to please him, trying to prove he was worthy of his legacy.

And when he had finally turned his back on it, when he had chosen Katrina over him, he thought that was the end.

But maybe the shadows never truly died.

Reynolds closed his eyes for just a moment.

Then, suddenly—

Crunch.

His eyes snapped open.

That wasn't the fire. That wasn't the whispering ghosts in his head. That was real.

His fingers tightened around his dagger as he listened. Another soft crunch—the unmistakable sound of someone moving through the snow, carefully, deliberately.

Someone was here.

Reynolds rose to his feet, silent, slipping into the darkness beyond the firelight. His breath came in slow, controlled exhales as he moved, his senses sharp.

Then, just past the trees—movement. A figure, barely visible, moving low through the brush.

And then he saw her.

Katrina.

Reynolds' breath caught. His sister, alive, standing barely ten feet away, her golden eyes narrowed, tracking his every move. Jon was behind her, blade drawn. And Arya—Arya was moving like a shadow, circling.

They had found him.

And they weren't alone.

Reynolds felt something dark coil in his chest. He had spent so long running from his ghosts—his father, his past, himself.

Now it was time to face them.

Reynolds had been preparing for this moment—preparing for when Katrina and Jon would finally track him down. He had gone over a thousand ways this could go, what he would say, how they might react.

But he hadn't prepared for her.

Arya Stark moved through the trees like she was part of them, a shadow slipping between the branches, quiet as the wind. Even as his eyes flicked from Katrina's tense expression to Jon's ever-watchful stance, they kept drifting back to Arya, as if drawn by something beyond his control.

She was standing slightly apart from them, blade at her hip, her sharp gray eyes on him. Watching. Calculating.

Dangerous.

Reynolds had spent his life around people who wanted to manipulate him, control him, deceive him. He recognized power in all its forms—his father's shadowed dominance, Katrina's untamed fire, Jon's quiet, unshakable presence.

But Arya?

Arya was something else entirely.

There was no deception in her stance. No manipulation in her gaze. She wasn't sizing him up like prey. She was assessing. Deciding. As if, in the span of a few seconds, she was determining whether he was worth keeping alive.

And Reynolds found himself liking that.

He cleared his throat, dragging his focus back to Katrina.

"Alright," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I assume you didn't come all this way just to glare at me."

Katrina crossed her arms, golden eyes narrowing. "You tell me, Reynolds. Are we here for a fight?"

He exhaled, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. "Not unless you want one."

Jon didn't lower his blade. "You disappeared."

Reynolds smirked. "And yet, here I am."

Jon's grip on Longclaw tightened slightly, and Reynolds figured now wasn't the time for sarcasm.

"I wasn't running," he said, his tone more serious. "I was looking for answers. About our father. About what he did to Katrina's mother. And about what's still lingering."

Katrina stiffened slightly at that.

Arya, though—she tilted her head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "And?"

It was the first word she had spoken, and Reynolds was surprised by how much it hit him. Her voice was smooth, even, but there was something in it that held weight—like she didn't waste breath on unnecessary words.

Reynolds met her gaze. "And I found out things I wish I hadn't."

Arya didn't blink. "That's a common problem."

Reynolds almost smiled. Almost.

Katrina stepped forward, cutting through whatever strange tension had formed between them. "Enough games. You've been digging into our father's past? Fine. Tell us everything."

Reynolds hesitated.

Not because he didn't want to. But because he knew once he did, there was no coming back.

His father's shadow wasn't just gone. It was waiting. And whatever was coming…

He wasn't sure any of them were ready.

His gaze flicked back to Arya—just for a second.

And that was when he realized something dangerous.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't just thinking about survival or his family.

He was thinking about her.