Reynolds' POV

Reynolds wasn't sure when it had happened.

Maybe it had been back in the Wildling camp, when Arya had looked at him like she saw him, not as Katrina's half-brother or as the man who had betrayed them once, but as him.

Maybe it had been the way she had barely reacted when he'd handed her the winter rose, just a tiny flicker of something in her expression before she tucked it away like it meant something—even if she wouldn't say what.

Maybe it had been the way she moved, the way she watched, the way she made him want to prove himself in a way he had never wanted to before.

All he knew was—

He liked her.

Which was terrible, honestly.

Because Arya Stark wasn't someone you liked.

She was someone you survived.

And he was pretty sure if he said anything about it, she'd either laugh in his face or stab him in the ribs just for fun.

Still, he found himself trailing beside her as they walked through the snow, their pace easy, unhurried, following Katrina's lead.

Jon was a few paces ahead, stiff as a damn iron rod, shoulders tight, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to break his teeth from the tension.

Something was off about him.

But honestly, Jon always looked like he was on the edge of a brooding crisis, so Reynolds figured maybe this was just his thing.

Arya, meanwhile, was flipping her dagger between her fingers, expression cool, unreadable, but watching.

She was always watching.

"So," Reynolds murmured, sliding his hands into his pockets. "What do I have to do to impress you, Stark?"

Arya didn't even look at him. "Don't die."

Reynolds grinned. "That's it?"

She flipped the dagger once more before tucking it into her belt. "That's a start."

Reynolds chuckled, tilting his head. "And if I really wanted to impress you?"

Arya finally glanced at him then, her gray eyes flicking over him with something unreadable.

Then she smirked.

And gods, that was dangerous.

"You'd have to try first," she said simply.

Reynolds blinked. "I am trying."

Arya hummed, unimpressed. "Not hard enough."

Reynolds huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You have impossibly high standards, Stark."

Arya arched a brow. "And yet, you're still here."

Reynolds felt the smugness in her tone, and gods help him, he liked it.

Liked the way she threw his own words back at him, liked the way she didn't give anything easily.

She made him work for it.

And maybe, for once, he didn't mind working for something.

But before he could come up with some clever response, his attention flickered back to Jon, who was still walking ahead of them, his movements stiff, his gaze locked on Katrina's back.

Reynolds frowned slightly.

Jon was acting weird.

More broody than usual.

More on edge.

Katrina, meanwhile, was leading them forward with confidence, her golden eyes sharp, her posture steady.

Which was good, right?

So why did Jon look like he was about two seconds from grabbing her and demanding to know if she was real?

Reynolds studied him for a long moment before nudging Arya with his elbow. "What's up with Jon?"

Arya smirked slightly. "You'll have to be more specific. Brooding? Or extra brooding?"

Reynolds rolled his eyes. "Extra. Definitely extra."

Arya glanced toward Jon, her expression unreadable. "Yeah," she murmured. "I noticed it too."

Reynolds hesitated. "Think he's doubting the plan?"

Arya's smirk faded slightly, replaced with something more thoughtful. "No." She paused, tilting her head. "I think he's doubting her."

Reynolds blinked. "Katrina?"

Arya didn't answer right away.

Just watched.

Jon was still staring at Katrina's back, his grip too tight on his sword, his muscles too tense.

Like he was waiting for something.

Like he was bracing.

And Katrina…

Katrina wasn't paying him any attention at all.

Which was weird.

Because Katrina always felt Jon's presence, always reacted to him, always seemed aware of him in ways she wasn't with anyone else.

But now?

Nothing.

Reynolds shook his head.

No. He was overthinking.

Katrina was fine.

Jon was overthinking.

He just needed to relax.

And maybe Reynolds needed to focus on not dying long enough to get Arya to admit she actually liked their banter.

Because that was the real challenge here.

Katrina's Mind – POV

She was here.

Somewhere.

Not in her body. Not in control. But she was still here.

It was like being locked inside a glass cage, watching herself move, watching him move her. Every step she took wasn't hers. Every breath, every flicker of her golden eyes, every smirk she hadn't meant to make—

It was him.

Her father.

He had taken her.

But not fully.

Because she was still here.

Somewhere deep in the void, in the space between reality and the black tendrils of his magic, she existed.

And gods, she was screaming.

She screamed as her own lips curled into a smirk she hadn't chosen.

She screamed as she moved too smoothly, too confidently, without the weight of battle or fear or exhaustion pressing into her muscles.

She screamed as she felt Jon watching her, felt the way his dark eyes lingered, felt the way his presence—steady, unwavering Jon—knew.

"Jon."

He knew.

He felt it.

He didn't have proof yet, didn't understand why, but his body knew her.

And it wasn't her standing beside him anymore.

It was him.

Please, Jon.

Please see it.

Please stop me.

She felt her fingers move, the motion so casual, so calculated, reaching to adjust the cloak at her shoulder—

It was the smallest thing.

But she never did that.

Jon's eyes flickered, his fingers tightening just slightly around his sword, his body shifting closer, but not yet ready to act.

He was waiting.

Watching.

Noticing.

And gods, she loved him for it.

Because he was the only one who could save her now.

She had never thought she could love someone as much as she loved Jon Snow.

She had fought against it, denied it, told herself she would never be the kind of woman who needed a man to anchor her to the world—

But Jon wasn't an anchor.

He was the moon pulling her tide.

And if anyone could see her, even when she was lost in the dark, it was him.

"Jon."

Her father moved her body, glancing toward him with a smirk, casual and controlled, his voice slipping from her lips—

"You seem tense, Snow."

Jon didn't react. Didn't respond immediately.

He was thinking.

Calculating.

Noticing.

Katrina screamed inside herself, desperate, clawing at the invisible walls that held her mind back.

"Jon, it's not me."

"It's not me."

"Please."

And then—

Just for a second—

Jon's dark eyes locked onto hers.

And she knew he heard her.

Maybe not with words. Maybe not with logic.

But he felt her.

Felt her struggle.

Felt her love.

And gods, she loved him.

So much.

Enough to fight.

Enough to find a way back.

She had to.

Before it was too late.