not fair (jon snow x fem!reader)
synopsis: troubled by the age difference and his desire to protect you, when confronted, he finally admits the truth.
warnings: slow burn romance, age gap (around 18/21), mutual pining, hurt comfort, injury recovery, blood and gore, near death experience, canon typical violence, emotional angst, romantic tension.
The yard at Castle Black smelled of iron, smoke, and wet snow.
You had stopped noticing it years ago. Men shouted below the Wall while steel clashed against steel in uneven rhythm. New recruits stumbled through drills with frozen hands and bruised pride while older brothers barked insults sharp enough to split skin. Somewhere nearby, horses stirred restlessly in their stables.
The entire world seemed loud at Castle Black.
Except for Jon Snow. He stood near the edge of the training yard with Longclaw resting against his shoulder, dark curls dampened by snow. His attention followed the recruits with quiet focus while Ghost prowled at his feet like a pale shadow.
You approached with a stack of folded bandages balanced carefully in your arms.
"Three men split their hands open this morning," you said. "If they bleed over my floors again, I may poison their supper."
Jon glanced toward you. There was the smallest flicker of amusement in his grey eyes.
"That would improve the food."
It was easy with him. That was perhaps the most dangerous thing of all. Most men at Castle Black were loud in their attention. Crude. Obvious. They watched too closely or spoke too boldly.
Jon never did. He treated you the same way he treated the Wall itself—steady, dependable, always there.
Sometimes you hated how much you loved that about him.
"Maester Aemon asked for you earlier," you said.
"You say that like reading pains you."
"It does when half the northern lords write like drunken children."
You smiled despite yourself. For a moment, his gaze lingered.
Still, something warm moved quietly beneath your ribs.
You had known Jon for years now. Long enough to understand the shape of his silences. Long enough to know when he was troubled even before he spoke.
Long enough to know loving him was a terrible idea.
You were young...younger than him.
Jon was much older. Not too old, but old enough.
It's not a great distance in years. Yet sometimes he looked at you as though you belonged somewhere safer than Castle Black. Somewhere softer.
You hated when he did that.
Because there was nothing soft about your life.
You had seen too much blood for softness. Too many political marriages. Too many bodies. Too many winters.
The Wall stripped innocence from everyone eventually. You adjusted the bandages in your arms. "You should eat before evening training."
"No. I simply dislike when you nearly faint during meetings."
"You swayed ominously once."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
That laugh could ruin you.
Ghost suddenly lifted his head toward the gate. The direwolf’s ears twitched.
The yard shifted around you almost instantly.
Men turned and voices lowered.
The returning rangers appeared through the snowfall.
And your smile vanished..bBecause Jon’s expression changed first.
The men coming through the gate looked exhausted.
Another had blood soaking through his cloak.
But your eyes found Jon again almost immediately.
He had already started moving.
"Tormund returned early," he muttered.
You followed him across the yard. Snow crunched beneath your boots while brothers rushed to help the injured men dismount. The cold wind carried the metallic scent of fresh blood.
One ranger collapsed before reaching the steps.
None of it frightened you anymore. That was the first thing Jon noticed. While everyone else shouted over one another, you knelt beside a bleeding ranger with calm hands and steady breathing.
Blood covered your fingers. You didn’t even blink.
Jon had always assumed you acted older than your age. But watching you now, he realized it wasn’t an act at all.
You simply understood survival. Hours passed before the yard finally quieted.
The wounded had been carried inside.
Snow continued falling beyond the narrow windows.
You scrubbed your hands clean in a basin darkened pink from blood. Your shoulders ached.
But you barely noticed Jon enter the room.
"You’ve been awake since dawn," he said.
"I’m not the one swaying ominously."
Then his hand closed around your wrist gently.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
"Stop deflecting. That's not what I asked."
You looked up at him then.
The room suddenly felt smaller and quieter.
His thumb shifted slightly against your skin before he let go. The loss of warmth felt embarrassing.
"Get some rest tonight," he said quietly.
"And you ignore advice exactly the same way."
You rolled your eyes. But after he left, you realized your pulse had not settled.
Three days later, Jon Snow nearly bled out beyond the Wall.
The storm arrived before sunset. Winds howled hard enough to shake the towers while snow buried the paths leading toward the gate. Men rushed across the yard carrying torches through the growing dark.
You had been organizing dried herbs when shouting erupted outside.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
The gate opened. And Jon stumbled through it covered in blood.
The world narrowed and you barely remembered moving.
Tormund was supporting most of Jon’s weight while two brothers tried keeping him upright. Blood soaked through the side of Jon’s leathers in thick dark streaks.
Too much blood...far too much.
The command left your mouth sharp enough that men obeyed without question.
Jon’s boots dragged against the stone floor. His face had gone pale beneath the cold.
"It’s not as bad as it looks," he muttered.
"You’re leaving blood behind you like breadcrumbs," you replied.
Tormund barked out a rough laugh.
"That means he’ll survive. Still arguing."
You guided them toward Jon’s chambers instead of the crowded infirmary.
There were too many wounded already.
He sank heavily onto the edge of the bed while you lit more candles. The room filled with warm gold light. Only then did you finally see the wound clearly.
A deep slash stretched across his ribs.
The kind of injury that reopened easily.
Jon noticed your expression.
"And yet somehow you remain dramatic every time."
His mouth twitched weakly then pain crossed his face hard enough to erase the humor.
You moved closer immediately.
Jon obeyed more slowly than usual.
His hands shook. That frightened you more than the blood.
You stepped forward before thinking.
Your fingers brushed his shoulders while helping pull the heavy fur cloak free.
Heat climbed into your face.
Jon went still, but not because of pain.
You realized that too late. The room suddenly felt unbearably quiet.
You focused on the wound instead.
"This needs stitching," you muttered.
You looked at him flatly.
Jon exhaled a quiet laugh before leaning back carefully.
You cleaned the blood away first.
The cloth beneath your fingers turned crimson almost immediately.
Jon’s jaw tightened as he tried not to react.
"Stop pretending it doesn’t hurt," you said softly.
"You can barely sit upright."
His eyes lifted toward yours. They were tired...
Something inside your chest twisted painfully.
You dipped the cloth into hot water again. The silence stretched and Jon watched you the entire time.
It unsettled him more than the wound itself.
He had seen you covered in blood before. Seen you command frightened men twice your size. Seen you stand untouched by things that would make others tremble.
But now, alone in candlelight with your sleeves rolled back and worry hidden carefully behind your calm expression, something felt different.
Your hair had fallen partially loose from its braid. There was exhaustion beneath your eyes. And when your fingers brushed his skin, warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with fever.
You threaded the needle carefully.
"This will hurt," you warned.
"I gathered that from the needle."
You rolled your eyes before beginning.
His hand clenched hard against the blankets.
You worked quickly. Still, you felt every strained breath he took.
Every twitch beneath your fingertips. Every moment his eyes stayed fixed on your face.
The tension thickened slowly and neither of you acknowledged it.
That somehow made it worse.
When you finished, relief loosened your shoulders. Only then did your hands begin trembling.
Slightly...barely noticeable.
You tied the final bandage tighter than necessary.
The raw feeling the bandage tighten against his sore wound and he gasped softly.
"That tends to worry people."
Jon looked at you for a long moment.
Something unreadable flickered across his face.
The word escaped him before he could stop it.
Jon stared at the floor briefly like he regretted saying it. But then he looked back up.
And there was something unbearably honest in his expression.
"Just until I fall asleep," he said quietly.
You sat beside the fire while snow battered the windows outside...little did you know, Jon fell asleep watching you.
The following days settled into routine.
You brought fresh bandages. Hot water. Meals Jon often forgot to finish.
And every day the tension between you worsened.
It lived in small things.
The way Jon’s gaze lingered too long whenever you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear.
The way your fingers hesitated while adjusting his bandages.
The way silence no longer felt comfortable.
One evening, you arrived carrying soup and found Jon struggling to fasten his shirt.
The movement reopened the healing wound slightly.
"Gods," you muttered, setting the bowl down. "You’re impossible."
You stepped closer before thinking.
Carefully, you reached for the shirt ties. Your knuckles brushed his chest and heat flooded your face instantly.
Jon went frighteningly still. You could feel his eyes on you.
Neither of you moved away. The space between you felt dangerous.
Jon’s voice came rougher than usual.
"That’s your attempt at changing the subject?"
His expression betrayed him immediately.
Then realization hit hard enough to steal your breath.
Jon stepped back first. Like the closeness itself frightened him.
That hurt more than it should have.
You left before he could see how badly your hands were shaking.
After that, Jon avoided you.
But not entirely...just enough that you noticed...enough to ache.
He became quieter during meals. Shorter during conversations.
Whenever your fingers brushed accidentally, he pulled away too fast.
At first, you thought you imagined it. Then came the distance. And suddenly everything hurt.
You tried pretending not to care.
And you failed miserably.
Three nights later, Maester Aemon asked you to deliver fresh herbs to Jon’s chambers.
The fire burned low when you entered. Jon sat near the window sharpening Longclaw.
The scrape of steel stopped the moment he saw you.
Awkward silence filled the room.
"Your bandages," you said quietly.
"You didn’t have to bring them yourself."
Jon watched you kneel beside him. Close enough to feel his warmth.
The wound had healed well. You should have been relieved. Instead, your chest hurt.
"You’ve been avoiding me," you said suddenly.
That told you enough. The realization stung worse than expected.
"Did I do something wrong?"
His eyes snapped back toward yours instantly.
The intensity in his voice startled you.
Silence followed. Snow drifted softly beyond the window.
"You trust me too easily," he said at last.
"It means—" He stopped himself harshly. "Gods. You’re mighty young."
"And you’re acting as though you’re ancient."
"That’s not what I mean."
Pain flashed across his face from the sudden movement.
You rose too and frustration burned hot beneath your ribs.
"You don’t get to pull away and refuse to tell me why."
Jon ran a hand through his curls.
"Before this," he said quietly, "it was easier."
His eyes found yours. And suddenly you understood before he even spoke.
You could hear the fire crackling softly. Your pulse thundered.
Jon looked almost angry with himself.
"You walk into this room and suddenly I notice everything," he admitted roughly. "Whether you’ve eaten. Whether you’re tired. Whether someone upset you. I wait for your footsteps outside the door like a fool."
You could barely breathe.
"And the worst part is that I didn’t realize how young you still are until I started caring about you." His voice lowered. "That should make this easier. It doesn’t."
Emotion tightened painfully in your throat.
You stepped closer slowly, but Jon didn’t move away this time.
"You think I’m a child," you whispered.
"No." His answer came immediately. "I have cared for you since we were very young. I still see you as someone to protect."
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
The word shattered something fragile inside you.
"I thought you regretted it," you admitted quietly.
His hand lifted carefully toward your face. He hesitated before touching you.
Your breath caught when his fingers brushed your cheek. The tenderness nearly ruined you.
Jon’s forehead rested briefly against yours.
The tension that had haunted the room for weeks finally softened into something...
Outside, snow continued falling over Castle Black. Inside, Jon pulled you slowly into his arms.
And for the first time in weeks, there weren't witty arguments or silent glances.