FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD JON wants GLORY. He wants a NAME. He wants to do something GREAT enough that the question of his birth stops mattering. The Night’s Watch, to him, is a shortcut: a place where a bastard can become someone without ever having to ask for permission. He thinks HONOR will love him back if he gives it enough blood.
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD LORD COMMANDER JON has already DONE IT. He rose faster than anyone around him. He’s competent, decisive, terrifyingly capable. And the reward is… isolation. Suspicion. Hatred. The slow realization that being SPECIAL doesn’t mean being ACCEPTED it means being dangerous to the social order. His power doesn’t fit. His instincts don’t fit. His compassion doesn’t fit. So he does what people like Jon always do: he tries to CUT HIMSELF DOWN TO SIZE so others won’t have to.
And the Ned parallel? That’s where it gets almost unbearable. NED gives up his MARRIAGE, his HONOR, and the TRUTH to keep Jon SAFE. Not just from Robert’s wrath, but from the narrative of power itself. He knows what happens to boys with claims, symbols, songs attached to them. He knows crowns eat children alive. So he chooses obscurity as protection.
But the joke the cosmic, GRRM-grade joke is that Jon is NEVER SAFE FROM STORY. Ned is looking SOUTH. He’s afraid of KINGS and THRONES and EXECUTIONS. He’s afraid someone will try to MAKE Jon into something. But Jon’s danger was always NORTH. It was BAEL THE BARD. It was the OLD STORIES. It was blood that doesn’t stay buried. It was the kind of inheritance that doesn’t care whether you want it or not.
Jon doesn’t die a quiet bastard on a farm somewhere. He doesn’t die as a pawn in King’s Landing. He dies leading FREE FOLK, tearing down the boundaries Ned trusted, becoming accidentally, inevitably a KING-SHAPED THING without a crown. A figure people FOLLOW, not because of law, but because of belief.
And that’s the final sting: Ned thought love could hide Jon from power. What he didn’t understand is that for some people, love is what makes them powerful. Jon never wanted to be special. Then he became special. Ned never wanted Jon to be a story. Then he became a legend. And neither of them survive the collision.
He considers himself quite an agreeable man. It doesn't irk him when Samwell asks him about girls as though he's the resident expert. It doesn't irk him when his socks go missing — he's sure the others nick them because they don't have enough of their own for warmth. It doesn't irk him when new recruits come in, each less voluntarily present than the last, only to be bullied by order of Thorne.
But there is something. One minor thing. It is how everyone else around him has not yet questioned your presence. The logical thing would be to send you to King's Landing, to save you from the fate of the Rangers of the Watch — death by freezing. But you have not said a word since you came — again, to Jon, this is no reason not to get you back to civilization — and the rest of them said that until you spoke and explained why you were even this far North, there's no need for them to send you to the King. "What if it's an assassination attempt? What if this is a ruse to get escorted into the kingdom?" The logic is both sound as well as absent.
"If you think yourself King, boy, then I will have to remind you of the oath you are going to take. If you presume to escort her to King's Landing, we will not stop you. But you will be branded a deserter. And you know what we do to deserters."
And so, Jon had to sit there and watch you take your dinner with them. A separate table, of course, because they all claimed to be gentlemen. He doesn't blame them. They haven't seen a woman in ages. He understands why they do not want to let you go free so quickly. Sam himself, cannot tear his eyes away from you, and he'd once claimed to have thrown up in fear after making eye contact with a woman.
"She's wearin' too much, eh?"
He's not sure who says it ─ safe bet it's Pyp ─ but all he can think about is that it's the opposite. You're not wearing enough. It's too cold for a delicate woman, whose hands were so unblemished, it was clear she couldn't even be fit for begging. However, he doesn't do much about this, besides leave one of his coats hanging on the latch of your door — a modified storage room that was overrun with rats, but still the only room fit for a lady.
The next morning, the coat was gone, and none of his brothers of the Watch were wearing it, so he considered it a mission accomplished. But Jon had never been an observer, not since leaving Winterfell. Everyone there thought he had been, and they'd been partially right. He'd observed the wrath of Lady Cat when he passed. He'd observed Arya's love for the sword. He'd even observed the turmoil in his father's face when the King had come to ask him to be Hand. But he had changed, since being out here. So, he knocks at the storage room — your chambers, if this had been a true castle — once. Twice. No response. You do not leave, as far as he's observed, so he presumes you are in there. "May I come in?" He's not sure if he should add a 'my Lady' after that. He decides if he had to, then you would tell him.
You do not respond, so he goes against all of his upbringing and presses two fingers against the door until there's a creak. "Are you decent?" It's idiotic, but he feels as though he has to ask. Again, no response. You could be dead. You could be unconscious. He opens the door further. You're alive and awake, and across the room, huddled in a corner with his coat. That's a bloody relief. "Are you deaf?", he asks, gently shutting the door behind him. He doesn't mean it to sound insulting. He's just realised you haven't spoken to anyone since you were found fainted out in the snow a couple days ago, and you might very well be. Perhaps that is why no one was getting anything out of you. Not that they wanted to, anyway. They seemed to quite enjoy having a lady unaccounted for in their midst. Gave them something to ogle at.
You shake your head.
"So you can understand the common tongue."
You nod.
"Are you mute?"
He spots the way you hesitate. It's a tell. He kneels down on one knee before you — from where he stands. He doesn't want to move closer and have you scared of him. "If you are present enough to calculate whether it is wise to speak or not, then you have the presence of mind to give me your name, at the very least, if not your story and why you seemed to have resigned yourself to letting the wolves get to you, that day."
There's a moment where you clutch his coat tighter around you, your eyes on the dusty floor. Then you give him your name. Only your first name, the one those closest to you may be deigned to use. You do not look up. He picks up on the frostbitten hoarseness of your voice.
"Common or Titled?", is his next question.
You do not answer. He huffs, grunting a bit as he settles down opposite you, elbow resting on his knee as he looks you over. You stick out like a sore thumb in the harsh Northern cold. "Were you prepared to die that day Samwell found you?"
Once again, you do not answer. He keeps zooming out of his area of specificity of questioning, trying to get vaguer and vaguer, finding something that you will answer, but he is running out of significant queries. So, he settles on something else. "Do you know who I am?"
He doesn't expect a response to this, but appreciates you having the decency to shift your eyes from the rat nibbling on something in the corner back to his own. You shake your head.
"I am Jon Snow.", he informs, extending his hand out to you, some snow falling from his gloves.
You look at his hand long enough for his muscles to heavy, but not enough for him to retract it, before you take it. As he observed. No blemishes on your hand. No jewellery. No— gods! No anything.
He pulls back swiftly enough to startle you, before using his teeth to tug at the tops of one of the fingers of his gloves, pulling it off before pulling off the other ones. "Here. We are starved of gear here, as ironic as it may sound. It is what each man has brought with him, I'm afraid. These are men's gloves, so they are thicker. They will warm you.", he tells you, placing them in your hand.
You accept them, and he watches you put them on with rapt attention. These are clues to your identity, these are more tells, these are—
"Thank you, Jon Snow."
So you had not only come from civilization, you were well-mannered. His mind did not leap to nobility, yet, but it was quite possible you'd grown up in their midst. Perhaps a servant girl. But your hands...
"As I was saying. I am Jon Snow. I am related to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Do you know of the Starks? Of Winterfell?"
"How?" Of all the questions.
"How am I related? I...", he trails off, taking a much-needed long breath. Even strange women who may not even be from the Seven Kingdoms inadvertently have to make him remember his place in this world. "Am his son."
A slight furrow to your brow, and then your freshly-gloved finger points at him. "Jon Stark." Ouch. But this is good, this means you know how titles work. More clues to this puzzle of you.
"Jon Snow. I am illegitimate."
Your head tilts at that. Okay, he was getting further and further away from the nobility hypothesis. Though, the word illegitimate is not as common as the word bastard. "I'm not his. I mean, I am his. I am not his... legit— I... I am his bastard.", he explains, rather agitatedly, though he attempts not to show it to you. He didn't have a particular hate for the term, in itself. He was shrewd enough to know that sometimes a word is just a word, but gods did it hurt like hell to get out of his unyielding throat. "If you know of Winterfell and the House Stark, then you must know where you are."
"The Wall."
"Correct. And we are the Night's Watch. We protect the realm, and all those in it. Of the Seven Kingdoms. With me? Or do you already know all of this?"
You nod.
"So I will skip the history lesson.", he says, with a tiny laugh. "You are part of the realm, yes? We were right in protecting you?"
Once more, you nod. He is getting tired of this, honestly. He reaches for a gnawed-through and empty sack of grain, picking at its frays. "You know, the Wall is no place for a lady. Especially one as... unacquainted with the harshness of the North as you are."
"I am Northern."
He looks up, then. You do not seem to be cursing at yourself internally for divulging this information, so it seems it has not simply slipped out. "Winterfell?"
"No." He's glad you had the good sense not to simply shake your head at him again. "You are not a wildling, and you are not from Winterfell, but you're Northern. Dreadfort?"
"Does it matter that much?"
He genuinely does not have an answer to that. "We need to get you home, my lady. Safe and warm in your own bed."
"What of my needs? 'Protect the realm and all those in it'. What of the wishes of those in it? Do you discard those?"
That is the most he has heard you say in the past two days and he regrets that this tone of yours is directed at him. He briefly thinks no one else would have so humbly received such a bathing in goodwill as this little scoff of yours. You're lucky it's him you're snapping at.
"You do not mean to tell me you wish to stay at the Wall?", he asks, with a little snicker of derision, but it's entirely dark. "What, and join the Night's Watch? Or do you just want to stay and be our maid?"
"Watch yourself."
"Are you higher in station than I am, to command me?", he bites back, as he narrows his eyes at your face. It's usually in times like these that someone's pride kicks in and they expose what treatment they think they should be getting for their title. You do no such thing. "Doesn't matter. Here, we are all stationless, and titleless. So I will ask again. Do you just want to stay and be our maid, or will you tell me why you do not want to go home?"
You do not, safe to say. He tosses the destroyed sack onto the floor as he storms out, slamming the already-rickety door behind him. He can only breathe properly once he's out, and breathe he does, exhaling slowly, quickly, and then all at once. He didn't remember women being this stubborn, opaque, this... disagreeable. His half-sisters were lovely. His father's wife, maybe not so much, but she had her reasons. You, did not. No matter what reasons you had for being here, you had no reason to speak to him in the way you just had. No one else here had tried to speak with you without using the words 'darling' or 'sweet pea' or other things that Jon considered condescending and unbefitting for a lady.
That night at dinner, he makes a decision. A very Stark decision, actually, for all the Snow he keeps saying he is. This decision did not come all at once, it built, the entire afternoon and evening after this interaction, and he realized your game quite quickly. It was the game he'd play, had he been a lady all but trapped in a fortification of this size, surrounded by burly men (and Sam) most of whom were thieves, outlaws, and even rapists. And hence, came the decision. At dinner, he stands, not with finality, not with pomp, or with intent to make others see what he was doing, but simply, quietly, as subtle as the sun outshining the stars to indicate morning, and grabs his plate, his bread, his stew. And he begins to walk.
When he sits by you, the entire room quietens. You stiffen. He sucks at his teeth, eyes on his stew as he hands you his bread offhandedly, as though you'd been fast friends to whom this bread-sharing was a childhood ritual. You gingerly accept. Well, not accept, but take. Which, for now, is enough. He watches you sidelong as you place his bread next to yours. You nod in gratitude. He feigns a struggle to reach the drink on the other side of you so that his mouth is shielded by his exaggeratedly outstretched arm as he speaks to you. "What will they do if they find out you spoke with me? You do not want all the men here crowding you in order to try talking to you, do you?"
He actually does take the foul-smelling ale away from you, lest you drink that and vomit like one of the richer lords — more sheltered than him, but less adaptable — had the first night he had arrived at the Wall.
Jon watches your face for a reaction. Your chewing slows, and you meet his eyes, followed by a subtle nod. The corners of his mouth curl downwards, as he replicates your nod, stuffing his mouth with bacon so that no one can tell whether he is talking or chewing. "I will come back tonight."
You do not have to nod, then. You've got no choice.
"You dare!"
He's honestly got no time for this nonsense. The crowding of men he'd threatened you with seemed to have come to torture him, now.
"You dare to act all humble about your looks and your prowess when even the deaf and mute have fallen for you?"
"Samwell—"
"No, no, he's right, isn't he? You sat by her like you was a married couple, sharin' bread and all that! What are you playin' at?", scoffs Pyp, shoving his shoulder.
"Listen, all of you, I—"
"What did she say? What does she sound like?"
"She's deaf and mute, Pyp!", corrects Samwell.
"Didn't mean her voice."
"I was being polite! Alright? I was raised that way! That ale was not meant for a lady to digest, and one slice of black bread is not enough for a lady, either!", he cries, hoping it will get into their thick skulls that he is one of them, but not in this matter.
"Let's hope one man is not enough, either."
The raucous laughter that follows is one more thing he'll add to the short list of things that irk him. He shakes his head as he shoulders past the rest of them, drowning out questions and insinuations as he leaves, choosing instead to sit out at a post so he can stare out at the white of the North.
Once he's sure all the lads are asleep, he creeps down to the store-room with a lamp in hand. He doesn't knock. You're staring out the window. He closes the door. "Ready to talk?"
"That was cruel."
"I know all of these men. They won't lay a finger on you."
"It was cruel."
His jaw clenches, and he looks down. He can faintly make out the outline of the sack he'd thrown in a fit of rage earlier. "I know."
"No apology?"
"Not yet, no. Not until we speak. Properly, not in the breadcrumbs of information you have been giving me."
"Why can I not just stay? I am not bothering anyone."
Jon huffs out a laugh. "What benefit would we have from keeping a woman here? You are simply an extra mouth to feed. Every man out there will have a purpose. Steward, Ranger, or Builder. What are you? Why are you here?", he asks, slowly moving to lean against the wall right next to the window, so that he may see your face dully illuminated by the moonlight.
"I wanted to go beyond the Wall."
He's not sure if you can make it out in the moonlight, but his eyes widen, and he places the lantern down. "You're a wildling?"
"No. I'm a Northerner." Yes, you told him this.
"Right, but you wanted to go beyond the Wall. Where the wildlings will tear you up and behead you. In that order."
"I have my reasons."
"I'd love to know what they are."
You hesitate, once more, and he decides that's enough prying for now.
"I have training in the morning."
"That's not healed."
"Beg pardon?"
You nod over at his elbow, covered up in layers and layers of insulation — opaque insulation, so he hasn't the foggiest what you're talking about. "That. I can tell by how you hold it. If you have clean cloth and boiling water, I can dress it."
"You're a liar and a healer, then, how exciting."
Your face softens for a split second, and then turns harder than he's ever seen it before. "Or you can let it infect and you can die a horrible, painful death as it eats you up from the inside. It is, after all, your decision.", you declare, turning back to the window.
"For someone desperate to get out of the Seven Kingdoms, you keep looking quite a bit in their direction.", he comments, but he doesn't wait for your reaction, or for your retort, instead stumbling around in the dark for the infirmary stores of clean(ish) cloth, kept —for space purposes — right here next to the food.
He sheds his layers one by one, watching for the injury as soon as he sheds the last one. "Will I be able to swing my sword?"
"I thought you were from Winterfell. Do those at House Stark not teach basic combat treatments?"
"They do, but I did not know simpler methods than herbs existed to dress a wound. I thought ointments and pastes were needed.", he responds, gruff and annoyed.
"Do you even know what an infection is?"
"Yes. I do." Though he knows this is not the case now, as a child he used to picture it as a conniving little creature that crawls into wounds and then creates havoc in every organ in the body.
"Then you should be more terrified of walking around with an open wound like that.", you scoff, yanking his hand to you as you dip the cloth into boiling water he's found from the kitchens.
"Were you a healer, then? In the Seven Kingdoms?"
"Something like that."
"You have to say something. It does not have to be rational, just the truth. Was it a bet? Were you suicidal because the one you love loves another? Were you simply curious?", he presses, his eyes on yours as yours run over his wound.
"How will it help? I hear you all talking. I will be sent right back to the Capital so they can identify me, so how will—"
"I can make sure it doesn't happen. A valid reason can help me give you anonymous asylum at Winterfell, but for that, I need to trust you!", he cries, gripping your shoulders so you look at him, and see how serious he is.
"I don't want asylum! I want to leave the Seven Kingdoms! I don't belong here!"
"And you belong beyond the Wall? With wildlings and wolves and gods know what?"
"There are kingdoms out there, I've heard tell! And besides, anything that isn't in this realm, I will be happy with!"
He stares at you for a good long while after that, the furrow in your brow, the determination in your eyes, the set of your mouth. "You will put your faith, place all your trust in whispers of a possible civilization beyond the Wall, but not one drop of that trust in me, a tangible, honourable man right before you?"
"Do not move enough to shift it too much. Use this arm less.", you mutter, gently pushing away from him as you stand to clean your hands.
He looks down at the bandage, shaking his head in sheer exasperation as he stands abruptly, shutting the door behind him with force that causes it to echo through the dark halls of Castle Black.
You're alone a moment, before his head pops in through the gap of the door. "Thank you.", he mumbles, eyes on the floor before he leaves once more. You smile despite yourself.
He returns the next night and torments you some more in attempts to piece together the life you had before you had decided the snow could engulf you. You, in disobedience, ask about his. He tells you about his father. His half-siblings. He tells you about Arya and her prowess. He tells you about Bran's climbing. He tells you about his Uncle Benjen. He tells you about Theon. You do not tell him anything back. He hands you another pair of gloves (after noticing that these ones have been bitten through by these freakishly strong-toothed rats) and leaves.
The night after that, he sits across from you as you speak of the kingdoms you have heard that exist beyond the Wall, upon his request. He pictures them, in his mind's eye, overrun with wealth and prosperity and true joy, and knows of them to be stuff of fiction. Kingdoms, he thinks, cannot benefit everyone in them. According to what you have heard, there is a kingdom where dragons still do exist, and coexist with the people. He's sure Bran would love this for before his sleep. "And what would your role be in these kingdoms? Queen?", he asks, smiling in the night.
"That is the beauty of being lost, is it not? You can create new roles, instead of fitting into whatever has been passed down from generations. You can be what you wish to, not what others tell you you are.", you whisper, the sound of your voice nearly floating out the window to mingle with the snow. But he catches it.
His eyes fix on your profile in the delicate glow of the lamp. "Is that what you were running from? Expectations?"
"All that I have described, and that is your take-away. It is impressive, how your minds work, the Night's Watch."
"But you were running?"
You gently roll your head toward the window once more. "Of course. No one ends up at the Wall by chance."
"Are you being hunted?"
"In a way."
"Am I allowed to know by whom? Is it someone of power? Someone I might know?"
"It is definitely someone you know."
You do not say it as though it is someone he has spoken to or met, you say it as though it is an abstract entity, a concept, rather. "The King?"
The scoff of derision you give out before sitting up is enough to make him adjust posture, as well. "His wrath? His lust? His Justice?"
"That does not exist in the Seven Kingdoms."
"I find the King's Justice to be very fair."
"We do not need to agree on everything, Jon Snow."
"Whatever you are running from, whatever has happened, I guarantee you, this is no place for a woman."
"Then what is?"
He frowns at the question, tilting his head as you run your fingers over the dressing of the wound you'd addressed three nights ago. "I suppose... her home. Or her husband's."
There is a moment of silence that he despises, because usually, it is followed by a dismissal, and he will have to resolve himself to coming the next night to scoop up more pieces of your life from these fractions of yours.
But when you look up at him, fingers back in your lap like the bandage had scorched you, he realises there is more to come.
"When men commit crimes — or at least, are accused of such — they are sent here, so that they do not die at the hands of the executioner, so that they may have a place in this world, whether they like it or not. What of women? Where do we go?"
"You were framed, you say?"
"Accused. Framed implies a crime had actually occured."
"What was it?"
He knows that would have pushed too far, and he curses at himself for asking it anyway, because it has invoked the silence you seem to constantly present him with. The one that he hates, because it implies the absence of your voice, telling him of a life foreign to him, but oh-so-familiar. "Sorry. But this... is still no place for a woman. Especially not one like you."
"One like me?"
"You are of a soft life. Your hands tell me as such.", he begins, gently taking your hands in his. Normally, he wouldn't. Normally, you'd have slapped him. But these were not normal circumstances. "Adaptability is a skill, and one you clearly possess, but adaptation without cause is simply unnecessary."
"I have not harmed anyone. Emotionally or physically. Directly or indirectly."
"I believe you."
Your lips part. In disbelief at being believed? Perhaps. In the retention of unsaid words? Possible. In surrender to your exhaustion? Likely.
"I will be back tomorrow."
And so he was. It nears a week since you have been amidst the Watch, and only one night — your first — had you been alone. Only one day — your first — had you been seated alone. Jon introduces you to Samwell and Pyp and Ghost. He doesn't know what else to do. He cannot quite bring his father here, and Uncle Benjen was out being the best Ranger there ever was, but he's sure you would get along swimmingly.
The night that solidifies the week's mark of your arrival, he lays down beside you as you pick at your fingernails. His own fingers find your shoulder. Jon has become bolder. He has learnt what touch can do for someone else. He used to think touch was an action. It was something that happened, leading to either war or pregnancy. But he'd learnt that it's an experience. It can intimidate, it can mitigate, and it can elucidate intention. It can calm, it can stir, and it can console, which is a function he required, with you. So, he no longer hesitates to touch, but he is smarter than to underestimate its power and fragility.
"You know you will have to go.", he reminds you, with all the gentleness that you deserve.
"Thorne does not seem to have an issue with me being here. I am not that big of a mouth to feed."
"Thorne does not have an issue for now, because his higher-ups are not here. In three days' time, we will have to take the Black. Our oath, for which his superiors will come to witness. He will have you gone by then."
You turn to face him, arms crossed at your chest as you rest your shoulder on the stony floor below. "Why do you believe in the King's Justice so much?"
"It is present for a reason. If it was unfair, it would not prevail."
"Injustice is prevalent in the land. Me being accused of a crime I am innocent of, and being disowned by my own family is unfair."
"Yes, it is. I have no objections to that. You ran from social ruin, then?"
"I ran from being honour-killed by my family, yes."
Honour-killings. He wasn't even aware they did that anymore.
"And you ran to the Wall because you thought we'd let you through?"
"I'd hoped."
"We are sworn to protect the realm and its inhabitants. I have told you this. We would not willingly subject one of them to the brutality beyond the Wall, no matter how much they beg.", he says, blinking as his eyes adjust to the light in the room enough to form a softened — albeit vague — impression of your face right before him. "Why not Essos? Past the Narrow Sea? Why northbound?"
"I followed the star. North. Ended up here. Haven't reached the star, so I needed to get through the Wall."
"It is no place for you.", he repeats, the thousandth iteration of the same sentiment. "Such beauty", he breathes, pausing for an immeasurable moment before softly placing his knuckles on your cheek in a manner that one would think he were returning his sword to his sheath, "Such fragility, it needs preservation."
"I am not fragile.", you respond, to which he brings two of his knuckles under your chin.
"Aye. But ice is. It cracks with no effort. And if you stay out here, that is what you will become. Both figuratively and literally. Do you understand me?"
You pull away, then, looking beyond him.
"Before Thorne tries to find your identity, you will do as you wish and create a new one. The anonymous asylum in Winterfell is still being offered.", he informs, deciding that is enough touching for now. He does not want to do anything to break the already gossamer-thin trust you have for him. "Accept it. And do what I say, nothing less and nothing more."
The next morning, Castle Black is silent at mealtime, which is rare. But Jon stands with you, not sits, and it seems to shut them all up very quickly. "I have pieced together her story."
Thorne narrows his eyes, disbelief etched between the creases of his eye. "Have you, now?"
"She is of Winterfell. Wandered too far. Was chased by bandits and kept running. She did not know this was North. Did not know she was nearing the Wall, when she collapsed."
"And you speak for her, do you? Is this your way of saying she is now spoken for? Are you married? No ceremony? How romantic."
His words cause the room to be bathed in snickers and Jon wishes he could punch the audacity out of him. "She was traumatized by the incident. She has limited speech. This is why it has taken me a week to piece together what would have taken anyone else an hour."
Thorne stalks closer to you, one step at a time, intimidating, as though you have insulted his mother, before he leans down. "Is this true?"
You nod.
He straightens slowly, a scowl creeping in as he turns on his heel. "Very well. You will need a rider to accompany you to Winterfell. I will ask the Lord Commander to assign you the strongest for protection."
"Samwell.", you say.
Jon pretends to look curious, surprised, as well. He hopes he's convincing enough.
Thorne stops. Smiles. Turns. "What?"
"Samwell.", you repeat, pointing at Sam.
"The pudge? No, he offers no protection."
"Samwell."
"I said no. In good conscience."
"Samwell."
"Ser, I think her comfort is paramount—"
"And why not you, Snow, since you are such fast friends?"
"Samwell is the one that found her, she may feel safer with him."
Thorne ignores him, pointedly. "Why do you not trust him, girl? Has he misbehaved? Do you know him, from Winterfell?"
You shake your head. "Samwell."
"Why the pudge? Why not Jon Snow, from your place?"
"Samwell.", you repeat, trying your best to look distressed, confused, even, by his refusal to acquiesce to your request of Samwell's accompaniment.
Thorne once again narrows his eyes at you, as he asks Sam, "You up to it, boy?"
"Yes, Ser."
"Alright. Come with me to get the assigned leave from the Lord Commander."
Later that night, Jon knocks at your door once more, and you don't respond. However, this time, he knows that means you are at the window. "You did well.", he says, gently closing the door behind him. "You did."
"I was worried he would not approve Samwell."
"I knew he would. You were convincing."
"I wish it were you. You know Winterfell better."
Jon nods, leaning against the wall next to the window once more. "It is best this way. They could accuse me of anything, if I come with you. It would have seemed far too convenient, for a girl to be from exactly where I am from, at a time where my Uncle is not there to corroborate the declaration, and be of limited speech, as well, as you have chosen to portray.", he tells you, reaching out so that his thumb may rub little arcs on your jaw.
"They will say you did it so you could visit home?"
"Among other things, yes. It is safer this way. I trust Sam, and you should, too.", he informs you, smiling. He hasn't done that in ages, but he's also realised there are ways to foster comfort without touch, as well. This is one of them. "Who are you to ask for?"
"Robb Snow."
He grins a little wider, now, at that. "Robb Stark. The true Stark brother."
"You are Eddard's son. You are a true Stark."
"Perhaps in one of your kingdoms across the Wall.", he says, earning a small smile in return. He hands you the letter he's written. "This goes to Robb Stark directly."
"What will I do there? In Winterfell?", you ask, taking the rolled-up parchment. "What role will I have there?"
"You will learn from more experienced healers, and grow your knowledge.", he says, moving closer to you so that you are both bathed in the same moonlight. His voice lowers so that only you, him, and the stars could hear. "And as for your role, you can create a new role, instead of fitting into whatever has been passed down from generations. You can be what you wish to, not what others tell you you are.", he declares, parroting what you had said about the alleged kingdoms that you had once been desperate to run to.
You nod, and he brings his lamp up near your face, the silver of the moon and the gold of the lamp forming shadows on your features that he would ride for decades chasing.
"You will make Winterfell interesting.", he comments, his eyes dancing between yours. "I cannot wait to hear of it."
"Will you do it? Take the Black, I mean?"
"If not, I am a deserter."
"As am I. There is not much to regret deserting in the Seven Kingdom's, in my opinion."
"I will regret deserting the Night's Watch, though. These are my brothers, now."
"Noble.", you remark.
He laughs softly at that. "I try to be. Don't your people have an oath, too?"
"Healers? Yes."
"Will you take it?"
"It might not be in your best interests for me to take it. I may have to resuscitate one of your enemies.", you tell him, solemnly.
He leans closer, in mock conspiracy. "I do not have enemies. Only Ser Thornes that I may want to see slip on a banana peel for satisfaction."
He has made you laugh. He is glad. "Tell me finally. Are you from Dreadfort? Or further south, but still North?"
"I am a Northerner. That is enough. Running northbound led me here, to you, to the Wall. The North is all I need."
It is surprisingly heartfelt, this declaration. Frustrating, but heartfelt.
You look at him — really look — as though he has brought the North Star down for you with no effort at all. "Thank you, Jon Snow.", you tell him, reaching up to hold his face, just as he had been holding yours only a moment ago. "I will be forever grateful."
"Not a second thought about it.", he replies almost immediately, waving the gratitude off with a gentle glint of his eyes, one that you are not sure how exactly he controls on command.
And then, you lean up, as though finally realising that your hands are holding his face. He cannot seem to tear his gaze away from your eyes. Your lips, as well, but that will take years for him to admit. Guilt gnaws at him. "This is not why I helped you."
"I know. I know that." It is interesting, you think, that he cannot fathom that you do not think of him as an opportunist. "I know your intentions, Jon Snow."
His muscles shift just so, in his face, the subtlest hint of a nod. He doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, and it might be endearing, if you were also not so serious, so terrified, but so courageous either.
You do not close your eyes until the very last moment, until you can ostensibly feel that your lips have brushed his, feather-light, barely there, but real. He, however, only opens his eyes when this happens. He is not sure what happens to the lamp in his hand, not sure how it ends up safely on the windowsill, or how one his hands ends up holding a lock of your hair behind your ear and the knuckles of the other gently rub at your cheek as they did the first night he had learnt that touch could heal just as herbs do. He is not even sure how he makes it back to his own bed that night after the dizzying affair of kissing a woman, nor how he makes it up the next morning at the first spill of sunlight into the room to see you and Sam off to Winterfell.
But he does.
This not-knowing, he'll add to the list of things that irk him.
“Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses, and melted on her cheeks. … She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.” — Sansa Stark VII ASOS
“A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You’ll dance with me anon.” — Jon Snow XII ADWD
