I Told You I’d See You Again
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Pairing: Jon Snow X Fem!LadyInWaiting!Reader
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Genre: fluff • angst
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Summary: When you left with Sansa to Kings Landing, you and Jon made a promise full of whispered confessions and kisses that you’d see eachother again. Now, after four years of physical and psychological trauma, you and Sansa were brought to the wall where you reunited with a lost love.
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Warnings: Joffery and Ramsay. Yes they are warnings in themselves. Physical abuse. Beheading (RIP Ned Stark). Death. (RIP Jon but like then not RIP???)
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ A/N: this is probably the most angst/yearning filled story I’ve ever written. But I don’t like just sad times so don’t worry, has a bit of a happy ending.
The godswood was hushed in the way only Winterfell’s heart could be, snow dusting the red leaves of the weirwood as if the old gods themselves had drawn a shroud over their sacred place.
You had slipped away from the warmth of the hall hours ago, heart pounding in your chest like a caged bird, cloak drawn tight against the late-winter air.
The fire inside had been stifling, filled with last-minute farewells and worried glances from those sworn to Sansa’s side. You had smiled where you were supposed to, dipped your head politely, hidden the way your stomach twisted at every mention of King’s Landing.
The capital was a world away—bright, dangerous, and full of vipers. Everyone knew it, though few dared to say so aloud.
It was Jon who had found you here.
His boots crunched softly over the frosted ground, his breath misting pale in the moonlight. You turned at the sound, and even before your eyes landed on him, something inside you eased. Jon Snow was not a man who belonged to many things, but he had always belonged to you.
“I knew you’d be out here.” he said, voice low, almost hesitant.
“Jon.” You tried to smile, though it trembled. “I thought you’d be with Robb and your brothers.”
“They’ll have me enough in the morning.” He shifted his weight, his dark curls falling into his eyes. “I wanted… one last moment. With you.”
The words cracked something open in your chest. You held your cloak tighter, not against the cold, but against the swell of longing you feared might undo you entirely.
Jon stepped closer, the moonlight catching on his pale skin, the soft fur at his collar catching the few snowflakes that were falling. He had always been beautiful to you—quietly so, in the way snow was beautiful. Not dazzling, but steadfast. Constant. A quiet kind of wonder that settled deep in your bones.
“You leave tomorrow,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud made it more real. “With Sansa.”
“Yes.” Your throat tightened around the word.
His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there as though he fought with words he did not know how to shape. His fingers twitched through his gloves. That was Jon’s way—full of things he wanted to say, never certain how to say them. But tonight, perhaps, the weight of time pressed too heavy for silence.
“I don’t like it,” he confessed at last. “I don’t trust the south. I don’t trust their people, or their court. You shouldn’t have to go.”
“I serve Sansa,” you said gently, though your own doubts had plagued you for weeks.“Where she goes, I go. She’ll need me.”
Jon nodded, though his eyes burned with a helplessness that hollowed you. “Aye. She will. But who will I have, when you’re gone?”
The words were like a knife twisted between your ribs, but you knew he never meant it in a malicious way.
You reached for him without thinking, your fingers brushing his gloved hand. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he caught your hand firmly, as though anchoring himself to the only truth he knew.
“I don’t have much to give you, there not much a bastard can offer,” he said, voice rough with urgency, “but I swear this: I’ll see you again. No matter how long it takes. No matter what it costs.”
Your eyes stung, tears threatening as you tried to hold them back. “Don’t promise me that,” you breathed. “You don’t know what the world will bring.”
“Then let it bring what it will.” He stepped closer, his free hand rising to cup your cheek. His palm was cold, roughened with callouses, but the touch set your skin alight. “I’ll find you again. Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”
You couldn’t fight it anymore. The tears slid hot down your cheeks, and before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question neither of you had dared to ask. Then it deepened, desperation bleeding into every brush of lips, every shiver of breath.
Jon held you as if he feared you’d vanish with the morning, and you clung back with equal fervor, pouring every unsaid word, every hidden longing, into that single moment.
When you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling, the world seemed to hold its breath.
“You’re mine,” Jon whispered, as if speaking it might make it true across distance and years. “No matter where you go. No matter what happens. You’ll always be mine.”
Your heart broke and healed in the same beat. You nodded, letting your hand rest over his racing heart. “And you, mine.”
The godswood bore witness to your vow, the red leaves whispering overhead like a thousand unseen eyes. In the stillness, you almost believed that the promise would be enough to hold back the storm.
You did not know, then, how cruel the years would be. You did not know the faces of kings or monsters, the taste of blood in your mouth, or the weight of scars yet unearned.
But you carried that kiss with you. That promise.
The road south seemed endless. Spring crept cautiously across the land, but to you, it felt nothing like the renewal you had known in the North.
Here, the air grew warmer too quickly, the winds carried dust instead of snowflakes, and the nights were louder—filled with insects, strangers, and the constant groaning wheels of the royal carriage.
Sansa rode ahead often, her auburn hair glinting bright in the sun, a sight that caught the king’s eye far too easily. She carried herself proudly, as she had been taught, the picture of a lady betrothed to a prince. You followed quietly, as was your place, a shadow at her side. Lady-in-waiting, companion, shield when needed. You did not envy her; you pitied her, though you did not let her see it.
At night, when the fires burned low and the camp settled, Sansa would sometimes lie awake, staring at the stars as though they might tell her the shape of her future. You’d sit beside her, mending a sleeve or brushing her hair.
“Do you think it will be as wonderful as they say?” she asked once, her voice wistful. “King’s Landing. The Red Keep. The court. The songs always speak of it as though it’s a dream.”
You hesitated. “Dreams can be fair or foul, my lady.” You didn’t want to dim her spark but you also needed her to understand that things could be different than the way they were exaggerated in the songs and tales.
Sansa frowned, childlike, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “It has to be wonderful,” she said, almost fiercely. “It must.”
You smoothed her braid and said nothing. Deep inside, you thought of Jon’s eyes in the godswood—dark, worried, warning—and wished you could carry that look with you as armor.
The capital was dazzling in its own way: white stone towers catching the sunlight, banners snapping in the breeze, streets teeming with color and sound. Sansa gasped at the sight, her hands clasped in yours like a child too excited to contain themselves.
You, however, did not gasp. Your stomach twisted. For all its splendor, King’s Landing smelled of rot beneath the perfume—fish left too long on the docks, waste tossed into alleys, sweat baking in the sun.
You had such a bad feeling in your gut but you were here for Sansa. You wouldn’t let your fears and doubts get in the way of her happiness.
In the Red Keep, you learned your place quickly. Sansa was betrothed to the crown prince, and every eye turned on her with calculation. The queen’s smiles were sharp like knives. The courtiers’ laughter hid teeth. Even the servants seemed sharper here, watching for weakness they could exploit.
You walked a step behind Sansa, hands folded, eyes lowered, and yet still you felt the weight of it pressing on you. They saw you as hers—her shadow, her confidante. That meant you were worth something, and in King’s Landing, worth was a dangerous thing.
The cruelties began softly. A jab at dinner about your northern accent. A mocking look when you stumbled over the endless stairs of the Keep. Servants whispering when you passed, calling you “the wolf girl’s shadow.”
You bore it quietly, for Sansa’s sake. She needed to shine, to impress, to stand proud before her prince. When she blushed beneath Joffrey’s compliments, you forced yourself to smile too, though something about his smirk made your skin crawl.
At night, Sansa would chatter about him—how handsome he was, how noble, how gallant. You nodded, you hummed agreement, and you swallowed your doubts.
But sometimes, when she slept, you sat by the window and thought of Winterfell. Of snow on your lashes, of quiet halls, of Jon’s arms around you. The memory of his kiss was still fresh enough to warm you against the cold stone of your chambers.
The first true cruelty came on the kingsroad, long before King’s Landing had taught you its lessons in full. The clash between Arya and Joffrey, the chaos with Nymeria, the way Sansa was pulled between love for her sister and her betrothed—it cracked something in her.
That night, she wept in your lap.
“I didn’t mean it,” she sobbed, clutching at your gown. “I didn’t want her hurt. I only wanted him to—”
“I know.” You stroked her hair, rocking her gently, holding her close as if you could take away the pain that way. “I know, Sansa.”
Her tears soaked your skirts, but you let them. Better you than anyone else. You whispered the old songs of the North until she slept, your own eyes burning with helplessness.
In the months that followed, you learned the rhythms of the court. The morning greetings, the endless prayers, the meals where every bite carried hidden meaning. Sansa grew more quiet as the days went on, her laughter grew stiff, and her smiles were painted on with effort.
You stayed close to her, ever ready with a handkerchief, a brush, a word of comfort. When Joffrey snapped at her, you bowed your head. When the queen corrected her, you curtsied deeper. When Sansa trembled after, you whispered courage in her ear.
You found yourself doing the same for other handmaidens in your court. Wiping their tears when a nobles hand touched where it shouldn’t, sneaking them food when they’ve been dealing with a particularly cruel noble.
Once, when Joffrey struck a handmaiden across the face for hesitating too long over an answer, you stepped forward without thinking. The king’s eyes landed on you, sharp and amused.
“Would you take her punishment, girl?” he sneered.
You did not flinch. You would not give him that satisfaction. “If it pleases you, your grace.”
The back of his hand came fast and cruel. Your lip split, your cheek burned, but you kept your gaze steady. Sansa cried out, but you shook your head quickly, silently begging her not to speak for the fear he would turn his hand onto her.
Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she pressed a cool cloth to your face with trembling hands.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered to you, her concern evident in her voice.
“I’d do it again,” you said simply.
Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned her head on your shoulder and clutched your hand tightly, as if afraid you might vanish too.
It was not all torment. There were moments—brief, fragile—where Sansa’s old self shone through. When she laughed at a story, when she hummed as you braided her hair, when she whispered to you about the snow she missed so dearly.
But those moments grew fewer. The queen’s shadow loomed long, and Joffrey’s moods turned sharper.
You bore the weight with her. You let them mock you, hurt you, use you as shield and scapegoat. Because every time you stepped between Sansa and their cruelty, you saw relief in her eyes, and that was enough.
At night, when she finally slept, you let yourself think of Jon. You remembered the way he would hold your face, the warmth of his kisses. The love in his words. You wondered if he thought of you still.
And when you whispered his name into the silence, you almost believed the old gods carried it northward, across the leagues of stone and snow, to where he waited.
The day everything broke began with shouting in the streets. Rumors ran faster than the wind: Ned Stark, arrested. Treason. Plotting to steal the throne.
You could hardly breathe as you ran to Sansa’s side, finding her pale and shaking in her chamber. “They’ve lied,” she said to you over and over, as though repeating it could change what was happening. “He’s good, he’s honorable—he would never—”
You held her, though your own heart cracked. You knew Eddard Stark was an honorable man. He held the laws and regulations of court as well as his duties to high regard. He would never do or be what they’ve accused. But you and Sansa were just small pieces in a too big and malicious world. There was nothing you two could do.
The days blurred. Pleas to the queen and Joffery. Tears. Desperation. You stayed strong for her, even as your stomach continued to fill with dread.
And then came the day of the execution.
You were given the ‘courtesy’ to stand with Sansa next to the execution block. You believed it gave Joffery a sort of sick pleasure for you to be there to witness Sansa’s life officially fall apart. The sun was too bright, the air too sharp, and every sound seemed to echo.
When the axe fell, when Ned Stark’s head struck the ground, Sansa screamed.
You caught her before she collapsed, though your own knees nearly gave way. The world tilted, broke, shattered. Around you, the crowd roared, jeered, cheered.
You held her face to your chest, shielding her eyes, your own tears hot on your cheeks, your eyes locked on the severed head that laid disrespected on the ground. But you could not shield her ears, nor your own, from the sound that would haunt you both forever.
The moment Winterfell’s dream died.
The days after Lord Stark’s beheading blurred together in shades of grief and terror.
The North had always been your compass, its honor a steady star, but in King’s Landing that star had been shattered before your eyes.
Sansa hardly spoke if it wasn’t to you. She moved like a doll wound too tightly, her smiles brittle, her eyes empty. You dressed her, brushed her hair, whispered comfort she no longer seemed to hear. You wanted to rage, to weep, but you swallowed it. She needed you strong, even if she could not be strong herself.
The court was merciless. Joffrey preened with his crown, the queen smirked her triumph, and the courtiers whispered gleefully of treason and justice. You became Sansa’s shield in truth, stepping forward when she faltered, bowing deeper when she forgot herself.
When Joffrey forced her to look upon her father’s head on a spike, Sansa swayed as if she might faint. You caught her hand tightly, whispering, “Don’t let them see you fall.”
Your own knees nearly gave way when the boy-king turned his eyes on you. “Ah, the little wolf’s shadow,” he said with a cruel grin. “Still following her around like a dog? Perhaps we’ll find a place for you at court too. A whipping girl, maybe.”
The laughter that followed was jagged as broken glass.
You bowed your head, jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms. You said nothing. Later, in the quiet of her chamber, you let Sansa sob against your shoulder until her throat was raw.
Life in the Red Keep became a game of endurance for you two. Each day brought new humiliations, new cruelties. You learned to read Joffrey’s moods before he struck. You learned when to distract the queen’s attention to spare Sansa a question. You learned silence was often the only shield you had.
And yet—there were unlikely mercies.
Tyrion Lannister was not like the rest of his kin. Sharp-tongued, yes, but his wit never carried cruelty. When he became Hand of the King, the court sneered at him, but you watched closely. He listened to Sansa where others mocked her. He offered small kindnesses—a word, a nod, a cup of watered wine when her hands shook.
You began to exchange quiet words with him too. Once, after Joffrey had humiliated Sansa before the court, Tyrion found you in a corridor, your hands trembling with fury you dared not show.
“Best not to let the boy see your anger,” he advised softly.
You stiffened, but his eyes held no malice. Only weariness.
“I don’t need your counsel, my lord,” you murmured.
“Perhaps not.” He inclined his head. “But the both of you need allies, even small ones. And you’ll find few here willing to bleed for the last two wolves in the keep.”
It startled you. But over time, you allowed small trust to grow. Tyrion never overstepped, never treated you with scorn. It was a strange friendship—quiet, unspoken, but real.
Sometimes, when Sansa slept, you wondered if he saw in you the same thing in you two that you saw in him: a soul trying to survive in a place built to crush the weak.
The day of Joffrey’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell dawned bright and hot. You dressed Sansa carefully, smoothing her gown, braiding her hair with steady hands though your stomach churned with dread. Weddings were meant to be joyful, but here, joy felt like a dangerous facade.
The feast was a blur of music and laughter, though every sound seemed brittle. Joffrey strutted, drunk on power and wine, tormenting Sansa with jests and cruel mockery. You kept your gaze down, your hands folded tight, praying silently for the night to end.
Joffrey coughing, choking, his face turning purple as he clawed at his throat. Screams. Shouts. The queen’s shrill cry.
You froze, one arm instinctively around Sansa’s waist. You watched as the boy-king convulsed, as the hall erupted. You felt no pity. You felt no mourning. Only a hollow, stunned silence.
But then all eyes turned. To Sansa. To Tyrion. To you. To anyone who might bear blame.
“Come,” whispered Ser Dontos, suddenly urgent at your side. “Now. Quickly, if you two want to live.”
Sansa trembled, wide-eyed, and you pulled her close. You trusted no one—but in that instant, you knew staying meant nothing but death. You nodded sharply and tugged her along.
The next moments were a blur of rushing feet, pounding heartbeats, shadows and alleys. You clutched Sansa’s hand as though letting her go meant losing her forever.
By the time you reached the river, breathless and terrified, the Red Keep was behind you.
The escape was not salvation. It was the beginning of a new kind of prison.
Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion had never been consummated, yet it still marked her in the eyes of Westeros. She was a pawn, a prize, a Stark of Winterfell with claim and name worth killing for.
Wherever you went, hunters followed.
When Littlefinger’s schemes wound their way to the Eyrie and beyond, you found yourself swept into a web of lies and dangers. You absolutely loathed him, yet you had no power to break free. All you could do was cling to Sansa, whispering reassurance when she doubted herself, bearing the scorn of others so her shoulders could remain lighter.
But nothing could prepare you for Ramsay Bolton.
When Sansa was handed to him, you went too—her shadow still, her shield, her sister in all but name.
The dread set in the moment you stepped through the gates of Winterfell reborn. The castle was familiar yet twisted, its stones haunted by memory. The banners bore the flayed man now, crimson on pale, a grotesque mockery of what was once your home.
Sansa’s face was carved from ice as she was presented as bride. You stood at her side, head bowed, every muscle tight with foreboding.
And Ramsay… Ramsay smiled.
Life in Winterfell under Ramsay was worse than King’s Landing in its cruelty. Joffrey had been a spoiled boy with far too much power; Ramsay was something else entirely. Something darker.
He delighted in fear, in pain, in breaking spirits. And when he turned that attention to Sansa, you stepped between them as often as you dared.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not.
When Ramsay struck her, you moved forward. When he demanded obedience, you took the punishment in her stead. He seemed to relish it, amused by your defiance, by how far you would go to protect her.
The bruises became your constant companions. The nights bled into terror. But Sansa endured, and so did you.
“Why do you always stand in front of me?” she asked once, her voice trembling as you cleaned blood from your lip.
“Because I can,” you whispered. “Because I must.”
Her eyes glistened. “I don’t want you hurt for me.”
“It’s too late for that,” you said softly. “You mean a lot to me, Sansa. If taking a beating means you live another day, I would do it ten times over.”
You embraced then, two broken pieces clinging together in the cold. In that moment, you were not lady and servant, not Stark and companion—you were sisters.
And always, in the silence of your heart, you thought of Jon.
On the darkest nights, when Ramsay’s laughter echoed in the halls and despair threatened to swallow you, you clung to the memory of the godswood. Of his lips against yours, his voice promising, “Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”
You repeated it to yourself like a prayer. You had to believe it. You had to believe he was somewhere at the wall also repeating your words in his mind. You had to.
Because if you didn’t, you feared you would not survive.
Unbeknownst to you, Jon was going through his own version of struggles.
The Wall did not sleep. It groaned and sighed like some great beast, its ice shifting with the wind, its surface glittering cold beneath the pale sun. For Jon Snow, it had long since ceased to be a wonder. It was home now, though home was a word that rang hollow in his chest.
Winterfell was gone to him. The halls of his childhood, the voices of his kin, the warmth of the hearth—those belonged to another life. His was the black now: the rough wool of his cloak, the bite of wind against his skin, the weight of duty on his shoulders.
And yet, even here, your memory would sit with him.
At first it was only at night. He would close his eyes and remember the day you met, the way your love grew until the two of you couldn’t ignore it. He remembered the godswood, the snow in your hair, the way your lips had trembled against his when you kissed him. He would remember the promise he had made—I’ll see you again.
When the days were long and grueling, when his muscles ached from training recruits or from long patrols on the ice, he would hear your laughter in his memory. He had not realized how often you laughed, how often your smile had cut through the gloom of Winterfell’s stone halls. Here, without it, the silence was heavier.
He never spoke of you. Not to Sam, not to Grenn, only to Ghost, who watched him with red eyes that seemed to know too much.
You were his secret, his solace.
When the Watch brothers named him Lord Commander, Jon felt the weight of it settle like a yoke across his shoulders. He had not sought it, had not desired it, yet it was his. He bore it with quiet resolve.
But still, there were nights when he stood at the top of the Wall, looking north into endless white, and thought of you. Did you still live? Did you still smile? Or had the vipers of the south swallowed you whole?
The uncertainty gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. He had promised. He had promised. What was a man if he could not keep his word?
Sometimes, when exhaustion left him weak, he let himself imagine you walking through the gates of Castle Black, cloak heavy with snow. He would step forward, take your hand, kiss your snow touched lips and at last breathe again.
It was foolish. But it kept him warm when the wind cut sharp enough to bleed.
He had known discontent brewed among the brothers. His choice to side with the Wildlings was not a choice they approved of. He had heard the whispers, seen the looks. But he had not expected the steel.
The first blade pierced his side. Jon gasped, the cold sharper than fire. Faces swam before him—men he had led, men he had trusted. And yet they carved him open as though he were nothing.
Another blade. Another voice. “For the Watch.”
Jon fell to his knees, his vision darkening. He thought of Robb, of Arya and Sansa, and Bran and Rickon. He thought of Winterfell, of snow falling on the courtyard.
And then—he thought of you.
Your face rose in his mind, clearer than any memory of banners or blades. The way you had looked at him that night, eyes full of fear of the future and love for him, lips whispering his name. He felt the press of your hand against his chest as though it were there still.
As the final knife slid home, Jon let the darkness take him with one thought: At least… perhaps I’ll see her again.
But death was not the end.
He woke gasping, the world searing bright, his lungs burning as if they had forgotten how to draw breath. His body was cold, too cold, and his heart hammered as though it might burst.
They told him later of Melisandre, of sorcery and fire. Jon heard, but he hardly listened. The only thing he knew was this: he had been given back.
He did not know. But in the dark of his chamber, he whispered your name, voice hoarse, and something inside him ached with fierce certainty.
Not even death could keep him from you.
Afterward, everything felt rawer. The cold sharper, the silence deeper, the world thinner. He did his duty still—met with the wildlings, bore the stares of the brothers, walked the halls like a ghost among men. He had brought the betrayers to justice with a face too tired to give away any other emotion.
But the thought of you no longer brought him solace. It was a knife twisting in his ribs, sharper now than ever. Because he had come so close to never keeping his promise. Because he feared he had failed you already.
Yet he clung to it. To you.
He remembered your hand in his. The vow spoken beneath the weirwood. The kiss that had been both beginning and farewell.
Jon Snow was many things—bastard, brother, commander, corpse—but he was still yours. And if there was any justice left in the world, any bit of good, the old gods would lead you back to him.
Its stones were familiar, but they carried no warmth. They echoed with Ramsay’s laughter, with the scrape of locks and bolts, with screams muffled by walls too thick.
The days blurred into dread. Sansa endured with a face carved from frost, but you saw the cracks: the way her hands trembled as you braided her hair, the way she flinched when boots sounded in the corridor. You hid your own bruises, your own scars, as best you could, but some could not be hidden.
You shielded her when you could, always stepping forward, always drawing Ramsay’s cruelty toward yourself. He delighted in it. Sometimes he hurt you simply to watch Sansa break. And each time, you wondered how much more your body could take, how much more your spirit could bear.
But still you clung to the promise whispered years ago in the godswood. I’ll see you again. You whispered Jon’s name into the dark, and sometimes it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing.
Sansa whispered of an old woman in the kitchens, of promises that help would come if she lit a candle in the tower. You listened, heart pounding, afraid to believe.
But one night, you crept with her to the broken window, the cold biting your skin. Together, you struck the flint, the flame trembling as though it too feared discovery.
You stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the two of you staring into the night, praying someone saw.
“Do you think anyone will come?” she asked softly.
You took her hand, squeezing. “Someone will.”
For both your sakes, you had to believe it.
Theon Greyjoy was a ghost of the arrogant boy you once knew. You had grown up with him in Winterfell, seen him boast, laugh, strut like a rooster. That boy was gone. In his place was a broken man who called himself Reek, eyes hollow, shoulders bent beneath invisible chains.
At first, you despised him. For betraying your house, for standing idle as you and Sansa suffered. For being Ramsay’s creature.
But there were moments—small, trembling—where his old self flickered through. A glance, a word, a hand hesitating where once it would have obeyed.
And then one night, when Ramsay’s cruelty pressed too far, Theon found you both.
“You can’t stay here,” he whispered, eyes darting in terror. “He’ll kill you. Or worse.”
Sansa stiffened, her voice icy. “And why should we trust you?”
“Because…” His throat worked, tears glinting in his broken eyes. “Because I can’t watch him hurt you anymore. Not after everything I’ve done.”
You studied him, your heart heavy. He was no longer the boy you’d known, but something in his voice rang true. Perhaps even broken things could still choose to stand.
“Then help us,” you said softly, taking his shaking hand in your own. “Prove it.”
The escape came on a night when the snow fell heavy, muffling the world in white. Theon led you through hidden passages, his steps sure even as his hands shook. You held Sansa’s arm tightly, your heart pounding with every creak of the stones.
Behind you, Winterfell slept fitfully. You prayed Ramsay did not wake.
At the battlements, the drop yawned below, the snow piled thick.
“We’ll never survive it,” Sansa whispered.
“We’ll die if we stay,” you murmured back.
Theon’s face was pale, his breath ragged. “It’s the only way.”
You looked at Sansa, at the girl you had followed from Winterfell to King’s Landing to this twisted mockery of home. You thought of all you had endured together, all the nights you had held her when she cried, all the blows you had taken for her.
“If you jump, I jump,” you said firmly.
Her eyes filled, but she nodded. Together, you grasped hands. And then—
The air tore past you, the snow rushed up, the world spun white. Impact stole your breath, pain lancing through your body. But you lived. You lived.
And for the first time in years, the gates of Winterfell no longer held you prisoner.
The snows were merciless, but hope was fiercer. You stumbled through the drifts with Sansa, half-carrying her when she faltered, half-dragged yourself forward when your own legs nearly gave out. Theon pressed on too, his face a mask of determination and guilt.
When riders came—Bolton men, hunting—the end felt near. You braced yourself, clutching the small dagger you’d stolen, prepared to die before you let them take you back.
And then a shadow thundered from the trees.
A woman, tall as a tower, sword flashing in the pale light. She struck with fury, cutting down men twice her size as though they were stalks of wheat. Beside her, a squire fought valiantly, though clumsily.
You had heard whispers of her—a woman knight, sworn to Catelyn Stark.
You knew the squire too. Podrick had been a good friend to you in your years in Kings Landing.
When she dismounted before you, kneeling in the snow, her voice rang with a vow that made your knees weak.
“Lady Sansa. I swore to your mother I would keep her daughters safe. I offer you my sword and my life.”
Sansa’s lips trembled, tears freezing on her cheeks as she looked at you. She looked afraid to trust another person and you couldn’t blame her. Both of your walls had been built with iron, refusing to crumble anymore. You steadied her with a hand, your own chest aching.
“You can trust her,” you whispered, though your voice shook.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.
Under Brienne’s protection, the path turned northward. The snow was bitter, the road perilous, but for the first time in years you felt a flicker of true hope.
At night, huddled by the fire, you and Sansa whispered of what lay ahead.
“Jon is Lord Commander now,” she said softly, as though afraid the words might vanish if spoken too loud.
Your heart clenched at his name. “Jon?”
“Yes.” A small, trembling smile touched her lips. “At Castle Black. If we can reach him—”
You closed your eyes, the image burning bright. Jon, alive. Waiting. The promise not yet broken.
Sansa reached from her own horse to hold your hand, the same flicker of hope in her eyes. She knew what Jon meant to you.
You let yourself whisper into the wind, so quiet no one else could hear: “Not even the Wall could keep him from me.”
And as the snow fell, you prayed the gods were listening.
The gates of Castle Black groaned open beneath the weight of the storm. Snow swirled in great white sheets, the wind cutting through wool and fur alike, but you barely felt it. Your pulse thundered too loud, your chest too tight. Each step forward was an agony of anticipation.
Sansa’s hand gripped yours from her own horse, trembling though she tried to hide it. Brienne and Pod fell behind, giving her space. Even Theon lingered back, eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched in shame.
Standing in the courtyard, dark cloak swirling about him, hair damp with snow. His face was pale, lined with weariness deeper than his years, but his eyes—gods, his eyes were the same. Grey as a storm sky, piercing as ever, widening now with disbelief.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The wind howled, snow whipped, and the years between you stretched like a chasm. Jon and Sansa simply stared at eachother, almost as if they believed the other was simply an illusion.
She stumbled forward, a sound torn from her throat, half a sob, half a laugh. Jon caught her, arms wrapping around her so tightly you thought he might never let her go and you found your lips curling into a smile for the first time in a long time.
“Jon,” she gasped, clinging to him. “It’s you—it’s really you.”
He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking. “Sansa.” His voice cracked. “I thought I’d lost you as well.”
You watched, tears stinging your eyes, your chest aching with the sight of them. Brother and sister, torn apart, reunited at last. You wanted to give them this moment, every heartbeat of it.
When at last Sansa pulled back, Jon cupped her face in his hands, studying her with a mix of grief and relief. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted.
His breath caught. His hands fell away from Sansa’s face, hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled with something rawer than you had ever seen.
Your ever lasting pet name on his lips shattered you.
It was not the first time you had heard it—he had whispered it to you many in Winterfell’s court and godswood, murmured it in stolen kisses. But now, after four years of silence, after the weight of torment and separation, it felt like a miracle.
You stepped forward, your legs unsteady, tears blurring the world. “Jon…”
And then you were finally in his arms.
He crushed you against him, as though afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You buried your face in his neck, sobs tearing free, your fists clutching tightly at his cloak.
“I thought—you were gone,” you choked.
“I thought the same of you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His hands framed your face then, trembling as his thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. His eyes devoured you, searching every line, every scar, as though to assure himself you were real.
“You’re alive,” he said, over and over, like a prayer. “Gods, you’re alive.”
Your laugh was a broken thing, wet with tears. “Barely.”
At that, his expression shifted. Grief. Rage. His gaze dropped to the faint bruises at your throat, the scars you could not hide. His jaw clenched, his whole body taut with fury held barely in check.
“What did they do to you?” His voice was hoarse, dangerous.
You shook your head quickly, pressing your forehead to his. “Not now. Please. Just hold me.”
And he did. He held you as though he could keep the world itself at bay.
Later, when the storm eased and warmth could be found in the Great Hall, the four of you—Jon, Sansa, you, Brienne—sat together. Food was laid out, though you barely touched it. Your eyes stayed on Jon, drinking in every detail, afraid to blink.
Sansa held your hand, her head resting on your shoulder, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in years. Brienne stood guard nearby, silent as ever, but you felt her watchful gaze soften.
Jon reached across the table, his hand finding yours beneath the wood. His fingers twined with yours, rough and warm, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed.
“I kept my promise,” he murmured low, for you alone.
Tears burned again. “So did I.”
That night, in the quiet of a chamber that held nothing but you and him, you showed him the truth.
You let the cloak fall from your shoulders, revealing the bruises, the scars, the thinness of a body too long starved and beaten. His eyes roved over you, and the pain there nearly undid you.
“Every mark,” he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered just shy of your skin, “is one more I’ll carry with you. They’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”
You reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing his stormy gaze to meet yours. “Jon Snow,” you said softly, firmly, “you are the only thing that kept me alive. Every day, every night, I thought of you. Of our promise. That’s why I survived.”
His lips trembled, and then he kissed you.
It was not the hurried, secretive kiss of Winterfell, nor the desperate imagining of years apart. It was broken and healing all at once, tasting of tears and firelight, of longing finally, finally fulfilled.
When you pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, Jon whispered, “Not even death could keep me from you.”
And for the first time in years, you believed in tomorrow.
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