#jon x sam x pyp x grenn

[favorite-characters]

𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕤

John Bradley as 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 × Kit Harington as 𝐉𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 × Josef Altin as 𝐏𝐲𝐩 × Mark Stanley as 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐧 (sh. David Benioff, Daniel Weiss / S01 / 2011)

[siravalondulac]

xi. the maiden

meet me in the dark, kiss me in the moonlight

asoiaf ff | jon snow x fem!oc

summary: jon and elle dance word count: 1212 warnings: none author's note: a bit of a happier chapter before next week

masterlist

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Jon had just finished his fifth cup of ale and his head was slowly turning dizzy.

He was to become a black brother, and Sam was as well. And Pyp and Grenn and Matt, and Albett and Halder and Dareon and Toad. Not a ranger but a steward, but that annoyance was at the far back of his mind. Right now all he could focus on was the music, the ale, and Elle sitting on the table beside him.

I loved a maid as green as spring with sunrise in her hair I loved a maid as white as winter with moonglow in her hair

Over the voices of the over two dozen brothers roaring Jon could barely hear her voice, but what he could hear was enchanting. She sometimes looked down at him, the smile never leaving her face, even as Toad started bawling out the most horrendous of drinking songs.

The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun, and her kisses were warmer than spring. But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel, and its kiss was a terrible thing.

They all sang loudly, even Jon, who had never sung in his life. Something about the mixture of the alcohol, the heat, and his brothers stumbling over their own feet trying to dance really did it to him.

Perhaps she was taken By the king's enemies Dragons, Snakes, or even the Others

Perhaps she was mistaken For a lone orphan child And sent to one of the brothels

Dareon sang "Iron Lances", “The Seasons of my Love”, "The Burning of the Ships", "The Wayward Princess", "The Dornishman's Wife", and a lot more songs that Jon didn't recognise. Elle, however, seemed to know them all by heart. Especially the more southern sounding tunes.

They got interrupted in their singing by a drunken Matt falling into Dareon, who lost the grip on his fiddle and dropped it on the ground. Thunderous laughter filled the room.

“Watching you trying to dance is like watching a fish trying to walk,” Elle said with a laugh.

Matt got up from the floor, though not without trouble. “Then you do better, my lady,” he slurred.

“Without a partner?” she said in a mocking voice. “What kind of lady would I be to dance alone?”

“Mayb's our Lord Snow would join you.” Grenn's speech was even more slurred. “He seems like he's know a thing or two.”

Elle smiled down at him, a question in her eyes.

Jon knew he shouldn't. Only lords danced with pretty ladies, and he wasn't one. But he did know how to dance - a long story that somehow ended with all of his siblings and Theon having lessons together - and with the alcohol in his blood the need to touch Elle won out.

“But only if it's a song I know!”

The men cheered, too drunk to fully understand the implications of what this kind of dance meant.

(Jon included.)

Elle jumped off the table with elegance. “That will not be a problem. I suggest “Lions of the East”.”

More cheers.

Jon knew the song, thankfully. It was a joyous one from the Stormlands, and one that Lady Catelyn had them practise to.

She held out her hand to him, palm facing the ceiling. Jon took it and was promptly pulled to his feet.

“Do not worry,” Elle whispered in his ear as she led him into the middle of the little circle that had formed after supper. “I will lead.”

Dareon played the beginning tune on his fiddle. Jon took his position across from Elle. She smiled with so much joy, he could do nothing else but mirror it.

The song was quick, the steps even more so. But with Elle leading him, and the clapping of his brothers edging him on, the movements quickly came back to him.

Elle somehow managed to sing while she was dancing across from him. The way they came so close time and time again, he could hear her voice more clearly.

What he previously thought to be simply beautiful, turned out to be one of the most entrancing voices he had ever heard. It drew him in, kept him close, commanded his every movement.

How she managed to sound so wonderful while keeping her movements as certain as if she were fighting was beyond him.

Jon moved in again and their hands touched.

After so much time, after seeing her so often, after fearing to be disappointed, he could not get enough of the feel of Elle's hands in his. They were smaller than his, though not by much, and cold, which was a relief in the stuffy room they were in. Jon didn't know why he had expected her hands to be soft - he had seen her work with them almost every time they met, of course they would be calloused.

(He much preferred them that way.)

Through the dance Jon got to touch Elle a lot more than he would have ever dreamed of. His hands on her waist, hers on his shoulder, catching her and twirling her, feeling her breath on his lips.

The song ended with a loud shout from everyone in the room, and Jon holding Elle in his arms. She smiled up at him, a faint pink colouring her cheeks. They both breathed heavily.

He pulled Elle up, not letting her go yet. He needed to treasure every moment he had with her, before having to swear his vows on the morrow.

His vows.

Jon took a step back, letting Elle's hands fall from his. She looked hurt for a single beat of their hearts, before smiling again broadly and cheering along with the other men.

He had to have imagined that look on her face. Because there was no way Elle could possibly feel something similar to what he was feeling.

“Another one!” one of the men shouted.

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” Elle answered with a laugh, falling down on her table again. “That was quite enough for one evening.” 

Jon sat down beside her again. She took a deep swig of her ale. He did as well.

“Where's the music?” Albett said excitedly.

Dareon strung up the first few cords, when the door opened and Commander Mormont stepped in, followed by a gust of cold wind.

Everyone fell silent.

“I think you lot have had your fun for tonight. Everyone to their barracks now.”

A groan went through the room. Even though some shouts of protest could be heard, no one dared to truly go against Mormont.

Slowly, everyone filed out of the room. Elle went ahead of Jon, stepping out into the freezing night. He shivered.

Elle smiled at him. “Have a good night.”

As Jon watched Elle walk down the wooden path and towards her tower, he felt a firm hand grip his shoulder. When he turned around he looked into the concerned eyes of his Lord Commander.

“Be careful, Jon.”

“I am.”

It was the truth. He was careful, has always been, all of his life. That would not change now. He would swear his vows on the morrow and fully commit himself to the Night's Watch. He knew himself. And he knew Elle. Nothing would happen. All would be well.

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[lunagb]

A Plague of Sleet and Rot (ASoIaF x The Walking Dead fanfic)

BOOK 2 - A Road of Snow and Grime

Chapter 10: Ghosts of a Dead and Distant World

Masterlist

Relationships: Daryl Dixon x Carol, Rick Grimes x Lori Grimes, Carl Grimes & Sophia, Jon x Andrea, Jon x Beth Greene

Summary: A month has passed since Jon Snow awakened on a highway outside of Atlanta and joined Rick Grimes and his fellow survivors. His memories of his death have returned and our alien world is beginning to make a bit of sense. Ever since the loss of the CDC, surviving in the apocalypse has been a daily struggle. The group is on thin ice. Supplies are dwindling. Hope is fading. The dead are walking. And their only chance for life may be a run-down farm, an old man and his daughters.

Chapter Summary: Jon heads out on an expedition to the McMillian farm to scavenge sheets of tin roofing, a material needed for the construction of their wall. All should go smoothly. That is, unless the dead have nothing to say about it.

Time Frame: Farm Arc - Original Variation

Featured Characters: Jon Snow, Ghost, Mormont's Raven, Rick Grimes, Carl Grimes, Lori Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Carol, Sophia, Dale, Glenn Rhee, Andrea, T-Dog, Edwin Jenner, Shane Walsh, Beth Greene, Maggie Greene, Hershel Greene, Randall Culver,

Warnings: gore, vivid descriptions of dead bodies, child mutilation, graphic violence, death, murder, active combat, descriptions of armed warfare

[Art above is a piece by Art.of.Azrael. You can support them here: https://linktr.ee/Art.of.Azrael ]

Any notes are appreciated!

The forest guzzled the summer sun. Bright, domineering light poured into the pit of a boundless evergreen void. It flanked the road on either side. Two solid walls of bark and leaves; of browns and greens. They loomed high. Their branches reached out above Jon’s head in an enteral struggle to reach each other across the asphalt. Branches, trunks, leaves and shrubs whizzed on by, melding into a single form. An illusion. Just like the figures beyond the tight-knit trunks. Familiar shadows of days gone by played among the evergreen void. The dead weren’t out there. Not here. They were illusions. Just illusions. Nothing more.

If one of them is out there, who would be best? Grenn mayhaps? His strength would be invaluable. But so would Samwell’s smarts. As would Pyp’s aim. And Dolorous Edd always knew who to brighten up a… No. Stop that. They aren’t bloody wares at a market to be haggled over, to be weighed and compared. They were men. Good men. Honest men. Brave men. They didn’t deserve to die. A second life, now that’s what they deserved. Whoever’s out there, may the gods show a bit of bloody mercy for once.

The wind had a certain, homely chill to it. Like an excitable child, it whispered in Jon’s ears, played with his hair and tugged on his cloak. In all this sun and shine, a little cold was welcome even if it was but a summer chill, and a southern one at that. Not that warmth was unwelcome. Andrea was warm. Her warmth seeped through her back into his chest, through her arse into his groin. The women of this land had a much higher tolerance for immodesty. A woman of Westeros, even a northern one, would have been insulted or embarrassed by the situation they were in. She would have been teased afterwards and whispers of her maidenhood would have spread about barracks and long tables for weeks to come. Well, not all women would feel such shame. Beyond the wall, he’d be the one being whispered of. It’d be his manhood that would be the subject of gossip around the fire. The jests and japes would be unending and most would come from the woman herself.

Ahead, the pickup truck led the way. Jon’s stomach sang Glenn’s praises. Thanks to him, Andrea had been forced to slow some. Behind, Sam followed on his motorcycle. He kept a safe distance. Perhaps he knew better than to get too close to Andrea. 

Their little procession made good time along the roads. They passed through fields and forests, long straight stretches and winding turns, unblemished paved roads and cracked, crumbling ones. How long until every road crumbles away? 

Jon caught her looking again.

Throughout the whole ride, their eyes kept meeting. Just a small glance here and there as their aimless gazes born of boredom crossed paths. Each time, Beth stiffened and looked off to nowhere in particular. She seemed quite relaxed for someone without a harness. She was bizarre. Why hate him? She knew he’d been right. The dead were dead. Not sick. Dead. And yet, her eyes dripped with poison each time they met his.

A man stood on the side of the road. 

Not a shadow. Not a trick of the mind. A real man. He whizzed by, fast as a bullet yet, Jon caught a glimpse of him. 

Fat and clad in black.

Jon squeezed Andrea’s waist. “Stop! Pull over!”

Andrea veered to the side of the road. A horrible screech pierced the air. White smoke erupted from the tyres. Gravel dust clogged the air. The wind died. The air stood still. Jon leapt from the bike and bolted down the road’s gravel shoulder. More screeching filled the air. The fat man clad in black turned to face them. He was the right height. The right shape. A black cloak draped past his shoulders. It had to be him. It was Samwell. The distance between them obscured the features but, it was the right face. Pale, round and black hair. Samwell began moving towards Jon along the road’s shoulder.

“Jon?!” Andrea called after him.

“The hell’re you up to, boy?!” Sam yelled.

As the distance closed, Jon slowed. Samwell’s eyes were yellow and green. Long strips of pale flesh dangled from his chubby cheeks. A growl grumbled in the back of his throat. The corpse staggered along the gravel, shuffling and tripping over his feet. His hands reached out, raking the air with cracked nails slick with grime. Jon stopped. The cloak wasn’t wool. It gleamed beneath the summer sun. Silk not wool. His skin was dark. Not pale. Dark. Not as dark as T-Dog’s but still, dark.

Sam appeared at his side, huffing and puffing. “What-” He fought for breath. “What the hell’re you doing?”

“Jon, what’s wrong?” Andrea appeared on his other side.

“It’s not him.”

“Not who?” She asked.

Gravel crunched beneath the corpse’s feet as he shambled closer. Faster crunching approached from behind.

“Did you know this guy, Jon?” Glenn asked.

“Not unless Mo travelled to fucking Westeros,” Sam said.

Andrea shot him a glare and grasped Jon’s arm. “Does he look like one of your friends?”

“Aye, from a distance.” A pit hollowed Jon’s stomach. He ought to be upset. A brother was lost out there somewhere, in need of help. He ought to be relieved. If the corpse had been Samwell, Samwell would be dead. At least I could have buried him. At least I could have said goodbye.

Rot’s sour stench burned the back of Jon’s throat. Sam heaved his sledgehammer over his head. Flesh became pulp and bone became splinters. Black and brown viscera sprayed and splattered. The fat corpse crumpled onto his side. Black blood oozed onto the gravel.

“Fucking Mo the Magician…” Sam muttered. “Had him do some tricks for James’s birthday when he was a tyke.”

“He performed at my 8th birthday party,” Beth said. She approached the corpse with slow, small steps.

“He any good?”

“No.”

“Still the same old Mohammad then.”

“He was a kind man,” Hershel said.

Sam smiled. “Yeah…” He pulled a knife from his belt, cut off the corpse’s shirt and lay it across his caved-in head.

“If he was all dressed up, does that mean he was performin’ when it all started?” Beth asked.

“Probably,” Sam said.

“You think the kids’re okay?”

Sam avoided Beth’s eyes. “Yeah… Yeah, they’re probably fine.”

“They’re not,” Jon said.

Beth flashed him a glare. “How would you know?”

“Because children are the first to die in times like these. Them and the sick and elderly.”

“So? That doesn’t mean these kids are dead. My daddy’s old and he’s still alive.”

“Why do you think it is Carl is the only child in our group?”

“We’re kids!”

“No, we’re not.”

“God, just have a little hope for once!”

“Oh, yes hope. It’s easy to hope, isn’t it? On your little farm, hidden from what’s real. Aye, I’ll simply pretend that the dead aren’t dead. Then they’ll just come wandering out of the woods right as rain, won’t they?”

Beth’s scowl flared and tears brimmed in her eyes. “Bein’ nasty ain’t gonna fix nothin’ neither!”

“Alright, enough,” Hershel snapped. “Both of you, separate. Now.”

“We’re wasting time.” Jon twisted out of Andrea’s grip and made his way back to the motorcycle.

The stench of the corpse stalked him. It loitered as he waited for the others. Jon slipped his brother’s dagger out from beneath his belt. It caught the sun’s glare as a dazzling gleam. He ran his finger along the flat of the blade, over the subtle bumps and diverts left behind by a blacksmith’s hammer. On The Wall, the cold would bind bare flesh to the metal as if it were covered in sticky resin. Even when the sun shone. 

The metal warmed his fingertip.

I shouldn’t have said those things. What’s the harm in a bit of hope?

Andrea sat down in front of him. Her back faced him. “Don’t be an ass, Jon.” She put her helmet on. “I get you're upset but don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not upset. I was wrong to say what I said, but I’m not upset.”

“Then you’ve got no excuse.”

Jon put the dagger away.

“She’s out here, Jon. Same as you and me, risking her life for others. And guess what? She’s lost people too. We all have. If she finds comfort in hoping for the best, then let her be.”

“Aye… I know.”

The pickup truck and Sam’s motorcycle roared to life and sped off down the road. Andrea remained parked.

“We need to follow them,” Jon said.

Andrea turned around to look at him. “Tell me you’ve got your head in the game.”

“I do.”

“Do you? If we find something out there like that again, are you gonna freak out on me? Are you gonna keep seeing ghosts? If you are, tell me and I’ll take you back right now.”

Jon bristled. “No. I can control myself. I’m not a child.”

Andrea stared long and hard at him. “I’m trusting you, Jon.”

“You should.”

Andrea nodded and turned back around. As she began tying up her bandanna around her mouth, a latent question simmered in the back of his mind.

“That bad dream you had last night? What was it about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it about a sky of eyes and a sea of black blood?”

“What?” Andrea turned around. “What kind of fucked up dreams are you having?”

“Well, was it?”

“No.”

“How do you know if you don’t remember?”

Andrea sighed. “Because it was about Amy and my dad, okay?”

“Oh. I- I’m, uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine. It was about their deaths. I saw them, like I was there as it happened all over again. I saw Amy get pulled over the hood of that car and swallowed up by the horde. I heard her screams and smelt the blood in the air. And I saw my dad… get stabbed and Amy… Amy screaming over his corpse, pushing her hands on his chest and the blood seeping between her fingers.”

“Death dreams… I’ve had those too. They’re horrible.”

“Yeah…”

“Your father, he… he died during all this?”

“During all this. At the start. The… the dumbass. A little while before Amy and I met these guys, we were looking for food on the outskirts of Atlanta. We came across this guy. He was covered in blood, shaking like a leaf and begging for help. My dad tried to help him and the asshole put a knife through his heart. The wide eyes, the begging, the shaking, all stopped after he pulled out that knife. He snatched up all our food and ran off. He just left us there. No sorry. No nothing. Didn’t even look back as he ran off, the little bitch.”

Jon’s scars ached. “An awful way to die.”

“Yeah… Well, he’s better off for it. My Dad. Amy too. It’d have killed them eventually. They weren’t cut out for a survivor’s life.”

“Aye, I suppose.”

“Alright asshole, you owe me now. How’d your dad die?”

“Nothing as spectacular as yours. I found out about his death from a letter. A king cut off his head for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“I’d call that pretty spectacular. My dad got stabbed by some random dipshit. Yours got killed by a king.”

“A boy king and a shit one at that.”

Andrea shrugged. “Still, a king’s a king.”

Jon chuckled. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Andrea twisted the motorcycle’s handle and the engine gave a mighty roar. Vibrations coursed through Jon. He threw his around her waist. The wind whipped his face. A spray of gravel erupted behind him. The world turned to blurs once again.

***

A smog of rotten stench hung over the McMillian farm. Corpses clumped around the farmhouse, wandered between the rows of green tents, and stumbled through the fields. In all, Jon counted about thirty of forty. More than manageable.

As Andrea sped after Sam down a thin, dirt road through the fields, Jon took in the sight. Tents huddled around an aged farmhouse. All green. Jeeps, bikes and cars accompanied the tents. All green. Matching uniforms and armour covered the corpses. All green. An army. A tank sat out in the field, idle, like a slumbering beast of steel. Some other odd vehicle was out in the fields too. Like a windmill, it sported four blades that stemmed from a central point. They rested atop a rounded cab. Like a sled, it sat upon skids. Like a dragonfly, it sported a long tail. Another smaller set of four blades sprouted from the end of the tail. A powerful army.

Hershel stuck his head out of the pickup truck’s window and waved for them to pull over. They came to a screeching halt on the side of the road in a grass field. Glenn rushed to meet them, trailed by Beth and Hershel. Sam threw his helmet to the ground as he dismounted.

“God fucking dammit!” He kicked the helmet.

“Calm down!” Andrea snapped.

“Calm down?! Look at ‘em all! We’re fucked on time as it is!”

Glenn arrived. “We got lucky last time. The dead were bound to become a factor eventually.”

Sam faced the farm. He ran his fingers through his hair and took several deep breaths.

“There are two fronts to consider,” Jon said. “The fields and the farmhouse. Most of the dead are around the farmhouse but, as we deal with them the field corpses will swarm us.”

“We’ll focus our numbers on those around the farmhouse,” Glenn said. “One of us can take the pickup and run down the field walkers.”

“Daddy should,” Beth said.

“Me?” Hershel said.

Beth pointed at his hand. “You ain’t no use in a fight no more.”

Glenn nodded. “While Hershel clears the fields, we’ll position either bike on opposite ends of the farm.”

“Split their forces,” Jon said.

“Exactly. You and Sam can-”

“Oh my God! Guys, look!” Beth shouted. She pointed at the farm. “In the upstairs window!”

A bed sheet banner hung out an upstairs window. Written across it in childish scrawl were four words.

Help Stuck Baby Inside

“We gotta help ‘em!” Beth said.

“They’re likely dead already,” Jon said.

“Or it’s a trap,” Sam added.

“Either way, we can’t do anything until the dead are, uh, more dead,” Glenn said. “We’ll make three groups. Andrea, Sam, place your bikes on opposite sides of the house. Rev those engines as loud as you can. Jon, Beth and I will make the third group and make as much noise as we can. We’ll split their forces in three. After that, we sweep the house.”

“And if those people are alive, we’ll help them?” Andrea asked.

“Of course, we will,” Beth said. “There’s a baby. How’s it even a question?”

“We’ll help them if they’re alive and friendly,” Glenn said.

“Let’s move out,” Jon said.

As one, they rushed back to their vehicles. Jon followed Beth and leapt into the bed of the pickup truck. Dirt and dust smogged the air. Engines roared. They were thrown to the bed’s floor by an invisible hand. Rotten eyes and dismembered faces converged on their approach. Aimless shambling froze. Dull groaning and droning snuffed. The mass of corpses around the house shambled to meet them. Shrill, screeching wails filled the air.

The pickup truck screeched to a halt a fair distance from the house. Beth leapt from the bed. Jon tossed her, her weapon. A knife fastened to the end of a pole by a thick layer of duct tape. He drew Longclaw and leapt after her as Glenn bolted from the driver’s cab wielding a machete. He pointed it at the porch and the back of the house.

“Sam, there! Andrea, there!”

Sam and Andrea screamed on by either side of the pickup truck. Rooster tails of dirt, dust and shredded grass followed them. The horde’s steady approach faltered. The corpses turned on each other, throwing themselves into one another as they tried to follow three opposing targets.

Glenn slapped the pickup truck’s roof. “Go! Go! Go!”

The pickup truck roared and sped off into the fields. Hershel set his sights on a pair of walkers shambling towards the house and ran them down. Black blood sprayed into the air. A black streak smeared across the grass. The truck veered to the right and set its sights on another shambling corpse. All around the farm, out in the fields, corpses converged on the farmhouse. Most from quite far away.

Deafening revving roared.

“Make some noise! Wave your arms!” Glenn waved his machete in the air. “OVER HERE!”

“HERE!” Jon made himself as big as possible and waved Longclaw about like a madman.

“WE’RE OVER HERE!” Beth waved her spear above her head.

Jon drew deep, squeezing every ounce of noise from his lungs and then some. His lungs burned. Glenn’s and Beth’s shouts and screams rang in his ears. But they were infantile compared to the roar of two engines. The horde split in two. A dozen or so walkers shambled towards Andrea. Even more towards Sam. Four shuffled towards Jon.

“Fuck!” Glenn poised his machete to strike.

Beth readied her spear. “What do we do?”

“Kill the dead and split up!” Jon dropped Longclaw into a steady, two-handed long point guard. “You two help Sam! I’ll help Andrea! Quickly, now! Charge!”

Glenn and Beth’s cries intermixed with the revving of engines as they charged the dead. Jon raised Longclaw above his head, twisted and robbed two corpses of their heads with a sweeping slash. Fountains of black blood spurted from their necks as they collapsed in a heap. The heads snapped their jaws as they stared at Jon with bulging eyes. Glenn brought his machete down on a corpse’s head with both hands. Black blood covered his hands. As the corpse collapsed, he wrenched his blade free of her skull. Beth planted her feet and thrust her spear through a corpse’s mouth. The blade burst out the back of his neck. Black blood sprayed out of the wound. It oozed out of the mouth, dribbling down the spear’s shaft. The walker's eyes bulged. He gargled a wailing cry and struggled against the spear, skewering himself further and further. Beth screamed and yanked on the spear. The knife caught in the wound. She scrambled backwards, dragging the wailing corpse with her. It reached for her, raking the air with cracked, blood-crusted nails.

Jon and Glenn descended on her, weapons poised.

“I’ve got it!” Jon yelled.

Glenn backed off and Jon brought Longclaw down on the back of the corpse’s head with all his might. The blade ate through flesh, bone and the shaft of Beth’s spear. The corpse crumpled to the grass and dragged what remained of Beth’s spear from her hands.

She stared at it, eyes wide. Her rot-soaked hands trembled. “What do I do? It’s broken.”

“Leave it.” Jon whipped out Needle and shoved it into her shaking hands. “You know how it works, aye?”

She gripped the pistol and gave a small nod.

“Come on, Beth. Sam needs our help,” Glenn said.

“R- Right!”

Beth and Glenn raced off together towards Sam. A pack of walkers closed in on the giant man as he swept his sledgehammer back and forth, caving in the temples of the dead. While Sam attacked, Andrea retreated. She ran backwards, facing the encroaching horde. A knife tumbled blade over hilt into a corpse’s face. It fell and in an instant, the horde trampled it, swallowing it whole. Jon raced around the horde’s flank, drawing the attention of several pairs of yellow eyes.

I could draw them away. Divide their forces. No, strength in numbers.

Jon joined Andrea’s side, hacking down a corpse on her flank. “Forget the knives! Use your gun!”

Andrea drove her last knife through a corpse’s forehead. “Fuck that, we’ve gotta make these rounds count!” She yanked her knife free. The corpse collapsed only to have its spot filled by another.

Jon robbed two corpses of their heads. “This is what we’re saving them for!”

Needle’s shots rang out, exploding above the deafening wail of the dead.

Andrea stabbed a corpse in the eye. It tripped as it died, stealing her knife from her grip. “Argh, fuck it! Fine!” She whipped out her gun.

Corpses on the flanks began to circle in on them.

“Back up! They’re closing in!” Jon yelled.

Together, they turned and ran a dozen paces.

“Turn!”

They turned and Andrea took aim. Thunder clapped from the barrel of her pistol, shredding Jon’s ears. The back of rotting heads burst with black, bloody rot, spraying the faces of those who shambled behind them. Eight rounds were fired. Five corpses fell. Two remained. A man clad in a green uniform and a woman clad in green armour shambled towards them.

“I’ve got it,” Jon said. “Save your ammo.”

“Be careful.”

Jon smiled at her. “No promises.”

Andrea smirked. “Fuck off.”

Jon met the two remaining corpses with a sweeping, overhead swing. Longclaw caught the neck of the unarmoured corpse and ate through it like butter. The second corpse’s helmet stopped Longclaw in its tracks. The blade splintered the helmet but the head remained intact. As the corpse wailed and reached for him, Jon yanked Longclaw free. He kicked the walker in the chest, knocking her off her feet. Longclaw pierced between her eyes. She lay still, staring at the sun. A name tag over her breast read Lt Winchester. Jon tried to forget that as he turned his sights on Sam’s horde.

Corpses littered the grass, forming a trail towards the others. Glenn and Beth looked on as Sam delivered a blow to the final corpse of their horde. He swung his sledgehammer over his head. The hammer’s head crashed down on the corpse’s skull. It caved. Blood and brains oozed through the cracks as it toppled over onto its back.

“You bit? Scratched?” Andrea asked.

“No. You?” Jon asked.

“All good.” Andrea looked out into the fields. “Fucking hell… GLENN!” Andrea pointed past Glenn.

The pickup truck wasn’t moving. Its wheels spun, kicking up a spray of rot, grass and dirt. Two corpses hammered on the windows with rotting fists.

Glenn turned around. At once, he shouted, “SAM AND I WILL GET HIM UNSTUCK! YOU THREE SWEEP THE HOUSE!”

“GOT IT!”

“AYE!”

Glenn and Sam mounted the motorcycle and sped off out into the fields. Beth met Jon and Andrea before the house’s porch.

“What do we do?” Beth asked.

“We move as a single unit. You two keep at my back. I’ve got armour. I can block the corpses if need be.”

Beth and Andrea nodded.

“We’ll head straight upstairs?” Beth asked.

“No.”

“What? But the baby-”

“Has survived this long. If indeed it has. It can wait a few extra minutes.”

“We gotta make sure walkers don’t sneak up on us,” Andrea said.

Beth gummed her lips. “Fine.”

“How many rounds have you got?”

“Ten,” Andrea said.

“I’m out,” Beth said.

Jon held out his hand and she returned Needle. He whipped out his dagger. “Take this. You’ll guard the rear.”

Beth took the dagger and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Jon slipped his brother’s lost dagger into his dagger scabbard. They hurried up the stairs of the front porch. The steps creaked and wobbled underfoot. A dead corpse lay sprawled out on the stairs. A pool of dried, red blood covered the boards beneath his head. The front door had been left open ajar. Small, uniform holes littered it. The stench, sour and rotten, seeped out from inside the house. Jon opened the door and wrapped Longclaw against the door frame. Three, sharp hits. Bang. Bang. Bang. He retreated back to Beth and Andrea. They waited half a dozen heartbeats. No response; dead or alive. 

“Slowly, now,” Jon said.

He crept through the doorway, Longclaw poised to thrust. Light made itself scarce inside, barred entry by shuttered windows. The doorway led into a small lobby, which led into a long hall. The hall’s door lay on the ground, its hinges torn from the walls. More small, uniform holes covered the walls. Splatters of blood accompanied the holes. Rot soaked into the carpet. Each creak and squelch underfoot rang as loud as gunshots amidst the silence. Flies swarmed around two dead corpses. Maggots festered in tiny, pinpoint wounds on their foreheads and gaping wounds on the back of their heads. They had no wounds on their stomachs. Nothing had torn into them. Their guns lay beside them within arms reach. Jon stepped over them, eyes trained on the dark. No movement. No sound.

“Did these people kill each other?” Beth whispered.

“Looks like it,” Andrea said.

“Why would they do that? They had so much here.”

“Don’t search for reason. You’re not likely to find it,” Jon said.

They came across the first door of the hall. Jon shouldered it open and took a step back. Light streamed through a blood-caked window. A corpse sat hunched over beneath the window. Bullet wounds covered her chest. Her head was fine.

“Lurker,” he whispered.

Andrea readied her pistol. Beth raised her knife. They nodded. Jon slapped Longclaw against the floorboards. No response. A variant? Or hard of hearing? Jon stomped his foot. The corpse’s eyes flickered open. A hissing screech passed through her lips as she struggled to her feet. Jon checked his blind spots. Empty. He charged and thrust Longclaw. The valyrian blade pierced between her eyes. The screech caught in her throat. Black blood cascaded down her face. She slumped again. Her yellow, rotting eyes stared at Jon, glassy and unblinking.

“Dead?” Andrea asked.

Jon flicked Longclaw. “Dead.”

Jon rejoined them in the hall. Thump. Thump. Thump. Beyond the darkness at the end of the hall, heavy thumps shook the floorboards.

“The hell?” Andrea hissed.

“Form up. Let it come to us.” Jon stepped in front of Andrea and readied Longclaw.

“What if it ain’t a walker?” Beth asked. “We should say something.”

“No. We’ll find out.”

“She’s right, Jon. What if they have a gun?” Andrea said.

Jon clicked his tongue. “We mean no harm! We’re here to help!”

A deep, gravelly growl answered any doubts. Beyond the shadows of the hall, a towering form began to emerge. Tall and broad of shoulder, it towered a head and half over Jon.

“Move back to the end of the hall. Give us space,” Jon said.

“Be careful.”

Andrea and Beth moved to the back of the hall. Jon moved back too, putting space between him and the light pouring through the open doorway. He dropped Longclaw down to his side. He’s tall. Better to thrust through the chin rather than open myself up by swinging overhead. 

Grenn’s corpse stepped into the light. 

A neck as thick as an auroch’s. It’s not him. He’s wearing green. Grenn stopped and stared at Jon. A broad flat face that only a mother could love. He wears no sword or dagger. It’s not him. A tremble plagued Jon’s hand. Fool, it isn’t him. It can’t be. It’s not. But he had his eyes. Those squinted, dull eyes so often full of bewilderment.

“Jon, kill it! What are you doing?!” Andrea shouted.

Grenn’s eyes snapped to Andrea. He broke out into a sprint. With a sweep of his long, thick arm, Grenn swatted Jon aside. The arm caught him in the rib. Jon slammed against the wall and fell to the floor. An invisible blade stabbed him between the ribs.

For the Watch.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed.

The air raced from Jon’s lungs, stealing his strength with it. Andrea raised her gun. Thunder cracked. Grenn’s shoulder exploded. Andrea shoved Beth out of the way. Grenn barrelled into Andrea. The floor shook. Pinned beneath Grenn’s hulking mass, Andrea’s legs kicked and her hands pushed against his face. Jon fought to stand. He fought to raise Longclaw. But his fingers were stiff and clumsy. 

For the Watch.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed.

Andrea’s scream and Grenn’s growl mixed together into a single, awful sound. Beth’s joined them. She lunged forward and plunged Jon’s dagger into the back of Grenn’s skull. Grenn collapsed and Andrea threw him off.

“Andrea!” Jon croaked. He reached for her.

“Are you okay?” She shouted.

Black blood coated her face in a vile mask of rot. The whites of her stood in great contrast. The invisible blade stabbed Jon’s side as he tried to stand. My ribs…

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Are you bit?! Are you bit?!” He yelled.

“No! Why can’t you stand?! What’s wrong?!”

Beth sobbed and screamed. “What the hell was that?! It ran!”

“I think…” The corpse didn’t have Grenn’s face. “I think my ribs are broken.” The nose was all wrong. The jaw was too narrow. It wasn’t him. She almost died and it wasn’t him.

Beth’s tear-stained face appeared in front of his. “Let me see.” She reached for his side.

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“NO!”

Beth yelped and scrambled away.

“F- Forget me. Check her for scratches. Check her for bites.”

Beth gave a quick, skittish nod and scampered back over to Andrea. She scrubbed the blood from her face as Andrea tried to fend her off.

“I’m fine. He didn’t get me. Help Jon.”

“No, dammit,” Beth snapped. “Let me check!”

Jon and Andrea fell into silence as Beth looked Andrea’s face over. When she lifted Andrea’s shirt, Jon looked away. His eyes found themselves looking at the corpse again. His face is wrong. He’s wearing green. He has no sword or dagger. What was I thinking? Trembles worried his hands. Every breath felt short. She almost died. I almost killed her. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He scrubbed the cursed things away. He wouldn’t cry. He wasn’t a boy. A man. He was a man. Ten and seven. That’s a man grown. Lord Commanders don’t cry.

A thousand whispers beggared him. “Lords Commanders shouldn’t be murdered by their own brothers, yet here you are Lord Snow.”

Jon grit his teeth and forced his legs to stand. Searing heat scorched his chest. He staggered over to Andrea and, forgetting his courtesy knelt beside Beth as she inspected Andrea’s chest.

“Is she scratched?” He managed.

“I’m fine,” Andrea said.

Beth shook her head slowly. “I can’t find anything.” She put Andrea’s bra back in place and lowered the shirt.

Andrea’s shoulders sagged as she let out a sigh. “Fuck…” She gave the corpse a quick glance. Despite the black grime, her face looked ghostly pale.

Jon stammered. “I’m sorry, I- I don’t know what-”

Andrea waved him off. “Fuck off. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine…”

“Did you swallow any blood?” Beth asked.

“No.”

“What about-”

“No. I shut my eyes.” She raised both hands. Her voice wavered. “Give me some fucking space.”

Before either Jon or Beth could move, Andrea lurched to the side and spewed all over the hall’s fallen door. On hands and knees, she made a horrible, guttural cry as spewed again and again and again. After three bouts, she sobbed, spat and stood. “We’re not done.” She staggered past Jon and Beth, gripping her pistol tight.

Beth shot to her feet. “Wait!”

Jon struggled to his. He paused. Outside, footsteps thundered up the stairs. The lobby door flew open. Blinding sunlight filled the hall. Sam burst inside, sledgehammer at the ready.

“The hell’s going on? We heard shots!” He shouted, craning his neck to look down the hall.

Glenn and Hershel rushed in after him.

“Beth?!” Hershel shouted.

“It’s been dealt with…” Jon said.

“I’m okay, Daddy!”

“Thank the Lord…”

Andrea turned around. “Jon broke his ribs. Take him outside.”

Sam lowered his hammer. “How the hell’d you manage that?”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not,” Beth said. “Daddy, can you see to him?”

“Course. Come on, son.” Hershel offered him his maimed hand.

“No, I’m fine. I’m needed here.”

“Jon, if you’re ribs are broken you can’t swing your sword,” Glenn said.

“I can,” Jon snapped. Pain coursed through his chest.

It must have shown for, Sam patted him on the back. “Go on, tough guy. We’ve got it from here.” He strode over to Andrea’s side.

“I’m fine,” Jon said.

“Beth, you too sweetheart,” Hershel said. “Come where it’s safe.”

“I can’t, Daddy. The baby. Whoever’s up there might need my help.”

“I’m fine.” Jon found his voice came out small.

A pained look crossed Hershel’s face as he nodded.

“We’ll look after her,” Glenn said.

“Alright… be safe.” Hershel grabbed Jon’s hand.

Jon found himself being led out the door. His legs moved on their own. “I’m fine…”

“Sure, son. You’re fine.” Summer’s sun warmed the air. “Sit down here.” Death’s stench soured the air.

Jon’s arse planted itself on the porch’s steps, right beside the dead soldier. Hershel sat on the opposite side of the corpse and began removing Jon’s layers.

“Let’s take a look at you.” Hershel placed his cloak, mail and shirt in a pile on the porch behind them.

Sun kissed Jon’s chest, warming it even further. Fire danced on his skin and magma pooled in the tapestry of scars across his front, on his side and on his back. Hershel pressed on his side and the invisible blade returned. An invisible blade. A blade. A blade.

For the Watch.

A round face. A red face. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Piercing cold snuffed warmth.

“STOP! NO!” Jon shoved Bowen Marsh away from him.

Hershel’s side hit the step. He lay there for a moment just staring at Jon, wide-eyed, mouth agape. Jon’s shame had never reached such heights.

He held his head in his shaking hands. “I’m losing it… I’m fucking losing it… I’m seeing bloody ghosts.” Pins and needles pricked his fingers.

Hershel got up and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re still here, where it’s safe. Not there. Here.”

Jon nodded. He stripped his hand of its glove and felt his chest. Warm. Not cold. Warm. Shadows danced in the woods beyond the farm. Jon ignored them.

“They’re broken, my ribs.”

“Can I find out how many?”

Jon nodded. Hershel touched his ribs one by one. As the invisible blade stabbed again and again, the shadows kicked up a frenzy. Jon ignored them and felt his warm chest as he gave Hershel a nod for each stab.

“Three. Could be worse.” Hershel handed Jon his cloak.

Jon shrugged into it. Soft cloth hugged his arms and swaddled his torso. The shadows died and the pins and needles faded. His scars hurt.

“My scars hurt.”

“Your chest?”

“Aye.”

“Just your chest?”

“Aye.”

“Not here?” Hershel touched him above the heart.

“No.”

“You short of breath?”

“Not anymore.”

Hershel nodded. “Muscle pain, most likely. Nothing to worry about. All that sword swingin’ probably.”

“I’m sorry I pushed you. I thought- I saw- He was- … I’m a fool.”

“You saw who did that?” Hershel touched the scar above his heart.

He stabbed me in the belly. Not the heart. “I saw nothing. He wasn’t there. None of them are. I’ll never see them again.”

Hershel gazed upon Jon with a sad look. His eyes searched his. After a moment, they broke away and he began unbuttoning his shirt. He lifted his undershirt and revealed a patch of ruined flesh on his belly.

“A going away present from Vietnam. She’s got a sister on the back, thank the Lord. Would have killed me otherwise.” Hershel smiled. “Kinda funny ain’t it? I mean, who saves the medic?”

Jon smiled despite himself. “Who did it?”

“A boy. A little younger than you. The Vietcong held no qualms about using children. They took what they could get, I suppose.”

“And you see him?”

“Oh, he hasn’t visited me for quite some time now. Around the time Beth was born, now that I think about it.”

Jon opened and closed his scarred, sword hand. “He may have tried to kill you but, it’s different. It was war.”

“It was.”

“He was your enemy and you were his.”

“Technically.”

“The men who… who stabbed me were supposed to be my brothers.”

“And when their time comes, they’ll be judged for it. Rest assured.”

“You really believe that?”

“I do.”

“And you believe me?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t they contradict one another?”

“Maybe, but the… the bible said the dead would rise.” Hershel looked around at the carnage that surrounded them. “I don’t know if it meant like this. That’s the beauty of it. We can’t know. Not until it’s over. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s not. It don’t concern me. While I live, death ain’t here and when death does arrive, I won’t be here. Same with heaven. Same with God. So, I may as well keep on believin', huh? What’s the point in stoppin’?”

Buzzing flies filled a lingering silence. They swarmed around the corpses in thick, black clouds.

“Will my ghosts ever stop visiting?” Jon asked.

“One day, son.”

“Which day? How will I know when it comes?”

Hershel smiled. “You won’t know until the day arrives. But when it does, you’ll know. It’ll lift off you. Like takin’ off a big ol’ backpack.”

A scream pierced the air. High and shrill. A girl’s scream. Hershel shot to his feet and rushed inside the house.

“Beth?!” he bellowed.

Jon hurried after him, pain be damned. They found Beth at the end of the hall, on her hands and knees at the bottom of a staircase. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Vomit splattered against the carpet. Sobs and retches mixed into an awful, guttural cry. Glenn knelt beside her, holding her hair and rubbing her back. He stared past her with wide, glassy eyes. Trembling plagued his hands.

Her teary eyes found them as they rushed down the hall. “D- Daddyyyyyyy!” she wailed.

Hershel dropped to his knees beside her and swaddled her in his arms. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Beth buried her face into his chest, responding with only muffled wails.

Hershel stroked her back. “Glenn? Son, talk to me. What happened?”

Glenn blinked at him. “It, uh- he…” He looked over his shoulder, up the stairs.

A great splintering crash shook the house. The sound a shield might make upon buckling. “Son of bitch! You goddamn motherfucker!” Another crash shook the house. It came from upstairs. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

“Sam!” Jon called out.

Silence answered. Stomping footsteps approached the staircase. Sam appeared at the top from around a corner. Blood dripped from his knuckles.

Jon began to climb the stairs. Each step stabbed him in the side. “What is it, Sam? Is anyone hurt?”

“Fuck yes, somebody’s fucking hurt!”

“Is it Andrea? Is she okay?”

“What?” he snapped. “N- No. It’s- that bastard he fucking- ARGHHHH!” Sam punched a hole straight through the wall.

Jon reached the top of the stairs and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Go outside. Clear your head.”

“I can’t.” Sam’s breathing hastened. “I- I- I- gotta bury ‘em. They deserve that much. Not him though. Not that spineless, pixie-dicked bitch! I won’t do it! Never! Fucking never!”

“Sam!” Jon summoned the voice of a Lord Commander. “Calm yourself, now!”

Sam looked about to kill him. Then about to cry. In the end, he did neither and, wandered down the stairs. He sat beside Glenn on the bottom step and held his head in his hands.

Jon found Andrea at the end of the upstairs hall, standing in a doorway without a door. Scratches covered every inch of the door frame. A corpse with mangled legs and broken fingernails lay in a pool of black blood to its right.

“You shouldn’t see this,” she said barely above a whisper.

“I don’t think I’ve got a choice now, aye?”

Andrea looked back at him with tears in her eyes. They carved valleys in her mask of blood and grime. She bowed her head and stepped aside. The whole house stunk of death but even so, it couldn’t hope to compare to the wave of putrid stench that washed over Jon.

A man lay slumped over a crib with a hole in the side of his head. His brains painted the wall beside him. No gun lay at his feet. His body blocked his hands. Jon crept towards the body. Throughout his time admits war and strife, Jon had seen a hundred gruesome sights. Yet still, he baulked at what he found in the crib. A crimson crust covered the babe’s front, from the gash across her neck to the bottom of her tiny rib cage. Thick, white maggots squirmed in her open throat. She looked up at him with a squall frozen upon her face. A knife lay in the fingers of the man. Blood covered the blade.

Jon stared. It didn’t make sense. A knife? But the brains are on the wall. How? Who had-

The answer sat slumped in a corner, on the other side of the room. A boy. No older than Carl. A pistol lay on the blood-soaked carpet just beyond his blood-soaked hand. He had a hole beneath his chin and in the top of his head. Blood and brains painted the ceiling. He started at Jon with bright blue eyes, not blinking, never blinking.

Andrea touched Jon’s shoulder. “Sam wants to bury them.”

“Aye. We should.”

“Have we got time?”

“We’ll take them back with us.”

“Even him?”

“No. Never.”

The first step was the hardest. But after it was taken, the rest rushed to be next and before he knew it, Jon was crouching before the boy. He put an end to the staring, concealing those bright blue eyes from the world for the final time. Jon lay him down. His brother’s lost dagger cut through the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt in one clean, slice. He covered the boy’s head and face with the shirt.

“Have you got your bandanna still?” Jon asked.

“Yeah.” Andrea pulled it from her pocket.

“Do you mind?” Jon gestured to the crib.

Andrea shook her head and held the bandanna out to him. “I- I can’t-”

“It’s okay.” Jon eased the bandanna from her grip.

He cleared the coward’s corpse out of the way. It crashed to the floor. The bandanna obscured the babe’s frozen squall and open neck. Blood soaked through the bandanna’s white pattern. Jon took off his cloak and lay it over the crib. The blood and pain of days gone by hid behind the black cloth of a dead, distant world.

***

No one acknowledged the stench as they stripped the roof. It hung over them, an invisible, sour smog. Nothing smelt worse. Not shit. Not piss. Not vomit. Not even blood. The smell of rotting flesh held no equals, though still, no one acknowledged it.

Not Sam as he removed the bolts from the sheets of tin with a tool known as a drill; a device that looked like a gun but served only to install or remove screws and bolts. Not Beth as she collected the bolts into a plastic container. Not Glenn nor Andrea as they handed the unbolted sheets to the ground. Not Hershel as he helped Jon stack the sheets into a pile. Jon had smelt rot’s stench more times than he could count. And the current stench was nowhere near as bad as the stench in Atlanta. Still, Jon could not ignore it. It nagged at him, prodding him each time as his mind began to wander. Not even his pain could distract him.

“You don’t gotta do this, son. Rest. Before you make it worse.” Hershel squatted with Jon. The tin roofing’s crinkled cut allowed each sheet to perfectly slot into one another.

“I’ll rest when we return.”

Jon and Hershel stood.

“Will you?”

“Aye.”

They approached the side of the house. Andrea and Glenn lowered a sheet over the side.

“You better,” Andrea said.

“It’s not just a little bruise, man. Take it seriously,” Glenn said.

Jon grit his teeth and resisted the urge to snap at him. “I will.” He and Hershel took the sheet from them.

As they carried the sheet over to the pile, Jon studied the helicopter out in the fields. Windmills have similar blades but Jon had never seen one of those take flight.

They dropped the sheet onto the others. “Explain it to me again, the helicopter.”

Hershel wiped his brow with his maimed hand. “When the blades spin, they push air towards the ground. The force of pushin’ all that air down creates lift that pushes the helicopter into the air.”

“It pushes up and down at the same time?”

“Well, uh yeah.”

“How?”

Hershel rubbed the back of his head and looked at the helicopter.

Sam laughed. “Give up, doc. He ain’t gonna get it. It’s like tryin’ to explain physics to a rock.”

“Shut up,” Andrea snapped.

Sam chuckled. His drill whirred a piercing scream. Jon and Hershel approached the house again. However, the so-called helicopter functioned it would be an invaluable asset. If Aegon the Conqueror had taught Westeros anything, it was that flight trumped all. That and fire. Surely, there had to be some kind of science in this world to replicate dragon fire.

“Who invented the helicopter?” Jon asked as he and Hershel accepted another sheet of roofing.

“Leonardo da Vinci, I think,” Hershel said.

“Does he have texts on his invention? Could we find them in one of your libraries?”

“Probably,” Glenn said.

“Not in any local libraries,” Andrea said. “Maybe a state library… shit… we lost the fucking internet… It’s all gone, right? I mean, there’s no way any of the servers are still running.”

They all stopped and stared at her as if all coming to the same revelation.

“Should I even bother asking?” Jon asked.

Hershel patted his shoulder. “Maybe another time.”

“You know, da Vinci didn’t invent the helicopter,” Sam said.

“Yeah, he did,” Glenn said.

“No, he didn’t. He just made a thing that could fall real slow. Igor Sikorsky invented the first real helicopter in like, 1939.”

“Really? They’re that recent?” Glenn asked.

“Yeah, man. Flight’s only like a hundred years old.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Andrea asked.

“You never read a book?”

“Didn’t know you could read.”

“Oh, would you look at that? She’s got jokes. Fancy that.”

“Can you fly it?” Jon asked.

“What?” Sam laughed. “Fuck no. I just studied their design at college, is all. That thing out there may as well be a heap of scrap metal. Same goes for the tank. They ain’t your every day, mom and pops Sudan. You can’t just hop in one and ride away. This other shit, though?” Sam pointed at all the abandoned jeeps and bikes scattered around the farmhouse. “This we can use.”

“Not with the amount of gas we have left,” Beth said.

Sam shrugged. “We’ll just make more.”

“You know how?” Glenn perked up.

“Nope, but it’s gotta be possible right? That scientist friend of yours is pretty smart. I’m sure he can figure it out. Hell, maybe he knows how to fly a copter or drive a tank.”

Glenn deflated. “We’ll ask him. Let’s get back to work. We’re burning daylight.”

Sam grinned. “Yes, boss.” His drill let out a screeching wail.

As Jon and Hershel carried the sheet to the pile, Jon caught a glimpse of them again. They didn’t look human, covered by his cloak, in the back of the pickup truck. Just two small lumps. Not two dead children. Just two lumps. The lumps would go in the ground and then they’d just be two wooden crosses, at the base of a hill in the shadow of a barn.

“Don’t stare, son,” Hershel said. “Look too long and you’ll lose yourself.”

Jon tore his eyes away. “Aye. You’re right. I’ve seen it happen to others far too many times.”

Hershel nodded.

“HELP!” A shout came from the woods. Shadows danced beyond the trunks and shrubs.

Everyone froze. Everyone stared. The shadow grew larger. The shrubbery ruffled. A man erupted onto the fields. A hulking mass of a man with dark skin and desperate eyes. In his arms, he cradled a girl. Blood gushed from the stump of her missing hand.

“PLEASE! PLEASE, HAVE MERCY PLEASE!” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Behind him a boy with fair skin emerged, wielding an axe covered in blood. “P-Please! We’re not dangerous! She’s hurt!”

Hershel raced across the fields.

“Hershel!” Glenn shouted. His next words faded into nothing.

There was a ghost behind the boy.

“We gotta...”

An older man.

“Quit yappin’ and fuckin’…”

A man clad in black. A cloak. A black cloak. Made of wool and cloth. A round face. A red face. Like a pomegranate.

The white winds howled. A giant raged. Men screamed. And the white winds howled.

Can’t they see the giant has been cut? They have no idea. His strength. Men will die. A horn, I need a horn. Wick has a knife. Put it away. It’ll scare him, it’ll- he cut me… why? There’s blood on the side of my neck. I’m bleeding. Why did he cut me? 

For the Watch.

I caught his arm. He’s backing away. His eyes are speaking. “No, not me, it wasn’t me.” But it was. It was you. Men are screaming. I need Longclaw. My fingers are so stiff and clumsy. It won’t come loose. Come loose! I need you!

A round face. A red face. Tears are streaming down his cheeks.

For the Watch.

He punched me in the belly. His hand left behind a dagger. Why is there a dagger? Where did that come from? Why is it inside my belly?

They were running. All of them. His friends. The strangers. Across the fields. They were running to meet each other. The man was screaming. His daughter didn’t have a hand. The boy was crying. Hershel was helping them but still, the boy was crying. The tears were smudging his glasses. The ghost stayed where it was. Silent and still. It stared at him.

Longclaw left its scabbard without a fight this time. They were screaming at him now. Why? What’s wrong? The boy was in front of him now, between him and the ghost, arms wide, eyes wider. The boy was yelling at him. He didn’t look very old. A few years younger, mayhaps. He needed to move. He was in the way. If he didn’t he would die.

Arms wrapped around Jon’s chest. Big arms. The ground abandoned his feet. A chest pressed against his back. Longclaw cut the air.

“God dammit, kid! Fucking stop!” Sam’s voice erupted in his ears.

There were too many voices. They were all screaming so loud. Together, they made each other indiscernible. Only one cut above the others.

“What are you doing?!” Cried the boy with glasses. “Leave him alone! He’s our friend!”

Sam’s arms squeezed him in a crushing vice. “Drop the sword, Jon!”

“Let go of me,” he heard himself say.

“No.”

“I have to kill him.”

“Fuck off!”

“It’s okay.” Bowen Marsh stared at him with a pair of dead eyes. “Let him go. It’s less than I deserve.”

[myreygn]

jon: *blushing*

sam: what's up with you?

jon: ygritte said the b in my name stands for beautiful

grenn:

pyp:

satin:

edd: i'm telling him

sam: dON'T YOU DARE

[littlerockerao3]

The only “incest” ships I like are the ones between the brothers of the night’s watch.

[somefirewhiskeyfortheway]

Jon has more chemistry with his bros than with anyone else on this show and that's the tea

[awolfhasnoname]

The Night Wolf

PART ONE

Request: “Hi!!! I love your writing! Im not sure if you're writing for other GoT characters but if you are could I please get a request for Grenn? I really want to see a Stark reader, like Jons sister to go to the wall like Sansa did and fall for Grenn. Maybe she can have her own dire wolf and Jon thinks they died at the Red Wedding but they fought their way out. Grenn doesn't know what to do at first because of his vow? IDK if that makes sense or is too vague but just make it up as you go hehe!”

Grenn x OC!Stark

A/N: So as per usual I got carried away with this haha, not everything is covered in this because I will be writing a second part. I really hope you like this as its my first time writing for Grenn! I also used this opportunity to use an OC id been working on, I hope you don't mind!

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, Usual GoT warnings.

Words: 1.3K

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters (except for Lyria) or gif(s) used below.

“There’s someone approaching the gate.” A smaller man announced to Grenn, before being met with a questioning look, “A hooded figure, they are approaching quickly,” Grenn nodded before instructing the man, “Go and tell the Lord Commander,” before climbing down the stairs towards the gate.

As the stranger rode in, Grenn stood back, hand finding the hilt of his sword preparing for the worst. “State your business.” As the figure dismounted he noticed they were quite smaller than they appeared on the horse. They stepped forward and removed the hood that covered their face, Grenn froze hand dropping from his sword immediately when he saw the face behind the hood.

The face of a beauty. Soft lips set into a serious expression, her auburn hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves but what he noticed most was her eyes, those beautiful stark grey eyes. Which he then noticed were focused solely on him forcing him to regain his composure. “I wish to speak to the Lord Commander.” The confidence in her voice surprised Grenn slightly, “What business do you have with the Lord Commander,” he asked, voice softer than before.

The woman went to answer but before she could a flash of white leapt towards her knocking her to the ground, “Ghost!” Grenn immediately yelled running over to try to help the woman, but all he was met with was laughter. Her laugh was as soft as she looked, the melody filling him with warmth.  When he reached the pair she was still giggling, pushing the giant dire wolf off her, “Get off, you big lump,” she sighed as his weight was finally removed.

Grenn reached out a hand to help her up but the sudden movement caught Ghost off guard, he jumped before the Stranger growling at Grenn. “Ghost!” The woman snapped before turning her gaze back to Grenn, “I’m so sorry! I guess he’s still a bit protective of me,” she giggles as she soothes the dire wolf back to his normal self. Before he could react, a voice boomed from behind them “Lyria?” Jon’s pace quickened as he walked towards them, Ghost taking to his side as he reached them. Grenn looked at the woman, of course she was Lyria Stark. He had heard stories about her, her beauty, the Stark warrior, the night wolf. He had also heard she was dead, seen his brother in arms mourn for her.

A smirk grew on her face as she spoke to her brother, “Lord Commander hey?” she jested. She barely got the words out before she was being pulled into his arms, he held her tighter than he ever head. She could feel his sadness, his loss and she reprimanded herself for not coming sooner. Pulling back he looked her over, “Are you okay? I thought you were dead! I heard about Robb and Catelyn, you were supposed to be at the Twins too?” Grenn noticed the pain in her eyes as Jon spoke about the wedding, “I was…” but Jon stopped her from continuing, noticing the many curious eyes around them, “We will talk about it inside.” He instructed before looking around again.

“Where’s Shadow?” Jon noticed the smirk on Lyria’s face as she pointed behind the two and sure enough upon one of the many open walkways of the castle sat a large dire wolf, just smaller than ghost and as black as night. The wolf sat carefully hidden in the shadows before heading towards them. His bright red eyes focused on the two men as he sat in front of Lyria. Sniffing at Grenn curiously.

“Great now there’s two wolves,” Grenn mumbled. Lyria giggled causing a slight blush to appear across Grenn’s face, “Don’t worry, Shadow and I won’t be a bother.” A stout man spoke up then, Lyria hadn’t seemed to notice him watching from a distance. “You won’t be a bother because you won’t be staying here, no room for women at castle black.” As he stepped closer a low growl could be heard from Shadow, Jon was about to shut the man down but Grenn stepped forward surprising both Lyria and Jon, “Shut it Vigdis, it’s up to the Lord Commander where she stays.” But Vigdis just laughed, “Got a crush on the little stark bitch, aye Grenn?” Before Grenn could respond Jon snapped, “Enough both of you. Come on Lyria, we will talk inside.”

The pair and their wolves made their way inside leaving Grenn staring after her, not noticing Pyp’s presence next to him. “Who’s the girl?” he questioned. “Lyria Stark, Jon’s sister.” Pyp looked up at him noticing how his eyes hadn’t left the girl and laughed, “Dream on, Grenn.”

Jon wished he had dinner sent up to them instead of eating in the hall like they usually did, Jon could feel the stares of the men but it didn’t seem to bother Lyria. She was laughing and discussing better times, “I missed you brother, things hadn’t been the same since you left.” Jon could see the pain in her eyes as she began reminiscing on when everything had started to go wrong for the Starks, “This is all because of that fat prick of a King, if father hadn’t gone to Kings Landing with him we would all still be alive and well in Winterfell.” A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it, she quickly brushed it away before changing the subject.

Grenn watched on from a table near the pair, watching her smile fade as she wipes a tear away. He can feel the strain in his chest as he fights the urge to approach the table, luckily enough he’s snapped out of his thoughts by Sam, “She’s quite pretty isn’t she?” he remarks, Grenn just feigns disinterest, “She’s alright,” he mumbles as he turns his attention back to his sub-par dinner. Pyp scoffs from next to him, “Alright? Is that why you can’t keep your eyes off her.” Grenn opened his mouth to argue when he heard that same melodic giggle that had already warmed his heart a few times that day, turning to see the beauty standing by the table and Jon nowhere to be seen.

“Grenn, was it?” he couldn’t do anything but nod, “My brother had to meet with some of the free folk, but he said you were the one to see about going to the top of the wall?” He still didn’t respond, not seeming to be able to find any words at the moment, her smile began to fade as she continued, “I’m sorry I don’t mean to be a burden, I’m sure I can find my way up there.” She turned and began walking towards the door, slightly embarrassed by the small rejection. She had just made it outside when she heard a voice behind her, “Wait, Lady Stark.” He paused to regain some breathe, obviously trying to reach her in some haste, “I can take you up the wall.” He watched the soft smile grace her face and felt his stomach flutter, “Only if you’re not too busy, I do not wish to be a burden,” He barely let her finish before jumping in, “Not a burden at all my lady, I’d be honoured.” A sheepish smile crossed his face as he spoke to her, she simply nodded feeling a slight heat reach her cheeks as he looked at her. “Lead the way.”

[hawkeyescoffee]

Maybe it's easy

Ship: Jon Snow x Ygritte

Prompt: Bar AU

Daily Randomized Prompts: 12/?

Summary: Jon has a crush and is stupid about it´.

Word Count: 638

Warning: none

Note: a bit short, sorry

Requests are open! Sent me a asoiaf/got ship and prompt!

_______________________________________

When he entered, he knew she would stand behind the bar.

Unfortunately for Jon’s sanity the others knew that too.

Grenn and Pyp walked past him grinning like the idiots they were, Sating gave him an exaggerated wink and Sam that loyal soul only had an apologetic shrug.

So, what if Jon had a little crush on the cute bartender?

Ygritte was incredibly cool, funny and pretty eyes that were always full of mischief.  She was also directly looking at him when he finally entered after everyone else. Jon would like to pretend that his ears did not heat up like a June afternoon.

The Bear Cave was a small cozy and maybe a bit rundown bar, right across from the factory Jon and his friends worked in. The beer was good, the company better and Tormund, the owner a bit peculiar and particular with his spirits, but he was kind and liked them all well enough that the Cave became a staple of their friend group.

It was where they had gone when Jon had finally pulled his head out of his arse and had tried to honestly befriend these men instead of antagonizing them.

It was where Sam had met Gilly for the first time and had been way to nervous to even speak to her. She had been the one to approach him.

(And the rest was history.)

It had been where Satin had been officially adopted into the group after both Jon and Grenn had been in a fist fight with the dudes at work who kept making homophobic jokes about him. (Something they had ignored in order to keep out of drama, to their shame.)

Hell, even the administration was found here sometimes, but only old Joer Mormont and Aemon Targaryen cared to share a pint with their employees.

That was part of the reason Jon refused so stubbornly to ask out Ygritte.

What was he supposed to do if they don’t work out?

Vanish into thin air and never visit the bar? Leave the city? The country? The planet?

He told as much to Sam on a quiet evening when they were having a last drink at their own place. His friend listened to his half-drunken ramblings carefully and considered the pro and cons just as insightfully.

Jon loved him for that.

For taking his worries of the future serious and not only telling him to go for it for a good time or other such recommendations.

In the end Sam had told him that he had similar fear concerning Gilly, especially since she had a son too, but he was happier with her than he had been ever in a relationship, and he couldn’t imagine his life without her anymore just as much as without their friend group.

Jon was admittedly impressed by that admission.

Which brought him to another evening nursing his drink while the boys were having a loud and confusing conversation/argument concerning dogs over his head.

It took him a minute or two to realize that he was being watched, When he looked up from his beer, Ygritte gave him a wide grin. He tought it was unfair that someone so tough looked so adorable. (Especially since she would punch him for thinking tzhis)

“Will you go out with me?”

Jon seemed to short-circuit. He just starred for a moment or two and didn’t notice how the whole room had grown dead silent.

“What?”, he asked oh so intelligently. Gods, he felt like a teenager.

Will you go out with me?”, she shrugged as she filled short glasses expertly. “I like you. You don’t have to say yes. I just wanted to ask.”

“I- Yes, sure. I’d love to.”

“Good.”, another grin. “See on Friday.”

She walked away to serve a table and-

Did this really just happen?

[megsironthrone]

Meg's Game of Tales: Tale 17

*Familiar characters are NOT mine! The original author of "Jack and the Beanstalk" is actually unknown, but usual contributed to Benjamin Tabart.*

Warnings: Jack and the Beanstalk AU, angst, violence, platonic fluff.

Pairings/Characters: Pypar x reader(platonic), Jon, Grenn, Edd, Sam.

"Beans?!" Sam cried in disbelief, "You sold the cow…for beans?!" Pypar shrugged a bit. "He said they were magic beans." The others groaned. "Magic beans? Come on, Pyp! I know you're a bit thick, but I didn't think you were that stupid!" Grenn scolded, making poor Pypar feel even smaller.

He was one of the youngest members of their little group that lived on the farm and admittedly, he still had moments of naiveté now and then. So when an older gentleman offered to trade the so-called magic beans for their old cow, Pypar agreed without much thought. Now he was on the receiving end of the disappointed looks from all his housemates.

Jon stared at the beans in his hand for a moment before shaking his head. "Plant 'em in the ground. Hopefully they grow quickly so we'll at least have something to eat." With that, Jon walked off to his bed, followed by the others. Each of them shook their heads at Pypar as they passed. At least Edd gave his shoulder a pat. As soon as everyone else was gone, Pypar went outside to plant the seeds. "Please work," he whispered before going to bed himself.

The next morning, Pypar was violently shaken by Grenn. He jerked awake, surprised to see all his friends crowded around him looking more frightened than he'd ever seen them. "What is it?" he asked. "What is it?" Edd repeated, "What did you do?" Edd pointed toward the window, prompting Pypar to look out. His eyes widened and he gaped openly. "They were magic!" he cried when his brain finally caught up to what he was seeing. He didn't even bother to wait for his friends as he pulled on his boots and ran outside.

Pypar only stopped running when he came to the base of a humongous beanstalk that stretched up to the sky only to disappear into the clouds. "Where do you think it goes?" Pypar asked to no one in particular."Probably nowhere. Let's cut it down. Maybe we can cook parts of it," Grenn stated from behind Pypar. Pypar shook his head. "I want to see where it goes." With his mind made up, he began hoisting himself up the stalk and ignored the calls of his name.

*time skip*

Pypar's arms burned with effort, but he was finally at the top of the beanstalk. He was a little wary about placing his weight on the cloud, but to his surprise it was sturdy. He sat down to catch his breath only to have it catch in his throat when he caught sight of a castle bigger than any he had ever seen in his life. A smile spread across his lips. Where there was a castle, there was usually treasure.

Pypar quickly made his way toward the castle. At first, he didn't know how he'd get in. It wasn't like he could open the doors. They were far too large. Lucky for him, there was a small hole in one of the walls most likely created by a mouse. He used that to find his way into the castle.

Inside Pypar was greeted with the sight of mountains of gold and every beautiful golden thing you could imagine. There was even a goose sitting in a nest full of golden eggs. The goose was asleep so Pypar took the chance to climb into the nest. The egg was about half his height and appeared to be solid gold. The money he could get for that would feed him and the others for months.

"What do you think you're doing?!" a voice rumbled above him. Pypar jumped and turned to see you standing over him. "Y-You're a gi-gi-giant. Giants!" You laughed, causing Pypar to nearly fall over. "And you're tiny. Not even enough meat on your bones for a snack. How did you get up here?" You held out your hand for Pypar to climb onto. You'd said he wasn't enough for a snack, so Pypar climbed into your hand and explained what had happened.

Pypar spent a large chunk of the day with you. You seemed nice, for a giant that could easily crush his bones into dust if you wanted to. Pypar told you stories and sang for you. He learned that giants had always been in the world above the clouds and had once had alliances with humans below. But the humans grew to fear the giants and chopped down all the beanstalks that connected the two worlds. Now, many giants were still holding grudges against the humans, including your father.

Pypar lost track of how long he'd been up there but the sound of giant footsteps approaching caused a look of fear on your face. "You have to leave. If my father catches you here, he will eat you." You grabbed one of the golden eggs and Pypar, quickly rushing over to the hole Pypar had come in through. "Go, my friend." Pypar didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed the egg and hurried as fast as he could out of the castle and back down the beanstalk.

It took hours, but Pypar finally made it back to the ground to find his friends preparing to chop the stalk down. "DON'T!" he demanded, showing them the egg. Their eyes widened. "Giants. There are giants in the sky!" Pypar exclaimed before telling them the whole story of what happened.

Weeks passed and Pypar climbed the beanstalk every few days to talk with you. Sometimes he came back down with new gifts and other times he didn't. He liked spending time with you. You were nice to him. You didn't think he was stupid or judge him for his mistakes. Still, every time your father came home, you would usher Pypar away as quickly as possible. Until one day.

When your father came home, you weren't paying attention as you were too engrossed in Pypar's story as he leaned against the golden harp. It wasn't until your father actually entered the room that you jumped up from your spot. You were unfortunately too late to hide Pypar. The pure anger and resentment on your father's face told the young man that he was indeed in trouble. Your father stormed out.

"Pyp, run. Take the harp and run. He's going to get his knife. He'll kill you. I'll hold my father off as long as I can. When you get to the ground, chop down the stalk." Pypar wanted to shake his head, but you gave him a stern look. "But, then I won't see you again," he finally said and your gaze softened. "I know, but at least you'll be alive." You picked him up gently and hugged him against your chest. When you let him go, you gave him the harp. "Now go."

Pypar couldn't remember the last time he'd run for his life so quickly. The muscles in his legs and arms burned, but he kept pushing himself. It didn't take your father long to realize that Pypar was gone and he came barreling out of the castle. Pypar scrambled down the stalk, hearing your father climbing down above him. The good thing was that because he was so small, Pypar could move faster than your father. Carrying the harp hindered him somewhat, but he kept pushing onward.

As always, his friends were waiting on the ground for him to return. But this time, the ground beneath them was shaking as the stalk moved from the giant's weight. "CUT IT DOWN!" Pypar screamed. Edd and Grenn wasted no time in running to grab the axes and begin chopping down the beanstalk. Jon and Sam joined in, as did Pypar once he was safely on the ground.

The five men swung their axes furiously. Pypar could almost hear his heart pounding in his ears as time ticked down. It seemed like hours, but soon the stalk was almost cut through. It was Pypar's final blow that sent the stalk tumbling to the ground and the giant along with it.

The five men all fell to the ground from the force of the giant's landing. The giant itself didn't move, not even a twitch. He was dead. Pypar collapsed to his back with a soft huff. It was over now. Pypar had the harp that would feed him and his friends for years and the human world was safe from more angry giants. as he laid there, Pypar glanced up into the clouds. He hoped that you would be safe alone in your castle in the sky.

(a/n: There is Tale 17! Our next and final tale will hopefully be posted before I move next weekend and it's based on my all-time favorite Grimm Tale!)

[dwellordream]

On the other side of Jon X, Jon calling his horse ‘sweet lady’ is really cute.

Him threatening to ride down Sam if he doesn’t move is less cute, but Jon knows Sam will jump out if the way at the last moment, though he still feels guilt nagging at him as he runs away from Castle Black. He knows Sam will confess Jon deserted if questioned, but he also knows Sam will not raise the alarm tonight.

Jon acknowledges that Sam loves him like a brother, while refusing to comment on how he feels, since he is abandoning his brothers of the Watch for his Stark brothers. He’s also left Longclaw behind, not wanting to further dishonor the sword.

Jon thinks its must be easier for followers of the Faith, who have septons to confide in and advise them, while he has no one but himself, despite Aemon trying to counsel him. He can’t decide if Aemon was weak and cowardly to let his family be wiped out while staying true to his vows, or if he was strong and honorable.

Ultimately Jon has decided he is willing t go through life hated and scorned, if it means he can avenge his father, but cannot picture Robb as happily welcoming his arrival, and wonders if Ned would have executed Benjen, had he ever deserted. He is determined to die fighting, not executed and bound.

Jon passes Mole’s Town, noting that his brothers also break their vows there all the time, having sex with the prostitutes, which is tolerated, and finally stops to walk when he can push his horse no further. He’s concerned by Ghost’s disappearance, worrying he might have run into a bear, and then hears riders approaching while eating the food he swiped from the kitchens.

Jon hides and quickly realizes Sam rallied the other boys; Pyp and Grenn and Toad and Halder; to track him down, risking their own lives to bring him back, since they might all be named deserters if they’re not back before dawn.

Ghost reveals himself, betraying Jon to his friends, and Jon is confronted. Though he threatens them, they recite their vows to him, and make it clear he will have to kill them all before they let him ruin his life like this.

Jon breaks down and agrees to go back, telling himself he will simply run again another night, but that morning Mormont reveals he knows Jon tried to desert, and had Jon watched as he left. Had his friends not fetched him back, he would have been captured anyways.

Jeor reminds him that he can never bring his father back, and that Robb has plenty of support; Jon would not make much of a difference. He also reminds Jon that his sister Maege is also marching to war and in danger, and tells him the war coming from beyond the Wall is just as important.

“When dead men come hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits the Iron Throne?” pretty much sums up the whole series. The throne is not what matters. The fight to save humanity is. Politics are going to be tossed out the window when the Others arrive.

Mormont declares a great ranging, and wants Jon along for the ride. Despite his anger and grief, Jon vows to not run again, realizing he can do more good here than with the Starks.

[tacitwhisky]

Southern Wolves, pt 2

Jon x Sansa - Jon leaves the Wall to save Sansa from Joffrey. Together they wander the war ravaged Riverlands to try and return home / AO3 Link

--

All day they ride, a swift trot interspersed with walking to keep their horse from collapsing, but even so by twilight the courser is exhausted. Jon jumps to the ground, trying not to stagger despite his sore legs. Smoke hangs over the faraway hill of Kingslanding, great billows of orange and red catching the light of the raging flame below. From so far away it seems almost beautiful. A bitter taste fills Jon’s mouth as he looks. A sight only a Targaryen could love.

“Jon?” Sansa says from atop the courser. She draws tighter around her the cloak he gave her to hide the silk of her dress, and glances up and down the road. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Jon gathers the courser’s reins in hand and leads them off the kingsroad. He forces himself not to look back. I’ll come back for you, Arya. I promise I will.

Night has already begun to fall, shadows seeping out from the trees, before Jon draws them to a halt in a glade. A small creek gurgles at the edge of it, and after Sansa has slid down Jon leads the courser to the water. He pats its flank and murmurs encouragement as it dips its head to drink. By the time he’s finished unsaddling it and tying its reins to a nearby branch and turns back the sun is all but gone. Sansa stands at the edge of the glade, hands clasping and reclasping before her, shoulders hunched as she gazes at the woods around them like a doe about to startle.

Jon pauses, at a loss as to what to do or say. He casts his mind back, tries to think what he would say if she was Arya, but all his life Jon has been painfully aware that Sansa is not Arya. Winterfell was a large castle and their days spent preparing for the roles they would one day have. Despite spending nearly every waking moment beside Robb and Theon, Jon might go a week without seeing Arya and Sansa outside of the occasional meal if it weren't for Arya seeking him out on her own.

But where Arya had sought him out, Sansa never had: her life sewing and songs and gossiping with Jeyne or little Beth Cassel, a distant and sweet summer girl whose hair shone copper in the sun. Our half brother, she’d called him since she was young enough to understand what he was. And since his earliest memory Jon had known what that meant, known that a bastard brother was not the same as a trueborn one.

She knew, a voice in Jon hisses and he looks down, shame sharp as bile rising in his throat. Just like her lady mother she knew you were no Stark even without the secret of your Targaryen blood. Did she ever see you like Robb or Bran or Rickon? Or were you the same as Theon, a boy raised beside Robb but not a brother, never a brother?

Jon pushes back the thought and kneels. He digs through the saddlebag and pulls out a hunk of bread and cheese he offers up to Sansa. He half expects the girl who loved lemon cakes so much to wrinkle her nose at it, but she accepts it silently and folds her legs under her. “Do you think they’ll think me dead?” She asks as she nibbles at the bread.

“They should. We’ll take care though, and I won’t light a fire.” He takes a seat on the ground opposite Sansa, keenly aware of how strange it is to sit here with this girl he once thought his sister. Even in a soiled cloak and after a day of riding she sits graceful as a lady, spine a gentle arch, and Jon has never felt more awkward or dirt stained. He pulls a water skin from the saddlebag and leans forward to offer her it, tries to smile like he would with Arya. “We’ll have to find you something else to wear.”

The words are awkward, clumsy, but all Sansa does is blink and look down at the silk and samite fit snug to her hips and waist. “I’ll be glad to be rid of it.” She says, and Jon is taken aback by the sudden heat in her voice. “Joffrey gave me it.”

There is a deep loathing in Sansa’s voice that Jon cannot remember ever hearing before, a loathing he’d never thought the distant and slender and sweet smiling sister he once thought his capable of. What happened in Kingslanding? An uneasy feeling fills Jon’s gut as he studies her, the way she keeps peering around the glade as though expecting Lannister men to burst from the trees at any moment.

“You’re out of his reach now,” he says firmly and meets her eyes when she glances up, gives her a steady smile and offers her the water skin again. “And you don’t ever have to go back.”

Sansa accepts the water skin, but doesn’t bring it to her lips, only stares down at it. “I was there when it happened,” she says in a subdued voice. “When they took father’s head. And after Joffrey made me look at father’s head- he wanted me to- but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.” Her gaze snaps upward, eyes flashing. “I hate him, Jon. I do. I hate him more than anything in this world. He’s vile and cruel and I hope he chokes and dies. I don’t know how I ever thought him handsome.”

A little shit, he’d told Arya Joffrey was what seems a lifetime ago, but even he would never think of him capable of something like that. A sick feeling fills Jon’s gut and he leans forward, touches Sansa’s arm. “Robb will make him pay. For father. For everything he’s done.”

Sansa blinks and looks down at his hand on her arm. She bites her lip. “I thought you had gone to the Wall.”

“I had. But when I heard Robb was mustering the northern lords and that father...” You were never his son, only ever some mad Targaryen’s dragonspawn. What right do you have to grieve him? Jon swallows. “I couldn’t stay.”

“I’m glad. I didn’t think I’d ever leave that awful place.” Sansa gives him a wan smile and finally takes a sip from the water skin. “Where will we go now?”

“Riverrun.” A pang fills Jon’s chest, but he shoves it down. He does not know how to find Arya, where to even start looking. “Robb and your lady mother are waiting there.”

Sansa nods and hands him back the water skin. They finish the bread in silence, crickets chirping in the distance and a pair of magpies squawking at each other loudly overhead. Jon stows the water skin back in the saddlebag and lies back on the prickly grass as a few feet away Sasna curls into a ball under his ragged cloak. Despite the throb of his muscles from a day of riding, sleep escapes Jon as he listens to the rustle of the leaves in the wind and stares up at the silver net of the stars in the black sky.

Though not the numb cold that seeped off the Wall and suffused muscle and bone and never left, it is still sharply chill without a cloak or blanket and Jon tucks his hands into his armpits to resist shivering. He finds without bidding his mind wandering to the Wall, to the black brothers he abandoned; he’d made Grenn and Pyp swear to protect Sam from Alliser Thorne before he left, but he knows in the pit of his gut he abandoned Sam. I had to. Jon tries to tell himself, but the words are thin consolation. Robb needed me. Arya needed me. And Sansa… Sansa...

“Jon?”

Jon turns his head. Sansa opens the cloak, pale bare arms pimpling in the cold as she does. “If you want,” she starts uncertainly, “we could share.”

Jon blinks. “I smell like horse,” he tells her bluntly, “horse and sweat.”

Sansa purses her lips, just as she used to when scolding Arya, the expression wiping the uncertainty from her face. “Don’t be silly. So do I.”

That I doubt. But it is cold, and so Jon rises from the grass, carefully takes a seat beside Sansa, her shoulder warm against his as he takes the edge of the blanket from her and wraps it around them. Just as he thought, though a day of riding has stripped much of it away, the faint scent of her perfume still clings to Sansa, something sweet and light and flowery. Had she always smelled this way? Idly, Jon realizes that he cannot remember a time when they’d ever touched or been so close even as children. There’d always been a space between the two of them, an empty thing that yawned wider with every passing year that Sansa grew into the highborn lady she was born to be and he stayed the bastard of Winterfell.

Sansa shifts beside him, her warm shoulder pressing against his. “I know I’m not-” she starts before her voice hitches. She swallows. “I’m sorry I’m not, Arya,” she says in a small voice. “I know you came for her.”

Jon shakes his head sharply. “I came for both of you,” he says, and tries to shove down the shame pooling in his gut. Had he, truly? If Arya were safe would you have been so quick to break your vows?

Sansa doesn’t answer at once, the only sound in the glade the rustle of the leaves and far off rasp of crickets. Her hair tickles his jaw she lays her head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Jon,” she says softly. “Thank you for coming for me.” 

Jon nods, throat raw and aching. You’re my sister too, he wishes he could say, but he knows it a lie. She never was, a voice in him hisses, not then and not now. You were only ever some mad Targaryen’s dragonspawn hidden like a snake in the grass.

Sansa doesn’t move her head, and as the minutes pass her breathing evens and softens in sleep. Carefully, Jon lets his own head fall back to rest against the tree at their back, closes his eyes and lets the day’s exhaustion drag him into sleep beside her.

[siravalondulac]

vi. the smith

meet me in the dark, kiss me in the moonlight

asoiaf ff | jon snow x fem!oc

summary: jon walks around castle black and spots elle somewhere she should perhaps not be word count: 829 warnings: none

masterlist

previous | next

After two days, the storm had finally passed and Jon wasn’t confined to the underground passageways anymore. And although he had never loved the sun as much as others might, he had to say he missed walking around the castle in its light.

Many of his brothers seemed to share this sentiment, as he had rarely seen so many men going after their work outside. Even Albett had joined them outside, though Jon supposed that was more due to coercion than his personal want.

“This thing is falling apart already,” Albett said as he kicked a wood panel into place. “I don’t understand why we should try and fix anything.”

The storm had done considerable damage to the wooden ramparts and stone walls of Castle Black, so Othell Yarwyck had recruited anyone who didn’t have a more important duty to help with the repairs. The recruits were the first to fall victim. Ghost, however, had taken off north of the Wall to hunt. Lucky dog.

“Well, he ain't wrong,” Grenn said from the upper floor. “I almost broke my neck the past week walking down the stairs. And that was no storm causing that.”

“That's no proof. You'd fall down the stairs of Highgarden if you ever set foot in the castle,” Pyp countered.

“I wouldn't want to go there anyways.”

Jon shook his head at the antics of his friends, even though he couldn't suppress a smile.

“You really should want to see Highgarden,” Sam chimed in. “It is no Hightower, but the architecture is truly noteworthy.”

Jon could already feel the insults on the other's tongues, so he quickly said, “No matter what, no castle will ever be as grand as Winterfell, I can assure you that.”

“'Course he'd say that,” Grenn said.

The group went quiet again. Jon went to move one of the boards at the end of the staircase in place. He looked around in confusion.

“Does anyone have any nails left?”

A resounding “No” came from everyone in the group.

“Fine. I'll go get some.”

He had quickly found what he needed in the armoury and was on his way back when he noticed several brothers standing at the foot of the Tower of Guards, looking upwards. Intrigued, he walked towards them.

Following their gaze, he noticed a woman sitting on the tower's roof.

“What is Elle doing up there?” he asked the man next to him. Jon had seen him before but couldn't remember his name.

“Fixing the roof,” the man answered. “She's the only one able to get up there.”

Jon's eyes wandered down and up the side of the tower. He spotted a few alcoves and jutted-out bricks, but nothing providing a true way to reach the top.

“How?”

The man shook his head. “Don't ask. You need to see it for yourself to believe, it's as if she can stick to the walls by herself.”

“We can be glad she ain't no wildling,” a blonde haired man spoke up. “Otherwise the Wall would have long fallen.”

Jon looked up again. Elle sat dangerously close to the edge, teetering on falling over. And yet she didn't seem to pay any mind to it.

“Instead of standing around uselessly down there one of you could finally pull up the box I know you already have,” Elle shouted from above.

“Get it yourself! Or are you such a weak and fragile little lady that you-”

The blonde man let out a high-pitched screech as a brick fell down right in front of his face. It landed with a loud thud on the wooden floor. The three men around him broke out in laughter.

“You missed,” one of them shouted.

“Better get me that box or I shall not next time.”

The man Jon had spoken to walked towards a rope hanging down from one of the windows. He grabbed it with both hands and started pulling, heaving a small chest upwards.

“You scream like a girl,” a man said, still laughing.

“Do not!”

Jon's gaze stayed on Elle, even as the men started bickering amongst themselves. She had noticed the rope moving. Putting down whatever tool she had been holding, she grabbed ahold of the edge and swung herself over it, as if she had done it a thousand times before. She climbed down the short distance to the window and took ahold of the chest as soon as she could reach it. She placed it on the window sill, took something out of it and quickly climbed back to the roof.

Jon's amazement must have been written clear on his face, because when the man had let the rope to the ground again and turned towards him he said, “Told you so.”

He didn't know how to respond, so he just nodded and walked towards the staircase he was supposed to be fixing right now.

And even though he tried, he knew the smile on his face was clear to see.

previous | next

[obsidianarchives]

Game of Thrones Recap: S8E2 - "A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms"

Let me get this out of the way up top, I am and have always been a sucker for bottle episodes. While your mileage may vary and I can understand being disappointed if you were expecting more plot than character payoffs, this was everything I could have asked for in a prelude to the devastation we all know is coming. Only one location this week, so let’s get into it.

Winterfell

I don’t know what Jaime thought was going to happen, but the Kingslayer showed up about 19,999 soldiers short on the bill and was immediately hemmed up and brought to trial after arriving in Winterfell like a thief in the night. Daenerys was ready to feed Drogon the man who killed her father (and if he kept pushing it, a side of Tyrion), and Sansa was all too ready to help before Brienne of Tarth stepped in to vouch for him. Finally giving respect to the depths of their relationship, her word was enough for the Lady of Winterfell and Jon, who wants NO smoke between his sister and his love, is just happy to have another hand in the fight. He exits stage left, giving Dany the cold shoulder as soon as she bangs the gavel, ignoring his beloved like he’s 1995 Dumbledore.

Ratbag, slave trader, creepy old pervert Jorah, who for some reason is still hanging around, managed to convince Daenerys to save Tyrion’s head and job as Hand for now and also advised her to have a direct conversation with Sansa instead of ruling by exchanging petty looks. In an overdue change, we’re getting to the point and having characters act like adults instead of talking about each other this season. There is a thawing of relations, as the two powerful leaders find common ground and Sansa explains that her standoffish nature is less about Dany specifically and more about ensuring the protection of her people.

She knows men do stupid things in love (and out of love) and while the Dragon must have three heads, Sansa wants to make sure her people are protected should Jon make decisions with the wrong one. She apologizes for the lack of formalities last episode, but isn’t here for the kiki and wants to know what will happen to the North after the battle with the dead. Dany is as non-committal as Stevie J, but her answer is cut short by the arrival of Theon back in Winterfell. I didn’t like the looks Sansa and Theon were exchanging here, but hopefully it’s just the bonds of friendship and not a more romantic suggestion. I have never seen it for Theon, his redemption arc, shipping him with anyone other than death, or as a staff, record label, and a MFing crew and I’m not about to start now.

The Night’s Watch and Brotherhood Without Banners holdouts (primarily Tormund and Dolorous Edd) made their way to Winterfell from the disaster with the Umbers at Last Hearth less than a day ahead of the army of the Dead. With all the expected players finally assembled, the armies of the living try to come up with some sort of strategy, and their plan centers around setting up Bran as bait to get the Night King in the open. For the first time we begin to get some sense of what the White Walkers may actually want, and chief among that is killing Bran as the holder of living memory. Theon volunteers to guard him, which means he’s as good as dead, but no great loss there. Breaking up the war council, Jon avoids Dany again, still having not told her about being first in line for the throne.

After experiencing even more microaggressions, Missandei and Grey Worm realize they’ll never be welcomed in Westeros, and being disgusted with the racism, make plans to retire somewhere warm and safe when this is all over. Which means they’re going to die. BUT THEY’D BETTER NOT! I need someone to rescue them and fly them to Wakanda. By the old Gods and the new.

GHOST BYKE! They finally remembered Jon’s closest companion and friend was not one of the direwolves they needlessly killed, as Winterfell is transformed to the Wall South. We see Jon, Edd, and Sam once again as the Watchers on the Wall, this time atop the Starks’ castle, reflecting on all they’ve seen and mourning their fallen brothers Grenn and Pyp. Inside, Jaime and Tyrion are also going down memory lane, which turns into a fireside chat joined by Brienne, Podrick (who Neville Longbottom’d ALL the way up), Tormund, and Davos. Tormund tries to measure his dick against Jaime and teaches the children about the virtues of calcium.

Trading war stories and all this unlikely group have survived to this point, Tormund — ever the feminist — is disgusted that Brienne is not yet a knight. After she downplays how much the honor would mean to her, Jaime realizes it’s past due and as an anointed knight himself, commands Brienne to kneel as he confers the honor upon her. There’s a touching bit of hesitation on her part, as a woman who has been taunted all her life has to pause to see if this is just another mockery, but in a stirring and surprisingly intimate scene, she finally attains her lifelong goal. Which, unfortunately, means she’s also going to die.

Atop the walls, the Hound and Arya are having another one of their stilted, yet loving conversations, during which Sandor Clegane admits fighting for her changed him. However, being interrupted by Lord Beric reminds Arya there’s somewhere she’d rather be and goes to find Gendry. After stalking her prey and realizing Gendry is here for her murderous ways and still as fine as ever, she drops all pretense and asks his body count as she starts stripping, deciding she wants to celebrate Easter Sunday by hopping on that boy right there in the forge. Our little baby psychopath is all grown up and made good on six years of lust.

Outside, Lady Lyanna Mormont read her cousin Jorah for filth for even fixing his mouth to tell her anything. Unfortunately, the scene did NOT end with her banishing him from the North and our sight, but with Sam rewarding the worthless weasel with the Tarly family’s Valyrian steel sword “Heartsbane” in memory of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. Back at the fire, Podrick channels his inner Pippin from Lord of the Rings and uses his gifted pipe, er…pipes to sing on the verge of battle. As we see a montage of loving couples (and Sansa x Theon) spending their last night together, we end with Daenerys finally walking up on Jon in the crypts as he stares at his mother’s statue. Jon finally tells her the truth about Rhaegar and Lyanna, and by extension, himself. Instantly, the love leaves Dany’s eyes and she looks at Jon now as a threat and rival, growing colder than the winter outside. Before they can finish their conversation however, they are interrupted by horn blasts. The dead are here. It’s. About. To. Go. DOWN!

With next week’s “Battle of Winterfell” bearing constant comparisons to the Battle of Helm’s Deep in Peter Jackson’s The Two Towers, it’s interesting that this episode should share so much in common tonally with The Return of the King: a kingdom on the edge of war, awaiting its inevitable destruction before the dawnless day. The episode posits that life is intrinsically linked to memory and history. What better way to spend a last night with the forces of the living than by reminiscing. The last enemy that must be defeated is death, but the battle is not lost as long as the memory of what was lost is preserved.

Book-Specific Notes: I try to keep theories and predictions (at least those informed by the text) separate for the particularly spoiler-averse, so read on at your own discretion. The choice to use Jenny of Oldstones for Podrick to sing before the battle was potentially telling. For a refresher, this is also the song that Tom of Sevenstreams sings as payment to the Ghost of High Heart for her visions. The song laments the Tragedy of Summerhall, which saw the death of several legendary figures, but was also the night Jon’s father (and Daenerys’s brother) Rhaegar Targaryen was born. The Jenny of the song is the wife of Duncan Targaryen, who gave up his claim to succession and chance to rule the Iron Throne out of love. It's also strongly hinted that the Ghost of High Heart is the same witch who made the prophecy that The Prince That Was Promised would come from that specific Targaryen lineage.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say the show is tipping its hand yet, but there are a number of interesting parallels. But also, the lyrics might spell trouble for those that we saw in the montage as Pod sang:

High in the halls of the kings who are gone Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found And the ones who had loved her the most.

[tymptir]

8. what is each of your muses otps? notps?

let me chatter about my blog. accepting.@zcldrizes

oh boy. let the unpopular opinions roll in.

Beric Dondarrion.otp: Beric x Thoros owns my soulnotp: none, I simply don’t ship Beric with anybody else tbh

Brynden Tully.neither otps, nor notps. I am firmly convinced that Brynden is just so fucking done with 99% of humanity that he’d rather stay single forever than deal with anybody’s shit

Gendry.otp: Gendry x Sansanotp: Gendry x Arya. sorry not sorry

Grenn.otp: both Grenn x Sansa, but also Grenn x Jon, courtesy of Sims and Fil notp: Grenn x Pyp I guess? is that even a ship? I don’t know

Harrion Karstark.otp: Harrion x Sansa. like I said, all my boys love Lady Starknotp: none tbh

Jaime Lannister.otp: Jaime x finally doing what he always wanted to do. I mean it notp: I don’t really have one, Jaime is simply incredibly difficult to ship due to only ever having loved Cersei in his life.

Jeor Mormont.otp: Jeor x his late wife. there will never be anybody else for himnotp: none, he just doesn’t get shipped

Maron Greyjoy.otp: Maron x Daenerys, thanks to you Artie, followed by Maron x Sansa again courtesy of Simsnotp: I don’t have one

Sam Tarly.otp: Sam x Gilly forevernotp: Sam x everybody else

Tyrion Lannister.otp: Tyrion x finally getting the recognition he deservesnotp: Tyrion x Shae. I hate her. with a passion. bitch can choke again for all I care.

Varys.Varys is my precious, beautiful aromantic, asexual powerhouse and I will never ever take that away from him.

Victarion Greyjoy.otp: Victarion x Victarion’s fist in Euron’s facenotp: I don’t think I have one

[thedolorous]

@lcrdcrow continued from x

 “  crazy t’ think we were so g r e e n not too long ago.  ”  jon’s fingers trace the rim of his goblet, full with wine. how long has it been since he and edd and sam stood atop the wall, gazing out into the dark?  “  we were the swords in the darkness—the shields that guarded the realms of men. we fulfilled our duty, edd, but where does that leave the remainder of our black brothers?  ”  of course he would grant one of his greatest friends a position at his side. but what would become of the wall, now? with much of it destroyed by the night king, and the threat of the others nonexistent, what were their former brothers to do? he downs his wine in but a few gulps, setting the goblet down against the table with an audible thud.  “  you a l w a y s have a place amongst my family, edd. seven hells, you are family,  ”  the bastard grins.  “  fight by my side. help us end cersei. and when that’s over, take up residence at winterfell.  ”

there is something BITTERSWEET about reminiscing -- the ones who stuck together, jon, grenn, pyp, sam -- they’d all joined the watch when they were young. edd still remembers yoren managing to convince him to go with LIES, LIES, LIES. the sixteen year old had been bitter then, but now edd is a man grown, the age of thirty, the 999th lord commander of the night’s watch with no more FEAR beyond the wall. he sips quietly from his cup at first, lost in thought, before he glances up at his greatest friend. “i -- ” he should have a solution; he cannot be SELFISH. “they go home. they start new lives. . . they get a second chance.” he offers. “there aren’t many still alive now, might as well reward them for their services.” 

he looks at the goblet as jon places it on the table. there’s the hint of a smile as jon considers him family. “I WILL FOLLOW YOU ANYWHERE, jon. you know that.” it’s the same words he said before they’d gone to hardhome, the promise of edd’s loyalty. “wherever you go, i go.” 

[myrish-lace-love]

The deepest wish of my heart (Jon x Sansa)

Am expanded headcanon about Jon’s habit of sketching through his life, and its impact on his relationship with Sansa.

***

Jon draws. He started when he was young, a useful pastime for a bastard boy who needed to stay out of the way.

He hides his pictures from others - drawing and sketching are girls’ pursuits, after all, and he’s already enough of an outsider. He slips up in the godswood, lingering too long to sketch the leaves. Robb finds him, and doubles over laughing at his “tree art.”

It’s easier at the Wall. The men leave each other alone, and he spends countless nights in his room, shivering from cold. He does his best to keep his hand steady as he brings Ghost, the mess hall, Sam and Pyp and Grenn to life. He bites his lip, sketching Ghost’s fur with light strokes as the direwolf reclines by the fire. He tries fire itself next - his fingers are blackened with charcoal before he captures the movement of the flames on paper.

He doesn’t draw Ygritte until after his time with the wildlings is over. He can’t find paper, or the space to sketch privately.

After she dies, Ygritte is all he draws for a year. How her hair fell in her eyes at night, how she squinted when she slung her arrows over her shoulder for a hunt. He conjures up how beautiful she’d looked as she slept next to him in the tent. He’d never been able to tell her, how happy she’d made him, how lovely she was, how he’d stay awake just to watch her sleeping peacefully.

Now he never would.

He doesn’t touch parchment after he comes back from the dead. He’s too afraid he’s changed, forfeited that respite.

Until Sansa throws herself into his arms, and color comes rushing back into the world again.

Read more below or continue on AO3

He draws Brienne in her gleaming armor, Tormund laughing with his head thrown back, the Wall itself. He frowns as he scratches, but the rush of satisfaction he feels when he renders the Wall’s shadows and crevices is exhilarating.

And he draws Sansa. Over and over and over again, like an obsession, stronger even than his drive to draw Ygritte.

Before the battle for Winterfell, when other men are drinking or sharing their tents, he takes out his favorite picture of Sansa. She’s wrapped in his cloak and sipping soup by the fire in Castle Black. She’s warm, and safe. This is why I fight, he thinks. This is why we have to win.

***

They prevail, but almost as quickly Jon as’s elected King in the North he must ride out of Winterfell again, in search of weapons and beasts. He completes one painting during his imprisonment on Dragonstone. He scrapes chalk on the rough cave walls, trying to build a myth that would convince Daenerys to join his cause.

He fails.

After he gives up the North, he can’t draw at all. Not the dragons he’s seen, not the Night King, no matter how extraordinary they are.

And he can’t sketch Daenerys.  She’d love it, to see herself on paper, another form of worship. But he’s given her too many false promises already. And as beautiful as she is, she makes him feel smaller, diminished, trapped.

When he and Daenerys return to Winterfell, Sansa’s there to greet them. His heart constricts at the cold, formal bow she gives him, but he knows it’s what he deserves.

His new parentage knocks the wind from his lungs, sets his world spinning. He tries and tries and tries to draw his new parents, even procures paints for the first time. Rhaegar’s silver hair, Lyanna’s crown of blue roses. He’s desperate to make sense of it somehow, but in the end there’s only darkness, emptiness. He crumples up every tear-stained page.

So he picks up charcoal again, because black was always his color. He begins with what he drew as a boy - Winterfell itself. Soon he’s absorbed in the act, pouring Ghost and Bran and Arya onto the parchment. 

It’s still painful. It sinks in that his siblings are actually his cousins, that he’s distant, set apart from them now. Arya gets through to him first. She tells him to bloody get over it. She’ll whack him in the training yard if it will help. And it does.

Bran was lost to him as soon as he returned. He’s the Three-Eyed Raven now, and has no words of comfort for him. Jon sketches him in his wheelchair, eyes rolled back, and a shudder goes through him every time he looks as the portrait.

And Sansa - Jon can’t seem to stop sketching her. He even picks up the paints he threw away in anger in order to evoke her auburn hair, how it shines when she sews next to the fire. He can’t get the knack of it, until he understands the relationship between the light and the soft sheen. Then he blends reds and oranges and yellows to capture the warm glow.  When he’s satisfied, he feels like he’s home again, because Sansa and Winterfell are tied together in his heart. He creates portrait after portrait of her, In the great hall, in her study, when she’s stroking Ghost, a small smile on her lips. He almost shows her that drawing, thinks it could bring her some comfort after Lady’s death. But she might ask to see others, and he can’t risk it.

Because he’s in love with her. He kept his drawings hidden before, but now he keeps them under lock and key, because they reveal the deepest wishes of his heart. The most dangerous picture is the one he works hardest on, because he has to close his eyes and imagine it first. He and Sansa are both in the godswood. He’s sweeping his cloak around her shoulders, wedding her, because she’s finally, finally allowing him to protect her, to try to keep her safe and loved.

He trusts Sansa too much, however, and that trust is his undoing. She asks after a letter in his desk one day and he offers her the key absently, absorbed in battle plans.

He glances her way when there’s a long pause. She’s gripping the sketch. Of the two of them, under the weirwood tree. There’s no mistaking it as a marriage ceremony. Her hands are shaking. She holds it out to him, silently.

He gives up. He tells her the truth, because how could the truth be any more damaging than what she’s seen with her own eyes?

He can’t read her expression. She walks slowly over to the fire and tosses the drawing in the flames. They both watch the edges blacken and curl. Jon’s heart sinks.

Them she beckons him over. They stand side by side, not touching. She whispers that Daenerys can’t find out, ever, it’s too dangerous. But maybe, after this war is over, after they’ve survived Daenerys’s wrath about Jon’s, they could make the picture into a song, bring it into the world alive. She offers her hand, and Jon takes it. He laces his fingers with hers, and his heart is full to bursting. They stay there, staring at the fire, until the embers burn out.

***

After the Great War is over, Jon and Sansa rebuild Winterfell. Jon draws his sons and daughters in his mother’s arms. Their firstborn is a dark-haired, blue-eyed book named Robb, solemn and earnest. He’s followed by twin girls, Arya and Lyanna, boisterous redheads with grey eyes. They torment Ghost, who’s older now. He patiently tolerates being ridden like a great horse around Winterfell’s grounds.

Jon discovers his son in his study one spring morning. Robb’s tongue sticks out between his teeth as he scratches on a piece of parchment. Robb hides the paper behind his back but Jon tickles him, elicits a giggle, and Robb shyly shows him a rumpled drawing of Ghost.

Robb hangs his head. He blurts out that he’s sorry, he should spend more time in the training yard. Jon just goes to his desk, takes out one of his pictures of his direwolf, and sits on the floor with Robb.  He talks to him quietly about both drawings, showing him your father does this too, he understands, he loves you.

That’s how Sansa finds them. Jon’s head is bent with Robb’s and they’re lost to the world, wrapped up in each other. They don’t notice when she gently closes the door behind her, leaving her two favorite boys together to their pastime.