#game of thrones Jon snow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ichorai · 2 years

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nobody ; jon snow.

track five of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; jon snow x martell!gn!reader

synopsis ; a child of sand and a child of snow—destined never to last, but somehow, you made it work.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; angst, action, fluff, healer au

warnings / includes ; heavy violence/gore/injury, wars/fighting, trauma, ramsay bolton, implications of sex, multiple mentions of death, reader is a bastard to oberyn martell, reader loathes the cold, a couple game of thrones spoilers, mentions of other characters in the show, and finally, fuck season eight !!

main masterlist.

You were fifteen when you first met Jon Snow.

The air was saturated with the ambrosial scents of spiced mulled wine and the rumbling thunder of tipsy cackling. Alcohol dripped from full golden chalices, heaping baskets of steaming bread rolls were passed around the mess hall, and plates were piled high with peppered mutton chops and creamed potatoes. You were seated near the end of the long table, quietly sipping on your honeyed apple cider as you politely smiled and nodded at the young nobleman who sat across from you, detailing a rather elaborate story of how he had hunted down a bear with nothing but a single hatchet and a lick of courage.

You didn’t buy a single word of it, but the exaggerated story was mildly entertaining nonetheless. You’d rather listen to his tipsy rambling than watch King Baratheon stick his tongue down a random maiden’s throat.

Once the man finished, he smiled charmingly, before grabbing your chalice and downing the rest of your drink. His loud belch was drowned out by the rest of the crowded hall of Winterfell, busy feasting and celebrating. Your lips twisted into a frown out of instinct, but you quickly fell back into a stoic expression, gently excusing yourself from the table.

You mourned your half-eaten food left on your plate, but you didn’t think you could stomach another bite of Northern food—you longed for the sticky sweetness of Dorne’s dates.

Hurriedly, you wove through the hall, quickly ducking when a silver wine chalice sailed across the large room. You made for the exit, squeezing past a couple children playing by the entrance.

Once you were outside, Winterfell’s frosty wind instantly nipped at your exposed skin, whispering snowflakes into your ear and tousling your hair in a haphazard fashion. A shiver spidered down your spine as you pressed yourself against the castle’s walls, pulling your fur coat closer to you.

How you missed the kiss of Dorne’s sun on your cheeks.

Damn the North.

You wrinkled your nose in frustration.

A repetitive, faint thudding drew your attention away from the howling breeze, resonating from just around the castle’s corner. Curiosity piqued, you sleuthed across the icy grass, looking around the bend with wide eyes.

It was dark—far darker than it was inside. The only source of light came from the lit torches lining the walls and the dewy luminescence of the moon.

The thudding came from a man—no, a boy—hacking furiously at a hay-sewn dummy with a dull wooden practice sword. You blinked, watching with mild awe as he relentlessly struck the unmoving figure, moving with an exact precision that was uncommon to see in such youth.

You didn’t realize just how long you’d been staring when he suddenly stopped, muscles visibly tensing beneath his thick leather tunic. The wooden sword drooped downwards when he lowered his arm, but his grip never faltered.

“What are you looking at?” he grumbled at last, turning around to face you entirely.

At first, you found yourself at a loss for words. He was quite a beauty—a large mass of dark curls adorning his head, dancing with the snowy gale. His eyes, a tempestuous hue of stormy grey, narrowed and scrutinizing, were studying your every move, as if preparing himself for some sort of attack.

You shuffled backwards out of pure instinct, but steeled yourself before you had the nerve to turn tail and run.

“Nothing,” you replied hoarsely, averting your gaze to a particularly interesting pile of rubble. “I just… needed to get out of the mess hall for a bit. It’s loud in there.”

It was silent for a moment, before he placed the sword down, regarding you with a somewhat intrigued stare whilst stepping closer.

“I’m sorry if I’m being disrespectful,” he said, surprising you with his sudden change of demeanor, “but I don’t quite recognize you. How am I to address you?”

“My name would be just fine,” came your reply, eyebrows shifted upwards. “I’m Y/N. Y/N Martell. My father is Oberyn Martell, brother to the ruling prince of Dorne.”

It was the boy’s turn to be surprised, and an amused smile itched across your lips when he seemed to fumble for words, wondering if it was customary to bow or to shake hands with you.

After his initial stupor, he shook his head, small bits of frost flying away from his hair. “Well, what are you doing out here? It’s cold out.”

“I told you, I came out to get some space. It was awfully crowded,” you hummed. Then, you leaned forward towards him, lowering your voice to a leveled whisper, “Plus, the sight of King Baratheon fondling a woman on top of his venison doesn’t exactly whet my appetite.”

A flit of a grin momentarily crossed his features, but it disappeared back into his regular brooding nature nearly as soon as it came.

“You know my name.” You tilted your head in a questioning manner. “It’d be rude of me not to ask for yours.”

“Jon,” the boy with curls of ebony replied in an off-handish manner.

“Jon…?”

His lips twitched downwards, twisting into a glower. Reluctantly, he mumbled, “Snow. Jon Snow.”

“Oh,” you whispered, stepping closer with widened eyes. Jon risked a glance towards you, surprised that he could see his own reflection in the dark of your pupils, frost clinging to your eyelashes and knitted brows. “Snow is a name for Northern bastards, is it not?” Your tone was not one of disdain like Jon had expected, but rather one of tender excitement.

There was a twitch to his jaw. He remained silent.

“I’m a bastard, too.”

Your words made him tear his gaze away from the snowy ground to your searching eyes. “You? A bastard?” he asked, plain with surprise.

You bowed your head once with a mild smile painting your lips with warmth. “I suppose my proper name would be Y/N Sand—the name given to bastards of Dorne. But we don’t care much for bastardy as the other kingdoms do. My father thought it proper to call myself a Martell during my stay in King’s Landing.”

Snow scuffed around Jon’s boots as he dug the heel into the grass. “What were you doing in King’s Landing?”

“I’ve been staying there to study medicine. Been about… seven months now? I left home when I was fourteen,” you said, teeth worrying into your bottom lip in thought. The hazy memory of saying goodbye to your father and sisters made your heart lurch with a sudden jolt of nostalgia.

“Do you like it there?” Jon asked, intrigued. “In King’s Landing, I mean.”

You wrinkled your nose in response, shaking your head firmly. “I much prefer the golden sands of Dorne. The wispy shade of a palm tree. The wiry muscles of our horses—bred to run for fortnights on end. The cool sip of water on a hot day. The spitting bonfires at night—the stars seem to be so much brighter in Dorne, Jon Snow, you wouldn’t believe it.”

The both of you tilted your heads up to look at Winterfell’s dark sky. There wasn’t a single star in sight.

You sighed with stinging disappointment, tilting your chin back down to nuzzle your cold nose into your coat.

Jon couldn’t help how his lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. “Sounds like a wonderful place.”

Humming your agreement, you uttered, “Enough about me.” You stepped closer so that you were nearly side-by-side with him. “What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you at the banquet?”

The smile on his lips melted away nearly instantaneously. “Lady Stark thought it improper to seat a bastard amongst the royal guests.”

“That’s stupid,” you said in a rather blunt fashion, which made Jon’s eyebrows inch closer to his curls. “Not to bash on your kingdom’s customs or anything—but I find the exclusion of bastards rather redundant. You’re still their family regardless.”

“It’s what I am,” the boy responded with half a shrug. “It’s all I ever will be.”

“It’s all you’ll be if that’s all you choose to be, Jon Snow.” You inhaled a lungful of frigid air.

The boy beside you seemed to mull over your words for a while, mouth twisted in thought. “I plan to join the Night’s Watch,” he said suddenly, looking almost surprised that he’d admitted that to you. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about the matter yet—it just happened to slip from his tongue without him giving it a second thought.

“That sounds fun,” you replied with a small smile, nudging your elbow into his shoulder. “At least, as much fun as you can have in this dreary place, anyway. No offense.”

For the first time, you heard the bastard of Ned Stark laugh. It was a quiet one, barely little more than an amused huff of his nostrils, but you heard it nonetheless. It made a queer sensation pool at the bottom of your stomach, one of warmth and selfish pride. You wanted him to laugh again.

“You’d look handsome in black,” you commented with a roguish leer, to which Jon shifted in an awkward manner, turning his gaze to the frosty ground. If you looked closer, you’d be able to catch a dusting of rouge over his pale cheekbones.

The silence warped around you two in a hazy cocoon, time slowing down to a slow drip, drip, drip of the sand grains in an hourglass.

Abruptly, you pivoted away from his side to face him, beckoning back to the mess hall with your head. “I’m sorry, in Dorne it’s rude to converse with someone who hasn’t had a meal when you’ve already eaten. You must be starving! Let me go fetch a plate for you.”

“Oh,” Jon started, already beginning to shake his head in panicked protest, “you really don’t have to—Lady Stark wouldn’t be very pleased—”

“Who said Lady Stark has to know? What if I just pretended I wanted a second helping?” You internally grimaced when you remembered that you hadn’t even finished your first helping.

Raven-hued curls shook haphazardly as he stepped forward to catch your wrist with his in a futile attempt to persuade you to stay. After all, he wasn’t all that hungry.

He could feel his stomach cinch painfully at the thought of roasted mutton chops and candied almonds, or honey cakes and creamed potatoes, or steaming rabbit stew and flaking raspberry pie. Alright, Jon supposed he was a little bit hungry.

“Sorry, can’t hear you!” you called out while waltzing away with a bright smile. “I’ll bring us two chalices of honeyed apple cider, too! Hope you like that!”

Despite all his efforts to stave away his mirrored excitement, Jon couldn’t help but watch you whisk away with a grin pulling at the side of his mouth.

“This is Ghost,” Jon said after swallowing down his bite of peppery chicken. You had been generous enough to add a bit of nearly every single dish available in the hall, walking out none-too-discreetly with a wobbling mountain of food stacked on the porcelain.

The white direwolf, still only a small pup, tittered towards Jon with a knowing glint in its eye, using its snout to nudge against his knee. Relenting, Jon ripped off a piece of mutton and tossed it onto the ground for the direwolf.

You were practically vibrating on your wooden seat beside him, grinning ecstatically. “I can’t believe you’ve got a direwolf!” you exclaimed in a hushed whisper, biting into a slice of spiced honey cake. “He’s gorgeous.”

Chuckling, Jon reached over to ruffle the creature between the ears. “He’s alright. Was the runt of the litter.”

That made your grin stretch wider.

The two of you conversed for what felt like hours—you found out that he was only a year older than you, that he hated blackberries, that he had nightmares about dragons sometimes. In turn, he learned that you had a pet snake at the ripe age of five, that you counted the stars outside your window when you couldn’t sleep, that you thought your father, Oberyn Martell, was going to kill the Mountain one day.

Jon found you fascinating—he couldn’t remember the last time he had listened so intently to someone.

Jon had wolfed down the food you brought, despite previously claiming he wasn’t all that hungry. Setting the empty dishes aside, you strolled alongside him, sipping on your cider and occasionally bumping into his side, which made both of you laugh as he kindly told you to mind your step.

When the guests inside the hall started to quiet down, small groups of people trickling out of the castle to retire to bed, you knew your limited time with Jon was coming to an end.

“We’ve only just met, but I’m gonna miss you,” you said, gazing towards him with disappointment etched plain as day across your features. Your hand lifted to brush away a bit of snow that had landed on his shoulder. “I certainly won’t miss the cold, though. I have no idea how you Northern folk live like this.”

“Our blood must be thicker than yours,” he commented in a humorous tone, which made you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out playfully at him. The smile that spread across Jon’s lips made your stomach twist with a queer sort of warmth. A tentative silence warped about the two of you, and you felt him step closer to you, his hands clenched into fists by his side, as if he was staving off some sort of urge.

You were young and foolish then—it was only expected that you acted on giddy impulsivity.

You leaned forward slowly, making sure he knew of your intent—and you kissed him. It was a dry, chaste kiss, awkward and hesitant in nature but endearing all the same. Jon was frozen for a long moment before his calloused hand was brought up to cradle your jaw, movements stiff with uncertainty, softly tilting your face so it slotted just right over his. His nose gently bumped into yours. His teeth caught against your lip. His dark curls tickled your forehead when they knocked together. The kiss tasted of apple cider and winter’s frost.

You pulled away with a flustered beam, pleased to see Jon had turned a furious shade of scarlet, his expression mirroring yours.

“Goodbye, Snow,” you said to him quietly, just as the both of you spotted his family coming out of the mess hall. Subconsciously, you shuffled away from him. The last thing you wanted was for Ned Stark to catch the both of you in the act, even though it was merely a harmless kiss. “You stay safe at the Night’s Watch, alright? Who knows, maybe I’ll get you to come visit Dorne one day. Get that thick, chunky Northern blood of yours to loosen up.”

“It would be an honor to come,” he replied with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a glint of sadness hidden within his dark irises—perhaps he believed that this would be the last time he’d ever see you. “Goodbye, Sand.”

With that, you watched him trudge away with a tight chest, his fur-coated figure growing smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the castle walls.

You were twenty the next time you saw Jon Snow.

Five long, long years.

You shivered on the horse, Sansa’s cold fingers holding onto your waist tightly. She sat just behind you, breaths spilling out pale mist over your shoulder. Podrick and Brienne were only an arm’s length away on their own horses, faces stony and filthy with grime. You were sure your own face was no better.

“Open the gates!” someone screamed.

The creak of metal. The whinny of a horse. The schlop of mud.

Your eye was heavy with exhaust.

Brienne led the way into Castle Black, dismounting her horse first. You followed suit, helping Sansa down and watched as Podrick ambled off of his. Castle Black was far colder than Winterfell had been. The cold didn’t seem to bother Sansa as much—after all, she was well accustomed to the weather since childhood. That, or she welcomed the numbing sensation of the frigid wind.

Despite being stuck in cold conditions for years, you were still a child of sand. You were made for the heat. The thought made you pull your thin coat closer to you, lips warbling into a glower.

And as you turned your head away from Sansa’s pale, sallow face, you could feel a dozen pairs of eyes burning into you. Tilting your gaze upward, you nearly burst into tears of relief upon seeing a familiar face.

Jon Snow.

He held the same features as he did five years ago—the heavy-set frown, the stormy, curious eyes, the ebony locks upon his head. He was taller, evidently so, and had a well-tamed beard blanketing the expanse of his jaw. He had grown into his features, face more chiseled and physique just a tad more defined.

The bastard laid his eyes on his sister first, an amalgamation of shock and confusion morphing across his features before it crossed over to the two strangers he’d never seen before. One tall and blonde, one stocky and dark-haired.

Then he looked to you. There was a slight shift to his expression. One of slight dubiety. Then, like a ray of sun on a stormy night, realization dawned upon him.

You looked so different. You wore your hair differently than when he last saw you, dyed a significantly lighter shade than it used to be. There was a new, jagged scar carved down your left cheek, a dirty leather eyepatch fixed over one of your eyes, and you were much taller than you had been at the ripe age of fifteen. Nonetheless, Jon recognized the small quirk to your lips, your Dornish facial features, the brightness of your one eye (though far dimmer than it used to be).

He rushed down the creaky wooden steps.

He embraced Sansa first. The red-head breathed out a sigh of exhaustion when he held her, tears rimming her eyes like snow on a wiry tree branch. Jon held her tightly—it’d been five long years since he’d seen his family.

A lump formed in your throat when he gently pulled away from her, and cast his gaze to you. You felt small under his scrutiny, partially afraid that he’d forgotten you after all these years.

Then, he whispered your name to the frost and you bit back a sob, launching yourself forward to wrap your arms around his midriff. There was so much you wanted to tell him—so much he needed to know.

But you couldn’t force the words out. So you remained silent, burying your nose into the warmth of Jon’s neck.

Your hair was still damp from the icy bath they’d drawn for you. The cold made your heart jump up your throat—it took you around ten minutes of dipping your toe into the water only to retract it with a scalding hiss until you forced yourself in with a grumble. You were now wrapped in about three layers of thick, furry blankets, a bowl of warm chicken soup cradled in your palms.

The crackling of the fire in front of you filled the silence momentarily. The clementine flames licked into the air greedily, spitting out small orange embers for you to watch turn into grey ash.

Jon was sitting close beside you, thigh pressed up against yours. You hadn’t the time to say anything to him before you were whisked away for a bath and food. Now that you had his full, undulated attention, you weren’t quite sure what to say.

“It’s good soup,” Sansa chimed from across the both of you. She was staring into the fire with a nostalgic grin fiddling with the corner of her raw-bitten lips. “Do you remember the kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”

Jon chuckled. “The ones with the peas and onions?”

The two hummed in thought, then fell back into silence. You shifted to slurp up more of your soup, offering your spoon to Jon with a tilt of your head. He shook his head softly, gesturing for you to have some more.

You had offered out of courtesy—Dornish traditions never died—but you were ever so grateful that he declined. You hadn’t realized just how starving you’d been.

Ramsay went out of his way to make sure you barely had a meal a week. He was cruel like that. Glancing to Jon, you caught him watching you unceremoniously gulp the soup down with a wide grin.

“Sorry,” you coughed out in a small voice after wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Do you… do you have any more of this?”

“We have plenty,” Jon said, not unkindly. “I’ll have one of the lads fetch another bowl for you.”

As he left, Sansa looked to you with an amused expression. “He likes you.”

“I barely know him. He barely knows me,” you replied, eyebrows canted upwards at her statement.

“And yet he likes you,” she persisted, bobbing her head down to sip on her soup.

You didn’t grace her with a response, instead opting to stare down at your empty bowl.

Jon came back not too late after, handing you another serving of the warm chicken soup. “Thank you,” you said sheepishly, before tucking in once more.

“We should have never left Winterfell,” Sansa spoke up. Both you and Jon looked at her, grunting noises of agreement. “Don’t you wish you could go back to the day you left? Tell yourself, ‘don’t go, you idiot’.”

A film of tears glossed over your eyes. “I wish I never left Dorne.”

Jon shook his head. “How could we have known? All the things that have happened to us… it wasn’t our fault.”

“I wish I could change everything,” Sansa admitted, shame threading heavily through her tone. “I was such an ass to you.”

“We were children,” he replied. “Though, you were occasionally awful.”

You snorted at that and Sansa rolled her eyes before turning to watch the fire.

“I’m sure I can’t have been better,” Jon replied modestly. “Always sulkin’ in the corner while the lot of you played.”

The three of you chuckled mirthfully at the thought of young Jon muttering curses under his breath in the shadows.

“Will you forgive me?” Sansa asked, quiet.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jon countered firmly.

“Forgive me,” bit out Sansa, narrowing her eyes.

They both smiled.

“I forgive you.”

With a satisfied smile, Sansa drank the last of her soup and placed it on the table in front of her, rising with a certain kind of grace only she bore. She excused herself to go draw a long overdue bath.

Jon glanced at you once she left. “What have you been doing? After all this time?”

Hesitant, you fiddled with the spoon in your bowl.

“Well, five years ago, I followed your father and sisters to go back to King’s Landing. Continued my studies. Watched Ned Stark die in front of my eyes. My father came to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s wedding.” You paused for a moment, finding it hard to speak around your suddenly-thick throat. “I watched him die, as well, fighting for Tyrion Lannister. He was about to win. He was so close. But he wanted revenge for his sister—and his greed for revenge eventually became his demise. In a panic I… I ran away from King’s Landing. From everything.”

Tears of gold. Stolen bread from outdoor markets. Rats squeaking on cobblestone pathways at night.

“From then on, I bumped into Podric, Tyrion’s squire, and Brienne, a knight pledged to looking for the Stark girls. Pod recognized me from my time in King’s Landing—and knew all about my family, so that convinced Brienne enough to let me tag along. Besides, I knew more about medicine than half of King’s Landing combined, and that’s always useful when embarking on a journey.”

Bandaged wounds. Crackling fires. Clopping horseshoes.

“After a while, we ran into Arya and the Hound. I tried killing the Hound because his brother killed my father but I stopped upon realizing that he wanted his brother dead just as much as I did—if not more so. We lost sight of Arya. I’m sorry, Jon, I have no clue where she could be now.”

Blood. Sword. Blood.

“Pod, Brienne, and I kept moving forward and we eventually caught sight of Sansa at an inn with Petyr Baelish. Sansa remembered me from all those years ago at Winterfell—so I asked if I could accompany her. No, I didn’t ask. I begged. Tears and everything. I was foolish to leave Brienne and Pod. Baelish agreed to let me come when they were chased out.”

Panicked rambling. Desperate eyes. Hands and knees—begging.

“At Winterfell… it was a living nightmare. Ramsay Bolton tortured Sansa and I—he would lock me in rooms for weeks on end and forced me to run through the forest naked whilst shooting bolts at me. He fed me dog food and tied me to the bars of the hounds’ cage so he could watch them struggle against their ropes to rip me to shreds. He made me watch as he cut pieces of Theon away. He gave me these.” You pointed at the deep scar on your cheek, then to the eyepatch, voice warbling.

Hounds. Manic gaze. A scream of agony.

Jon’s hands found your face, slow and steady, his thumbs swiping at your cheeks. It took you a second to realize that he was brushing away tears, steadily falling from your eyes without you noticing. You nearly flinched away when his finger trailed down your steadily healing scar, but steeled yourself before you could retract away.

You trusted Jon Snow.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sand, I can’t imagine what that must be like,” he said softly. You cried harder.

“My family is dead. Poisoned with hatred for each other—for everybody else,” you choked out. “And it feels like you and Sansa are the only ones who can understand.”

The man in front of you nodded solemnly. “Aye. It was a pain like no other—hearing about each of their deaths through raven letters. And knowing that there was nothing I could do about it.”

Far too caught up to care about your boldness, you placed your bowl on the table and sidled up to Jon, your head resting on his shoulder and arm curled around his back. He didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact—he shifted so that his arm laid over the back of your neck. He smelled of a hearth’s smoke and a fresh, tree-like fragrance.

“Enough about me,” you whispered. Jon smiled, remembering that those had been the exact words you uttered to him five years ago. “What’ve you been doing all this time?”

“I was murdered, for starters,” he said with a hint of amusement when you abruptly twisted in his arms staring at him with parted lips.

“You were what?”

“A story for another time, I promise,” he mumbled, waving away your concern and gently nudging you back down against him, as your arm was digging into his stomach uncomfortably. “I’ve been fighting nonstop, come to think of it. I’ve killed people I hated, people I didn’t know… people I admired. I hung a boy younger than Bran. I’m tired of fighting, Sand. I’ve fought and I’ve lost. I’m done.”

You opened your mouth to say something comforting, reassuring, anything. But you had little to say, so you kept quiet, pressing your nose to the underside of his jaw in an effort to convey your sympathy.

Jon’s chest rumbled beneath your palm as he said, “There’s also dead in the North.”

“There’s what?!”

The bastard hummed gravely. He hummed as if that was just a normal sentence to toss out.

“And both of those things mean… we can’t stay here.”

You turned again, making sure your forearm wasn’t pressing against his abdomen, instead slanted off to the side. This made you lean even closer to Jon, nearly nose-to-nose with him.

Well, you certainly weren’t cold now.

“Where do we go?” you whispered in a low voice, brows furrowed. “I’ll follow you anywhere, Jon Snow. You’re the closest thing I have to a family now. I trust you.”

Jon studied you for a moment with an indiscernible expression, irises darting between your glistening eye and your front teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip. You spotted the way his gaze lingering on your mouth just a bit too long, but you pretended you hadn’t noticed. “Sansa wants to go back to Winterfell,” he replied slowly, bracing himself for your reaction.

The way you physically tensed against him didn’t go unnoticed.

Blood. Screaming. Trees. A bolt grazing your thigh. Blood. Barking hounds. Sansa’s wedding. Theon’s screams. Blood. Trees. Blood. Manic gaze. Ramsay’s sweat. Hounds. Blood. Blood. Blood.

“Why would we ever go back?” you spat out, withdrawing yourself with a snarl.

Jon sighed. It was a long, winded one, laced with exhaustion and uncertainty. “Because it belongs to us. To her, to Arya, to Bran, to Rickon.”

Your face softened. “To you, too.”

After a tentative pause, Jon rested his cheek onto your head, beard tickling the skin of your temple. “Aye. To me, too.”

“Will this be your last fight, Snow?”

Jon snorted at the thought. “I wish it was, Sand.” Already, it seemed you had forgotten about the dead in the North he had mentioned—which was all the better. He didn’t think you needed to worry at the moment. You deserved even just a brief moment of rest.

“I hope you kill that bastard. I hope I kill that bastard. I may be trained in the art of medicine, but I know how to fight. I grew up with the Sand Snakes, after all.”

Jon wisely chose to remain silent at that. He had no doubt that you were capable to take care of yourself.

“We should go to Dorne,” you murmured, words growing quieter as your eyelids drooped. Now that your belly was full and you were warm from the blankets and fire, it was growing harder and harder to resist the urge to doze for twelve hours straight.

“Alright,” Jon replied with a smile. Then, he asked in a joking manner, “How’s the weather been up here? I personally think it’s quite warm, actually. Must be my thick, chunky blood.”

“You’re a real pain, you know that?” you barked out while pinching his arm, your words lacking any real bite. “And don’t even get me started on the damn snow! Why the devil is it always snowing here? It’s ridiculous, actually!”

Jon was smiling down at you so wide that his cheeks ached as you drowsily gesticulated at how horrible Northern weather was.

When Sansa came back nearly an hour later, she wasn’t at all surprised to see you passed out in Jon’s arms, her older brother frantically motioning her to be quiet with his free arm. Much to his horror and her humor, all the jostling had made you rouse awake, blearily looking around with evident confusion etched plainly across your features. Jon gently coaxed you back down, telling you to go back to sleep with a soft tone—one that she’d never heard him use before.

Yes, she thought with a slightly amused shake of her head, he definitely likes you.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Jon said quietly, just loud enough for you and Sansa to hear. You shifted on your horse’s saddle uncomfortably. Of course you didn’t need to be here. But you weren’t kidding when you said you’d follow Jon Snow wherever he went.

Without sparing him a glance, Sansa replied with an even voice, “You know I do.”

Jon sighed. He looked towards you. If the situation wasn’t so serious, he’d laugh at how the fur coats you donned were nearly thrice your size. He briefly wondered if you were still cold under all that.

Ramsay Bolton certainly wasn’t a sight for sore eyes. He had a throng of men on horses riding behind him, the banner of a flayed man dancing with the wind, almost mocking in nature. His eyes were cold as ever, countenance serious yet still so very arrogant.

You could feel your muscles tensing so hard you were nearly stiff as a statue on your horse.

Blood. Trees. Theon’s screams. Barking hounds. Blood. Ramsay’s sweat. A knife flat against your cheek. Blood.

“My beloved wife. I’ve missed you terribly!” Ramsay preened with a sinister smile, scornfully bowing his head to Sansa. Then, he turned his horrid gaze to Jon, barely making note of you. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely.”

Your blood boiled, an anger churning thunder within your stomach. You bit down on your tongue and steeled your emotions. Now was not the time for impulsivity.

“Dismount and kneel before me. Surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house. Come, bastard. You don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you certainly don’t have Winterfell. Why lead all these poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your horse, and kneel.” Ramsay sat up straighter on his horse, gesturing to the cold, muddy grass in expectation. “I’m a man of mercy. I promise.”

Liar.

Fury clawed at your throat until you could feel the metallic taste of iron sting your tongue.

Of course, Jon Snow did no such thing.

“You’re right,” Jon admitted with a level tone. “There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”

The slight change of your expression was minute, but it was there. Ramsay noticed the way your brows pulled together and a frown carved over your lips.

The devil of a man chuckled. You’ve heard that laugh a million times before—it plagued your nightmares every night. It was one of utter contempt, laughing at the sheer ludicrousy of the offer.

“I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you… you’re apparently the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good—maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I do know my army would beat yours. I have over six thousand men. And you have, what? Half that? Not even?”

Jon nodded his agreement. “Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you when they know you wouldn’t fight for them?”

A cold fury washed over Ramsay’s features. His nostrils flared as he stared Jon down. “Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

For the first time since she left Winterfell, Sansa spoke to her husband. “How do we know you have him?”

A horrific leer flickered over his face. Those manic eyes came into play once more. He was enjoying this. Slowly, he gestured to one of his men. He was drawing this out.

Like a cat playing with a mouse before devouring it whole.

The man behind him pulled out a fluffy, black mass. It took you a moment to realize what it was. Horror settled itself, black as tar, in the pits of your gut.

It was the head of a direwolf.

You wanted to look away—but you couldn’t.

Ramsay studied your expression with glee. Whilst Sansa betrayed no hints of her inner turmoil, he could read you like an open book.

“Now, if you want to save your—”

Sansa interrupted him with a tone so sharp it would’ve cut straight through iron. “You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well.”

With that, she turned and rode away. You had half the mind to follow her.

Ramsay watched with shock clearly splayed over his countenance. He was quick to regain his composure, turning his head back to Jon. “She’s a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed.”

Your breath caught in your throat, clenching your jaw so hard that it was a wonder your teeth didn’t crack under the pressure.

“My dogs are desperate to have their favorite playtoy back,” Ramsay simpered. Your head snapped up, finding his eyes trained upon you. There was a sickly grin to his features, twisting his pale face in an abhorrent way. “I haven’t fed them for seven days—they’re absolutely ravished. I wonder which parts they’d go for first. Those bright eyes of yours? Oh, I’m sorry. Eye—forgot I did that to you. Well, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard.”

He sent one last smirk to you, bowed his head to Jon with a sneer on his face, before clicking his tongue and turning his horse around. The men followed closely behind.

The mutilated eye beneath your patch throbbed.

Bile rose in your throat.

You could feel Jon’s worried gaze on you, but you avoided his searching scan, mirroring both Sansa and Ramsay’s movements by pressing your heel into the horse’s side, and galloping away.

The amber glow of the candlelight did little to hide the morose expression folded over Jon’s features. His lashes cast long shadows down his cheeks, lowered with thought. You had come into the room just in time to hear his row with Sansa, their shouts echoing along the stone walls.

You waited for Sansa to leave, then a couple minutes more to allow Jon a second to mull over his thoughts.

Then, you stepped out of the darkness.

“Y/N,” Jon hoarsely said, immediately sitting up from his chair upon seeing you. “You weren’t at the war council.”

One of your shoulders lifted in a half shrug. “Didn’t think I’d be needed—I may be able to fight, but war strategy isn’t my forte.”

Jon regarded you for a second, before gesturing to the chair next to him.

“Still,” he murmured once you took a seat, drawing your knees up to your chest, “it would’ve been nice to have you there.”

“You want my advice?” you asked, mildly surprised.

Jon’s hand slowly reached out to sit heavy on your shoulder. “You know him better than anybody here—other than Sansa, of course.”

Chewing on your lip in thought, you shifted so that you were facing him. “He likes to play games. He wants to draw things out—prolong the inevitable as long as he can so he could squeeze every last drop of sick enjoyment out of it.” Your eye darted to the warbling candle’s flame, clearing your throat uncomfortably. “That’s what he did with me, at least. I’m sure that on the battlefield, he’ll play to his strengths first—dangle it in front of your face. Leading you on like you would a donkey with a carrot.”

“I’m sorry if this is… a hard question, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Jon started hesitantly. “But why you? What did he gain from hurting you?” There was a bitter sort of anger to his voice—but not the active kind. It was passive, almost wistfully so, and frustrated that he could do nothing about it because it was in the past.

“I’m a bastard, remember? I am what he hates in himself the most.” You sniffed disdainfully. “And I suspect he’s somewhat jealous. I’m a bastard just like him, yet I’m considered royalty back in Dorne. How come I get to have what he’s always wanted? He reminded me of Joffrey in a lot of ways. But far worse.”

Jon’s eyebrows raised at that. “You knew Joffrey?”

A smile flickered over your lips that didn’t quite reach your eye. “Not really. But the stories Sansa’s told me—they seem nearly one and the same.” After a brief pause, you turned your head back to Jon. “I’m coming with you tomorrow. Just so we’re clear. I want to see him dead.”

Grimly, Jon bowed his head. “There’s no shame in staying here, Y/N. Especially not after what you’ve been through.”

“I know,” you said. “But I can fight. Or who knows? Maybe—just maybe—my medical skills will come into play on a battlefield. Slim chance, though—men rarely ever get wounded in a war.”

The last sentence dripped with sarcasm, and it made Jon gruff out a short laugh.

There was a beat of amiable silence before Jon nudged you with his elbow. “Just don’t die on me, alright?”

“I think you’ve got more experience than me in that department,” you joked. “Which, by the way, you still haven’t told me about.”

Jon wrinkled his nose humorously. “Tell you what—if we both make it out alive, I’ll tell you about it.”

“Deal,” you agreed, swiftly sliding off the chair. He stood up with you, just inches away. “You should get some rest, Snow. Big day tomorrow.”

“Aye,” he whispered, bending forward to ring you into an embrace. He softly patted the back of your head just as you pressed your cold nose into the bushy fur of his coat. “Sleep well, Sand.”

When you pulled away to look at him and say goodbye, you found your throat running dry. You couldn’t find it in yourself to say the words.

Jon seemed to understand.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he whispered in a low, reassuring tone, rubbing his palms up and down your forearms. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, he tenderly kissed over your eyelid, then moved to kiss the eyepatch with an equal amount of affection. The raw compassion behind the action made tears sting the corner of your vision, but you blinked it away just as quickly as it came.

Determined not to start bawling in front of him, you nodded once, then stepped away, retracting from his warmth.

Damn Northerners and their thick, chunky blood.

A raised blade.

Rickon running.

Flying arrows.

Jon on a galloping horse.

Terror.

Ever so close.

A sick squelch.

Rickon Stark was dead.

Mud, everywhere.

Was that the barking of hounds you heard?

No, those were the dying whinnies of horses.

A rally of arrows.

The song of steel against steel.

A man screaming as you sliced his throat.

Gurgles.

You picked up a fallen shield.

Another rally of arrows.

Blood trickled out of your nose.

Copper in your mouth.

Piles of dead men.

Parrying strikes.

A grunt.

Your sword sticking out of another man’s abdomen.

Jon Snow a whisker away from death.

Your boot against his attacker’s jaw.

Jon Snow’s frantic hand gripping your arm—pulling you.

Where was he taking you?

Shields in a circle around you.

Trapped.

Mud.

Jon Snow yelling your name.

Trampled.

Clawing for air.

You, screaming for Jon.

Inhaling dirty water.

Coughing.

Choking.

Air.

Jon Snow’s wheezing, exhausted gasp as you hauled him up.

Sansa Stark, in the distance.

More men. Horses.

Ramsay Bolton riding away.

You spat out blood.

Coward.

There were three arrows embedded into the wooden flesh of the shield. Three.

Jon Snow managed to block Ramsay’s arrows thrice.

Before a fourth could be nocked, Jon drove the edge of the shield straight into Ramsay’s face, a bilious crack of his nose echoing across Winterfell.

Ramsay was on the ground, mud flying up between the two as Jon straddled him. His fist rained no mercy. With every brutal punch, a ferocious grunt rumbled from Jon’s chest. Each time he pulled away, his skin grew more and more damp with the Bolton’s blood—sticky scarlet mingling with the dark soot.

It sounded less and less as if Jon were striking something solid, and more like he was hitting a pool of liquid.

A snarl appeared on Snow’s face. Your Snow. There was a manic glint to his eyes.

You shuffled forwards, then back, uncertain of whether to stop him or to let him keep going. Fear reared its familiar, ugly head within you.

Ramsay smiled through the blood.

Jon paused for a second—a mere second—to glance up. He caught your eye. It looked like he was about to punch Ramsay again, kill him, even, but he hesitated.

You were afraid. Of Jon? Neither of you were quite sure.

Slowly, painfully slow, he slid off of Ramsay’s bloody figure, panting with both exertion and pent-up frustration.

It nearly shattered him when he approached you, and you took another step back, merely out of pure instinct.

“Jon,” you whispered, snapping out of your dazed reverie and reaching out to him. It was only Jon—you trusted him.

Jon Snow was nothing like Ramsay Bolton.

You wrapped your arms around him, uncaring of the dirt and blood on his clothes. Three seconds ticked by. Before the fourth could strike, Jon gingerly lifted his arms to tug you closer to him. He mumbled out a couple breathy words into your hairline, but you couldn’t quite hear what he said.

You supposed it didn’t matter—not when he remained silent for the rest of the time he held you. Barely, you registered the way his entire body trembled. He tucked his nose against the column of your throat.

And he cried.

That only had you holding him tighter.

You watched in the shadows of the hounds’ kennel.

Watched as Sansa set the hounds on a tied-up Ramsay.

Watched as they slobbered drool over his face.

Watched as he screamed agony when they tore into his limbs.

Sansa’s hand brushed your shoulder on her way out.

You stayed.

You stayed until the screams turned into gurgling.

You stayed until the gurgling died away—a flame using the last of its wick.

You stayed until you knew Ramsay Bolton was dead.

It happened in the dead of night. When the winds quietened to but a feathery whisper, when the moon shone silver and gold, when the fires in the hearths had waned to a soft orange glow.

Jon’s face, now freshly void of any grime, was cradled in your palms.

“We match, Snow,” you whispered, thumb trailing down the faded scar over his eye.

A smile flittered over his lips.

His own hands raised to faintly trace your new white patch on your eye, careful not to press too hard. “Yours is a lot worse than mine, Sand.” In a much less humorous tone, he said, “Thank you. You saved my life out there, while we were fighting. I owe you.”

You regarded him with a strange look, one so very tender and affectionate that it made Jon’s stomach squirm. “You owe me nothing, Jon Snow. You would’ve done the same for me.”

“You’re a good fighter,” he quipped, a dusting of pink on his cheekbones. “I was watching you more than I should have. You distract me.”

Instead of responding, you boldly leaned forward and enveloped his mouth with yours, nose slotted against his. It took no less than a second for Jon to reciprocate—as if he’d been waiting for this for a long time.

All the frustration of the fighting, of the battles, of the wars, came pouring out of the both of you. It was raw, needy, brutal with want.

Boots thudded to the ground. Fur coats were hastily shed. The back of your knees hit the bed, and you both fell onto the mattress with quiet oomfs. Your fingers tangled into his dark curls, tugging, yanking.

Jon made a guttural noise against you, eyes half-lidded.

Stars of Dorne colored behind your eyelid as Jon moved against you. Sweat beaded your body. Your chest pressed against his, rising and falling with each staggered breath. His skin was burning, near scalding to the touch. But you were a child of sand. You were made for the heat.

Caught up in the intense fervor of the moment, your blunt nails scratched down his abdomen, leaving raw red marks in its wake. You were about to apologize, but Jon seemed not to mind, kissing you even harder, all teeth and tongue. He smelled of cedar and honey cakes.

At one point during the heated session, you switched positions so that you sat on top. “Didn’t you say you’d tell me about how you died if we both made it out alive?” you questioned, stroking his stubbled jaw.

A brief frown crossed his expression. “You’re really bringing this up now, of all times?” he grumbled.

“Fine, fine.” You rolled your eyes and smoothly moved against him, like the push and pull of an ocean’s wave. A soft, desperate noise scratched at the back of Jon’s throat. “You’re telling me after, though.”

Abruptly, Jon hooked his leg over the crook of your knee and flipped you onto your back, hovering over you. An unattractive squawk of surprise wrangled out of your lungs. His long ink-hued locks tickled your forehead and you wrinkled your nose at him, flushed with desire.

“I’m hoping you’ll forget that by the time I’m done,” Jon gritted out, sounding unfairly confident in his abilities, kissing along your jaw, your clavicle, your chest—and further down he went. Waves of heat danced across your body and you bit down on your tongue in near torment.

He took his time with you, savoring every last second he had before facing the outside world once more. The grip on your hips grew impossibly tighter. Jon could smell the snow on your skin, paired with the faint aroma of smoke, most probably because you’d been hovering by the fire, complaining about the cold just before this. He smiled into your flushed skin. He just couldn’t get enough of you.

You were about to retort something scathing in response when his teeth sank into the flesh of your inner thigh. Immediately, your lips snapped back shut. You didn’t trust yourself to speak without dissolving into a fluster-fucked mess.

It was safe to say, the thought of Jon’s past-death was the absolute last thing on your mind for the rest of the night.

You were fourteen when you left Dorne.

You were twenty-two when you returned home.

“So…” you just about purred into Jon’s ear, draping an arm over his shoulder. “That thick, chunky Northern blood of yours loosen up, yet?”

He side-eyed you with faux-annoyance, before returning his gaze to the large expanse of Dorne’s gardens. His elbows were resting against the balcony’s marble railings, the sun’s rays kissing his skin with golden warmth.

“It’s beautiful,” he observed, bowing his head. “I still can’t believe all of this is yours now.”

“Well,” you shrugged your shoulders, kissing his cheek fondly, “I suppose that’s what happens when I’m the last Martell standing.”

Jon turned to face you, expression turning grave. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t—”

“Oh, hush.” You pressed a finger to his lips, other hand lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. You made the mental note to ask if he wanted to get his hair trimmed—though, you rather liked the long hair on him. “It’s okay. What happened, happened. It’s over now. The battles have been fought—we defeated the Night King. Ramsay Bolton is dead. Cersei Lannister is dead. Daenerys Targaryen is dead. The war is won. We can rest.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he nodded once solemnly, then cast his gaze back to the sunny view. Palm trees arched to the cloudless sky, lush greenery neatly arranged in the gardens. In the center was a large fountain, with four red scorpions as its centerpiece. Just past the gardens were the beginnings of a yellow desert, where the camels roamed and snakes thrived.

A servant came up to the both of you, offering two chalices of honeyed apple cider and a bowl of sticky date cakes.

“Thank you,” Jon told them graciously, nearly groaning with delight when he sipped the sweet drink. “I’ve missed this.”

You hummed your agreement, taking a generous bite of the cake. “I have something to ask you, Snow.”

An eyebrow arched in question, silently boding you to keep going.

You fiddled with the loose, ochre fabric of your shirt. “Will you stay with me? Here, in Dorne?” Uncertainty splayed over your features, and you were quick to backtrack. “I mean—I understand if you wouldn’t—you’ve got family in the North, and it’s where you’re from but… I wouldn’t want to rule without you by my side.”

The question was one Jon expected—one he already had an answer prepared for.

“I don’t know.” Jon scratched at his recently-shaven stubble. “It’s a bit… hot.”

After getting over your initial shock at his nonchalant response, your fist collided with his forearm, which made him burst out into peals of laughter. Much to your dismay, you felt a smile cracking through your annoyed glower.

“You’re a bastard, Snow.”

The raven-haired man turned to you fully, placing the chalice onto the flat of the railing and gathering you into his arms. His forehead leaned against yours as he stared into your single bright eye, glimmering with hope. How could he ever say no to you?

“Aye. That I am,” he said wistfully, before pecking you chastely. You tasted the apple on his lips. “And so are you, Sand.”

You nodded. “You’re right about that,” you whispered, sighing out a breath of relief.

“Of course I’ll stay, love. You said it yourself—we can rest now. I can think of no better place than with you.” Jon slotted two fingers beneath your chin so that you’d meet his sincere gaze.

There were tears pricking the corner of your eye, and you quickly blinked them away before yanking him closer by the collar of his tunic, and kissing him under the scorching sun of Dorne.

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