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He is faced with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen.
Bright and clear, the color of the sky after a stormy night in the summertime. It scares him, these eyes, from just how much he wants to keep looking, from how he would gladly spend the rest of his days under the watch of them eyes, trying and failing to unravel all they seem to show him.
Bewitched, a voice whispers, sounding a lot like his old teacher, and Jon forces himself to blink, to look away from the haunting eyes and the person- the thing that lies behind them.
Damn it, Snow, end it already. But the dagger-knife remains still, blade pressed sharply against pale skin, heavy with the weight only Valyrian steel carries. Good for all things wicked, Davos had taught him, back when he was just a boy of one and ten, with runny noses and scraped knees and not enough meat in his bones. Your father sent this, the man had said, placing the wrapped blade on Jon’s hand with a care he had not been accustomed to. I will teach you how to use it and it will keep you safe, but you must not show it off. The silver hilt alone could feed a family of five for over a moon. People will kill ya’ for this. Hear me, lad?
Jon did hear. The scars on his chest are proof enough of it, of the worth of the dagger, and the longsword he’d later acquired, and his arrowheads, the sharp tips of his dragon leather whip, even the buckles on his belt. All Valyrian steel, all blessed by a High Septon, all bathed in tears from a weirwood tree north of the Wall.
“If you expect me to beg,” the creature says, bringing his attention back to the present, a slight tremble of her voice that has him looking up again, at the deep blue of her eyes. “You might as well end me now. I’d sooner die than hope for mercy from a crow.”
“Shut up, witch.”
A half smile, wicked and beautiful and all things sinful. Beware of the wicked witch, they’d told him at that dirty tavern before he made his way up the mountain. The wet of her tongue against her lower lip, a tug inside him, from his core and down his pants, a twitch of his cock.
Bewitched.
“Is that not what you are? One of the King’s crows, following orders, killing when told to kill and dying when told to die?”
He can almost hear it, then, the mocking laughter of his youth, the staring and pointing and avoiding, the tough blows and the nights spent crying until he learned how to keep it all inside. He pushes her more forcefully against the wall, tightens his grip on her throat, presses the blade more firmly under her chin. “Say another word and I’ll cut off your tongue and feed it to my Ghost.”
She lets out a chuckle, then, soft and silly, too pretty for a creature meant to be cruel. “Oh, how rude. Not a kind word to spare for the one who saved your life, I see.”
“You did no such thing.”
Hasn’t she, though? She’d help Ghost drag his half frozen body to her cottage and nursed him back to life. She’d sang him a melody so sweet it made him want to wake and know the rest. Is that not saving? Could he have made it had she not come to his aid? It will do him no good to dwell. Witches aren’t to be trusted any more than other supernatural creatures. Especially ones with eyes like these, and plush pink lips, and fire red hair that seems to beg him for a sweep of his fingers, a wrap around his wrist, a tug from his hand to earn himself a sweet cry.
Bewitched, bewitched, bewitched.
Beware of the wicked witch.
Focus, Snow.
He tries to, wills himself to it. He has a job to do. Ending her is part of it.
She seems to notice, though, the wandering of his thoughts, the uncertainty in him, the softening of his grip when he sees the trickle of blood down her neck from where his blade presses against her skin. He doesn’t mean to do it, doesn’t mean to show weakness, but there’s a call to him, his heart forever bound by honor, and honor prevents him from owing anyone a life debt, even a witch.
A beautiful, soft spoken, kind eyed witch.
She crooks her head to the side as much as his grip will let her, not bothering to hide the wince from the tug at her wound. Manipulation, Davos’ lesson ringing loudly in his ears, is a witch’s greatest weapon. They will use their words to lure you and they will work their way around your soul until you find yourself trusting them, pitying them, but make no mistake, boy, because that’s precisely their goal.
They’re meant to win you over so they can use you and finish you off.
Manipulation, Jon thinks, and yet he can’t help but seek for the emotions behind her eyes, for the faint shake of her lip and the blush of her cheeks and the rapid beat of pulse he can clearly feel against his palm.
“Have you made your choice, Jonnel Snow?” Damn her, he thinks, damn this witch and her song-sweet voice. “Will you take my life tonight? Or will you let me show you the things I’ve learned in the dark?”
“How do you know my name?”
She holds his gaze, chin up, and in her eyes he recognizes an intensity that matches his own, a hint of bravery and will of mind that leaves him longing for more. “I know a great deal of things. I know your father wished another name for you, but Jon was your mother’s last wish, and he felt that by indulging her she would not haunt him for what he did. I know you have dragon blood in you, ancient and strong and filled with magic, and still you’re not immune to fire. I know they call you Snow because you came from the North, and that you can speak with the wolves, and dream of them too. I know you dreamt of me every night for over a moon, and that’s why you think you can’t trust me now.”
Impossible, and yet, all true. He hears Ghost howling outside, the full moon looking back at them in its full glory, feels the weight of every word, and the certainty behind them. Feels himself pressing closer to her, his own voice a shocked whisper, heart beating so fast he’s almost hoping it would stop again, for good this time.
“How?”
“Because I’ve also dreamt of you.”