Chapter Text
Jon Snow
The snow fell lightly that day. The Wall stood tall and unyielding, a low hum thrumming through its blue-tinted ice—ancient, steady, almost alive. It was a sound that usually brought Jon a quiet sort of peace, something to anchor his thoughts.
But today, it felt distant. Muted.
Snow crunched beneath their boots as they walked. Castle Black was fuller than Jon had ever seen it—crowded not with black brothers, but with soldiers.
Banners bearing the crowned stag—black upon a field of burning red—snapped sharply in the wind.
“You are as quiet as your father.”
Stannis said it as one might state a fact.
“Aye. So I’ve been told,” Jon replied, his tone dry. His cloak weighed heavy on his shoulders, a familiar and welcome burden against the cold.
Stannis glanced at him as they walked the narrow path toward the gate. “But are you as capable a leader as he was? That is what I wonder.”
Jon met his gaze, unflinching.
The king wore no crown, yet nothing about him suggested anything less. His armor gleamed against the white of the snow—fine, intricate, and costly enough to feed Castle Black for a year. Flames curled across the steel in twisting patterns, licking upward like something alive. At the center of his breastplate burned a heart, wreathed in fire.
No stag. No crown.
A heart.
Jon found it… peculiar.
“We all have our questions, Your Grace,” Jon said evenly. Then he lifted his gaze to the men atop the stone wall and raised a hand. “Open the gates.”
The call went up at once. Men scrambled, shouting to one another as they moved. Jon and Stannis stepped aside, waiting as the great iron gates groaned in protest. The hinges, old and worn, shrieked as they were forced open, shoving aside the piled snow.
The first of the riders came through—horses stamping, breath steaming in the cold air. Not a grand host. Not anymore. What remained of Stannis Baratheon’s army filed into Castle Black in a slow, weary line.
The last among them were those sworn to protect his queen and daughter.
Jon watched in silence.
Sometimes he wondered if any of it was worth it.
This was not his war. Not anymore. Not since he had been stopped from riding south to join Robb. He had chosen the Wall. He was needed here.
That had to be enough.
He turned his attention as Stannis moved forward, offering a hand to help his wife from her horse.
The queen was taller than both of them—tall enough to be striking, though there was little warmth in her face. Severe, rigid, as though carved from something harder than flesh. Not a woman made for smiles.
Jon’s gaze shifted.
To the princess.
She stood about Arya’s height, bundled in black and gold. Stags were stitched into the heavy fabric of her dress, her cloak thick enough to rival his own. Her dark hair was braided intricately, small plaits woven close to her scalp.
And then—
Jon stilled.
His eyes widened, just slightly. His face did not change.
Half of her face was marked by greyscale.
The skin there was dark and cracked, like old stone left too long in the cold. It crept up toward her eye, jagged and uneven, the edges blackened as though the life had been burned out of it.
Dead.
Or—
Dormant.
The princess smiled.
“Hello, ser.”
Jon stared at her. Only a few feet separated them.
She could infect this entire castle.
Everyone here could die.
And then what? Would it spread into the North? The realm?
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly.
“Princess Shireen,” He said, inclining his head. “A pleasure to have you here.”
She swayed slightly where she stood, watching him with bright, knowing eyes—blue as frozen seas.
As if she could hear every thought in his head.
“Don’t worry,” She said, almost cheerfully. “It’s gone. Technically.”
Jon hummed softly, though he tucked the caution away rather than dismiss it. The gods only knew what horrors had come from Old Valyria.
“As you say, Princess.”
Her smile widened, something playful flickering in her gaze.
And Jon found, to his surprise, that he couldn’t look away.
Her eyes were beautiful.
Despite the death that lingered on her skin.
What a shame.
Shireen Baratheon
It had only been a few days since she arrived at Castle Black.
It was not what she had expected. Not in a bad way—just… different.
The Free Folk were the most interesting part. Some were kind enough. Others were blunt about her greyscale—about how it made them feel.
She did not blame them.
Though that did not make it hurt any less.
She leaned against the railing of the deck, the wood solid beneath her boots. Sturdy. Safe. Her gaze drifted over the training yard below, where men and women moved through drills with swords, bows, and axes—each weapon chosen by its wielder.
Some moved with ease.
Others were erratic, uncertain.
Her eyes, however, found the Lord Commander.
Jon Snow—Bastard of Winterfell.
She paused, then mentally scratched out the last part, as if she were writing on parchment and striking through a word.
She had never liked such titles.
Bastard.
It felt like such a cruel way to name someone who was simply… a person.
She sighed softly.
“What’s wrong, little princess?” Ser Davos asked as he came to stand beside her, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.
Shireen glanced at him, then back to the yard. “Just watching. I grew bored of my books today.”
“You say that every day, about this time,” He replied with a light chuckle.
She shrugged, feeling the weight of her cloak settle around her shoulders. Heavy but warm, just as her father insisted. “Watching them is more fun.”
Below, Jon moved from one person to the next. No cloak, only leathers and gloves. He walked through the snow as if it belonged to him, as though the cold itself bent to his will. His steps were light, barely leaving a trace behind.
He adjusted stances. Corrected grips.
He never insulted anyone.
Never shouted.
Never raised his voice.
And still, they listened.
They watched him.
It reminded her of her father—how men obeyed him, how they respected him… and feared him. The law was the law, no matter the cost. Ser Davos stood as proof of that.
“He’s a good commander,” Ser Davos said.
Shireen hummed, leaning further over the railing. Snow slipped loose beneath her boots as she nudged it idly.
Jon turned his head then, as if sensing her gaze. His grey eyes found hers—quiet, watchful, cold as steel.
He nodded once in acknowledgment.
Then turned away.
“Is he?” She asked, her gaze following him still.
“Well, I think so. For one so young, at least. With time, he may grow wiser still.”
Shireen said nothing after that.
She barely noticed the Wall looming beyond—its vast expanse of blue-tinted ice.
Nor the unfamiliar castle.
Nor the mysteries that surrounded it.
Instead, she wondered…
Would he teach her to use a bow?
Would that not be wonderful? To loose an arrow, to aid the hunters—to be useful, in some small way.
Not as he was.
But something.
A soft clicking sound drew her from her thoughts—wood against claws.
She looked up.
Her eyes widened.
“Is that…?”
A great white wolf padded across the deck toward them.
It was enormous—larger than she was—with fur as pale as fresh snow. Its red eyes seemed to glow, steady and far too knowing.
“By the Seven—what is that?” Ser Davos said sharply, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder.
The wolf stopped a few paces away.
Its head tilted slightly. Its gaze moved from Davos… back to her.
Its ears flicked once.
Then, as if deciding something, it simply lay down in the snow-dusted wood, curling slightly into itself like some great, living rug.
It huffed.
Shireen laughed, bright and delighted. “Oh! It looks like a massive fluffy ball!”
“Shireen—”
“I’m not going to touch it,” She said quickly, still laughing. “It’s just resting. But it’s so cute!”
The wolf stretched, letting out a low groan, its paws flexing before it settled more comfortably. After a moment, it closed its eyes.
As if entirely at ease.
Shireen smiled, watching it.
She would have never seen something like this on Dragonstone.
Jon Snow
The trees blurred together—dark shapes streaking past, no branches, no detail. Just shadows.
The path was not straight. It twisted between trunks, roots catching at his boots. He nearly stumbled more than once.
Every breath burned.
His lungs seared, his legs ached, every muscle twitching with strain.
Where was the town?
The water should have been here.
Had they taken a wrong turn?
The wind bit at his face, sharp as needles. His eyes scanned the forest—trees, endless trees. He heard the crunch of snow beneath two pairs of boots… and the softer, almost-missed sound of paws.
Ghost.
He squinted ahead.
A flicker of white.
Relief surged through him.
He pushed himself faster.
Then—
A heavy clatter.
Metal striking the ground.
Jon’s heart dropped.
He skidded to a stop, gasping. The world spun, blurred at the edges. His chest heaved, every breath tearing through him. His hair had come loose somewhere behind him, lost to the snow.
“Stannis?” He shouted, voice hoarse.
The world slowly came back into focus.
A few trees back—armor, glinting faintly through the snow. A dark cloak draped over the disturbed trail.
Jon ran.
“No, no—”
He stumbled the last steps and dropped to his knees beside him. Snow soaked through his leathers, cold biting deep.
“Stannis?”
The king groaned.
Pale. Too pale.
His hand still clutched the hilt of his sword. His armor was darkened with blood.
He shook his head weakly. “No…”
Jon grabbed him, trying to haul him up. “No? By the gods, get up!”
The wind howled.
And beneath it—something else.
Faint. Distant.
Jon swore he could hear them.
The Others.
People said they came silently.
But Jon always heard them.
Something carried on the wind.
Something he could never understand.
Stannis exhaled sharply and pressed a hand to Jon’s chest, pushing him back. “No. I cannot.”
“You stubborn fool!” Jon snapped. “For a man who calls himself king—”
A breath of laughter escaped Stannis as he slumped against the tree. One arm pressed to his wound, the other tightening around his sword.
“So now,” he said faintly, “You insult me as I die?”
“Get up!” Jon shouted, gesturing wildly to the forest. “They’re coming—we’re close to the town!”
“That we are,” Stannis murmured. “But I am done.”
Jon’s hands clenched. “You—”
“Hush.” Stannis’s gaze sharpened. “Scream all you like. It will not change my decision.”
Jon froze.
Helpless.
He couldn’t save his father. Couldn’t save Robb. His sisters.
And now—
“Stannis—”
“You will swear something to me.”
Jon swallowed hard. His throat burned.
The branches creaked overhead.
Closer.
They were closer.
“Swear,” Stannis rasped, forcing his eyes open, “That you will protect Shireen. No matter what.”
Not the throne.
Not the war.
Just her.
Jon shook his head. “You can protect her yourself. Get up—run with me—”
“We both know…” Stannis’s voice faltered. “…I was never making it that far.”
His eyes closed.
This time, they did not open.
Jon dragged a hand through his tangled hair. “I—” His voice broke. “Fuck you. To the seven hells, Stannis.”
The wind howled again.
Louder.
No—closer.
Jon turned.
There—on the trail behind them.
An Other.
It moved silently through the snow, pale and terrible, sword in hand. No horse. No sound but the wind.
Its eyes—
Cold. Endless.
Stannis stirred.
He forced himself upright against the tree, armor scraping bark. His eyes burned with something fierce—something unyielding.
“Swear it, Jon.”
Jon pushed himself to his feet, legs trembling.
The Other drew nearer.
The air grew colder with every step.
Its mouth opened.
The sound that came out was like ice breaking—sharp, unnatural, wrong.
“Jon!” Stannis barked, gripping his cloak, dragging his attention back. “Swear it!”
Jon met his gaze.
Took a breath.
“I swear,” He said, voice low and steady, “On my life—I will protect your daughter, Shireen Baratheon. No matter the cost.”
Stannis nodded once.
Then shoved him back.
“Go.”
Jon staggered.
The Other was only paces away now.
Its gaze flicked toward him—
Then back to Stannis.
Jon turned.
And ran.
The world blurred again.
The cold tore at his face, his lungs burned with every desperate breath. Tears stung his eyes, freezing at the edges.
Behind him—
Steel met ice.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
Silence.
The wind died.
The whispers vanished.
And Jon kept running.
Shireen Baratheon
It had been a year since her father’s death.
Since then, she had remained at Jon’s side.
Coming to terms with it had not been easy. Some days, it still felt impossible. But she knew—knew—that her father would have fought until the bitter end.
Jon would not give her details. Only this:
They were coming. He chose to stay behind.
That was enough.
It had to be.
Shireen sighed softly, turning a fragile page in her book. The parchment crackled faintly beneath her fingers. The scent of burning logs and old paper filled the room, warm and comforting against the ever-present chill of the North.
She still had not quite grown used to the cold.
A heavy huff sounded beside her.
She glanced over, a faint smile forming as she found Ghost seated at her side. His ears were perked, red eyes flickering between the fire and her.
“What is it?” She asked softly. “Did Jon scold you again?”
Ghost huffed.
Shireen giggled, reaching out to run her fingers gently through his thick, cool fur. “It’s alright. I’ll sneak you something extra later.”
“You spoil him.”
Jon’s voice came from the doorway.
Shireen gasped dramatically, leaning closer to Ghost. “We’ve been caught! Quick—hide!”
Ghost gave a soft ruff and darted beneath the bed—though he was far too large for it, his tail sticking out plainly.
Shireen turned back to Jon, smiling brightly. “No evidence.”
Jon stood with his arms crossed, his dark hair disheveled from the wind outside. Loose curls fell across his forehead, softening the sharpness of his features. He sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips.
“What am I going to do with you two?”
Shireen closed her book and rested it in her lap. “Perhaps bring us more logs for the fire?”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Aye. As the princess wishes.”
He stepped inside, moving toward the hearth.
She frowned slightly. “You don’t have to call me that. It feels… pointless.”
Jon knelt, setting another log into the fire and nudging it into place. “The title?”
“Mhm.”
She watched him as he worked—every movement careful, deliberate. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning their usual grey into something almost silver.
“Why would it be pointless?” He asked.
“My father is dead,” She said softly. “No one will fight for my claim to the throne. And the men… they grow restless. They want war. They complain they are not men of the Night’s Watch.”
“You let me deal with them,” Jon said, his voice quiet but firm. “We will move soon enough. That I swear.”
“For what?” She asked.
Jon rose slowly, turning to face her. Ghost had emerged from beneath the bed and settled once more at her side.
Jon crossed his arms, tension settling into his shoulders. “We take back the North. Then we find a way to bring the realm back to peace. The Boltons have bled this land dry, and I will not see us all die to the Others while men fight over scraps.”
His arms fell to his sides, gloved hands flexing slightly.
“You will be safe,” He added. “I cannot promise you a crown. But I will make sure you never have to worry.”
Shireen shook her head. “I don’t want to be queen. Even if my mother insists.”
Jon studied her for a moment.
“Then would you settle for a life without worry?” He asked, his voice lowered—almost careful, as if the words mattered more than most.
Shireen looked down at her book, fingers brushing along the worn leather cover.
“I will always worry,” She murmured. “You worry enough for the both of us.”
The fire crackled softly.
The room grew warmer.
Neither of them spoke again.
But Jon did not leave.
He stayed—just for a little while. Longer than he usually allowed himself to rest.
And that…
That was what worried her most.
Jon Snow
Taking back the North had been more strenuous than he had imagined.
It was a burden he had thought he could carry.
He had gathered men—not only from Castle Black, not only Baratheons or Free Folk—but those still loyal to the name Stark.
Mormont.
Karstark.
Greyjoy.
Arryn.
They had answered his and Sansa’s call.
With fury. With bitterness. With the cold resolve of the North.
And together, they had taken back Winterfell from the Boltons.
Crack.
Jon flinched.
Even now, he could hear it—the sound of bone breaking beneath his fists. The wet impact. The blood that had splattered across his face, his hands—warm, sticky.
He had not regretted it.
Not then.
Not now.
But everything had changed after.
The shouting.
The chanting.
King in the North.
They had roared it, over and over, voices rising, echoing through the hall.
And Jon had stood there.
Still.
Empty.
Unsure what to do with it.
Was that how Robb had felt?
Or had Robb been proud, standing beneath their voices?
It had never been part of Jon’s plan.
He had meant to give it to Sansa—to return the North to her—and then ride on. Prepare for the Long Night.
He had looked to her, then.
For guidance.
For help.
But she had only smiled.
And in that moment—
He had not seen blue eyes like frozen waters.
No comfort.
Only the cold.
So he wandered.
Through the halls of Winterfell, over familiar stone. His fingers brushed along the walls, tracing cracks worn by time. Memories rose unbidden—laughter, voices, warmth.
Ghosts of a life long gone.
Jon took a shaky breath and came to a stop.
Something brushed against his leg.
Soft. Cool.
Ghost.
Jon did not reach down. Did not move. He only listened.
The crackle of distant fires.
The steady howl of wind beyond the walls.
The stillness of banners overhead.
And then—
Laughter.
Soft. Bright.
Familiar.
Grounding.
Jon lifted his head, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The bedchambers.
Shireen’s room.
Her laughter.
Her joy.
He moved before he realized it.
One step.
Two.
Three.
He reached the door—
And it opened.
Shireen stood there, as though she had been expecting him.
Her dress was simple, gold with black patterns stitched lightly through the fabric. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, dark waves framing her face.
Her blue eyes met his.
Too knowing.
Too gentle.
She smiled.
“I have a new book Sansa gave me,” She said softly. “And tea. And extra blankets.”
She reached for his wrist, warm fingers curling around it.
“Come on.”
She did not ask what was wrong.
She simply led him inside.
Ghost followed.
Shireen Baratheon
She watched as Jon sat at the desk, his head in his hands.
His hair was tied back into a tight knot, though a loose curl had fallen across his forehead. His shoulders were rigid with tension, and letters lay scattered across the desk in disarray.
“Jon?” She called softly.
No reply.
Shireen glanced toward Ghost, who rested by the fire. Their eyes met briefly—there was worry there, unmistakable.
She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Jon’s shoulder.
He was trembling.
“Jon?” She tried again.
He inhaled sharply. His hands dropped to the desk with a dull thud as he looked up, startled.
His eyes were red. Dark circles shadowed beneath them.
“Shireen…” He breathed. “Gods, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know you were here.”
She smiled softly. “When was the last time you slept?”
Her fingers traced small, slow circles against his shoulder.
Jon rubbed at his temple. “I don’t know,” he muttered.
She felt some of the tension ease beneath her touch.
“Well,” She said gently, “come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
Jon shook his head immediately. “No—I can’t. We need to talk.” He dragged a hand down his face, his beard rough beneath his fingers. It made him look older. Tired in a way that went deeper than sleep.
Shireen tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”
“Please… sit.”
She did, settling into the chair across from him.
Jon’s fingers moved restlessly over the letters. “You are the last trueborn Baratheon,” He said quietly. “The Stormlands are in chaos. Lords are already arguing over who should lead.”
She nodded, listening.
“We need the realm united,” He continued. “For the Long Night. The Wall will not hold forever.”
She could see it in him—the weight of it all. When he had only been Lord Commander, he had seemed… lighter.
Younger.
“But they won’t accept a woman ruling alone,” Jon said, voice dropping.
Shireen frowned slightly. “Then what do you propose? There must be other Baratheons—Uncle Robert had children.”
“Aye,” Jon said. “But Davos… suggested something else.”
He hesitated.
“Marriage,” he finished quietly. “Between you and me.”
Shireen blinked.
“Is that the only way?” She asked.
Jon exhaled sharply and dropped his forehead to the desk. “For your protection—yes.” He pushed himself upright again, sudden and restless.
“If I marry you to someone else…” His jaw tightened. “Gods.”
“Half these men would treat you like an object,” He snapped. “Like something to own. The decent ones are gone—dead or already bound. I can’t risk you on the chance that one of them isn’t a monster.”
His arm swept across the desk. Letters scattered to the floor.
“What if he hurts you?” Jon went on, voice breaking. “What if he kills you? I won’t—” He clenched his fists. “I won’t allow that.”
“Jon,” Shireen said softly. “Stop.”
“I can’t!” He snapped. “I don’t know what to do—everything I see leads to you being in danger!”
“Jon.”
Her voice was calm.
Steady.
He froze.
She reached forward, gently cupping his face in her hands. His beard was softer than she expected, warm beneath her fingers. Her thumbs brushed away the tears gathering at his eyes.
“I know you’re trying,” She said quietly. “I know.”
She hesitated, then added, softer still, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Jon’s head tilted into her touch, just slightly.
“But if this is how I can help—“ She continued, meeting his gaze.
His expression hardened. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
Shireen held his gaze.
“If this is how I can help protect us—protect you—then I will.”
Jon let out a shaky breath, tears slipping free. “I hate that.”
She smiled faintly. “We’re protecting each other, aren’t we?”
A small pause.
Then, lighter:
“We marry… and I’ll do my best to give you so many children your hair turns grey before your time.”
Jon let out a startled laugh—a real one, rare and unguarded.
“Yeah?” He murmured.
“Gods… I have so many letters to answer…”
“After you sleep,” She said firmly.
Jon huffed. “As Her Grace commands.”
His eyes closed.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
And Shireen… stayed.
Still holding his face, her thumbs brushing gently over his skin.
If this was what it took for him to rest—
Then she would not let go.
Jon Snow
The wind howled.
Beneath it—voices.
A language he did not understand.
The sky was black. No moon. No stars.
Only darkness—and the distant glow of fire.
Smoke burned in the air. The thunder of wings cracked overhead.
Below, chaos.
Children, women, the elderly rushed toward the crypts. The heavy doors would be sealed soon.
Jon watched them pass—fear in their faces, children crying, clinging to whatever hands they could find.
He swallowed hard.
Then turned.
His hand found Shireen’s wrist—small, delicate beneath his grip.
“Shireen…” He whispered.
Shireen looked up at him, wrapped in his cloak, the hood pulled tight around her face. Her blue eyes met his—soft, steady.
She smiled.
“It’s alright,” She said gently. “I’ll be safe. You just make sure you are.”
Her fingers curled around his hand. “Promise?”
Jon stared at her.
Swear to me.
Stannis’s voice echoed in his mind.
The weight of that moment. The grip on his cloak.
The oath.
Slowly, Jon lifted his other hand and cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed over the greyscale—cold beneath his touch, unmoving.
Her skin beside it was warm.
He did not pull away.
There was no fear left in him.
Only her.
He leaned down—
And kissed her.
Soft.
Uncertain.
A brief press of lips, hesitant but real.
Shireen leaned into it, just as unsure.
Then she smiled.
“Well,” She whispered, “Now you definitely can’t be stupid.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “I suppose not… my dear wife.”
She giggled, squeezing his hand once more. “Be safe.”
And then she slipped away.
Gone into the crowd.
Into the safety below.
Jon blinked—
And the world became chaos.
The cold hit him like a blade. His lungs burned as he gasped for air. His body trembled, but his grip on his sword held firm.
Dragons roared overhead. Fire lit the night. Ice cracked and shrieked in answer.
Jon ran.
Through bodies. Through flame. Through death.
He cut down wights as they came, each strike precise, each movement costing him something.
His breath. His strength. His time.
But the dead did not tire.
They did not slow.
And he was searching.
For the one who had to fall.
He listened to the wind—felt its pull.
It led him to the godswood.
Once peaceful.
Now heavy with dread.
Jon slowed.
Stopped.
The great weirwood tree stood before him, pale branches stretching into darkness. Red leaves shimmered in the firelight behind it.
And beneath it—
Him.
The Night King stood still, his back turned.
One hand reached upward, brushing the branches. He plucked a single red leaf, holding it between frozen fingers.
Jon tightened his grip on his sword.
No wights.
No Others.
Just them.
A crow perched on the stone wall nearby, letting out a harsh caw.
Jon took a slow breath.
One chance.
That was all he would get.
For her.
For the blue eyes that had looked at him without fear.
For the hands that had held his face so gently.
The Night King turned his head.
Slowly.
Those cold, endless eyes found him.
Its mouth opened.
And it spoke.
“Red leaves were not its first color,” The voice echoed—thin, fractured, like ice breaking. “Not until it was changed.”
Jon winced, gripping his head for a moment as the sound scraped through him.
The leaf slipped from the Night King’s hand, drifting down into the snow.
“Death,” It continued, “Is the only truth you cannot stop.”
Jon steadied himself, forcing the world back into focus.
“Say what you like,” He muttered. “It won’t save you.”
The Night King turned fully, facing him.
A faint, almost curious tilt of its head.
Then it drew its blade—long, jagged, gleaming with frost.
“Everything ends,” It said. “In cold. Or fire.”
A dragon roared in the distance. Flames surged across the battlefield, devouring snow and earth alike.
Jon lifted his sword.
His breath steadied.
For Shireen.
For the promise he made.
He whispered—
“Ours is the fury.”
And charged.
Shireen Baratheon
She sat in a chair that was at the edge of the bed.
It was late at night, and she had spent most of the day trying to pick up the pieces after the Long Night. She was the Queen of the North after all, and she needed to make sure that the North stayed as stable as it can be while Jon was out cold in bed.
She gently bit her lip and reached out, grasping onto one of his hands with both of hers. Her fingers rubbed across his knuckles.
He felt so cold. No matter how many furs she piled on him, he was always cold.
Shireen sniffed, feeling the tears prickle her eyes.
It hurt to see him this way. An ugly slash across his stomach, with a few cuts here and there that just piled onto the scars on his body.
Ghost then jumped onto the bed, and laid down curled up next to Jon. A part of his ear was missing, like something took a bite. He rested his head in Jon’s lap, letting out a huff. Red eyes looked at hers.
Shireen sniffed and gently petted his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry… I wish I could do more for you both….” She couldn’t help it anymore, she sobbed. Laying her face by Ghost’s, letting the tears fall. “I don’t know what to do… I feel so useless…he should have married Daenerys or—“
“If you keep saying stuff like that…” Jon’s voice came out, rough and dry. “Then you have another thing coming.” His body shifted, letting out a groan.
Shireen gasped and shot up, “Jon!” She moved so quickly that she didn’t even get to see his face. She just threw herself onto him, landing on him and the bed, arms wrapped around his neck. “You’re alive! You’re okay!” Then she quickly pressed soft kisses all over his face. Against his beard, his nose, his forehead.
She just felt overjoyed to see him alive agian, to hear his voice.
Everyone thought him dead.
No one let her see his body until it was cleaned and stitched.
Jon let out a soft laugh, “Shireen…”
Shireen placed a peck on his lips, they were warm and cracked. But she cares not, he’s breathing and still here.
She felt his hand grasped the back of her neck, him kissing her back with what strength he had.
“Shireen…” He muttered between their soft kisses.
Shireen pouted and moved away, “Do I have to stop…?”
Jon let out chuckle, “I just woke up….”
“Mm, sounds like a good excuse to continue.”
“My dear wife….. why?”
Shireen giggled and looked at him fully.
His cheeks were sucked, he looked exhausted still, but he was smiling. Running his fingers through her hair. “Are you okay?” He asked.
“Mhm. Not a scratch.”
Jon nodded, “Good.“ he looked around the room. “Is… everything okay?”
“I’ve been able to manage it. Daenerys and Sansa helped a lot.” She said softly.
Jon looked at her again and smiled softly, “Thank you. And if I hear you say you’re useless again…. I’m gonna jump you in the snow… and tickle you.” But he was completely serious.
Shireen giggled, “Okay. I’ll try…” She laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers idling tracing shapes on his chest. “Are you warm?”
“Mhm.” Jon closed his eyes again.
Shireen pressed a soft kiss to his beard. “Rest…”
“As Her Grace commands.”
Shireen then laid her head on his chest, and closed her eyes. She was curled up to side like Ghost was. Just resting there, and listening to his heart beat. It was steady, alive. All she needed to now he was going to be okay.
She couldn’t help but wondered…if her father ever expected them to be together in the end.