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Year 300 AC
Hornwood Castle, The North
The gates of Hornwood stood open before them, and Jon Snow rode through with an army that had swollen like a river fed by spring melt. Every hamlet and holdfast they'd passed had yielded men eager to strike at the Boltons. Farmers with rusty scythes, greybeards who remembered better days, boys barely old enough to hold spears—all had fallen in behind his banners.
Do I reveal it? Would they still follow me? But he pushed the thought aside, they had a war to win, everything else can come after. These men followed Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard, not some dragon prince from a southern tale.
The courtyard erupted in chaos as his forces poured in. Free Folk mingled uneasily with northmen, while Stannis's knights kept to themselves like oil refusing to mix with water. Jon dismounted, his boots crunching on frost-brittle mud, and watched the reunions unfold.
"Mother!" Alysane Mormont's voice cut through the din. The warrior woman dropped her morningstar and ran—actually ran—toward a stocky figure emerging from the keep.
Maege Mormont caught her daughter in an embrace that would have crushed a lesser woman. "My cub," she growled, her voice thick. "Look at you. Covered in Bolton blood, I hope."
"Every drop honestly earned," Alysane said, pulling back to grin at her mother. Her sisters Lyra and Jorelle appeared, and soon all four Mormont women were locked in a tangle of arms and fierce northern affection.
Jon found himself smiling despite everything. This was what they fought for—not crowns or glory, but moments like these. Families torn apart by war given another chance.
Alysane broke away from her sisters and pointed across the courtyard. "That one there, Jorelle. The big one with the thick brown beard."
Jon followed her gesture to where Grenn stood awkwardly by the stables, trying to look anywhere but at the Mormont women. Jorelle, barely sixteen with her mother's stocky build and a face full of freckles, studied Grenn with the intensity of a hawk eyeing a rabbit.
"He saved my life at the Dreadfort," Alysane continued, loud enough for half the courtyard to hear. "Caught me when I slipped on the wall. Strong as an ox, that one."
Grenn's face flushed red as a weirwood leaf. He suddenly found the stable's thatching fascinating, studying it as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"Is he simple?" Jorelle asked, not bothering to lower her voice.
"No," Jon called out, unable to resist. "Just easily frightened by Mormont women. A common affliction among sensible men."
Maege barked a laugh that could have come from a bear's throat. "The boy knows us well." A sound rippled through the stables—a wave of snorts and stamping hooves, leather creaking as horses strained against their tethers. A destrier's massive head swung sideways, teeth bared, missing a stableboy's shoulder by inches.
"Seven hells," Maege growled, turning to look at the stables. The scent of horse sweat mixed with fresh hay and the underlying musk of fear. "Been at this since dawn. Even my old girl's dancing like she's got burrs under her saddle."
"Must be the cold," Alysane cut in quickly, shooting Jon a look. "Or maybe they smell bear on us."
Movement near the keep's entrance caught Jon's eye. Val strode in with Tormund and Toregg, her white doeskin cloak swirling around her. The way she moved—fluid, purposeful, like a shadowcat prowling through snow—made his mouth go dry. The curve of her hips, the proud set of her shoulders, the way her honey-colored braid swayed with each step...
She must have felt his gaze. Val turned, catching him staring, and her lips curved in a smile that promised trouble. She held his eyes for a heartbeat, then deliberately put an extra sway in her walk as she continued inside.
Jon forced himself to look away, heat crawling up his neck. When he turned back, he found Robett Glover watching him with an expression caught between amusement and disapproval.
"Lord Snow." Robett's greeting was stiff as week-old bread. Beside him, Larence Snow stood with the careful neutrality of a bastard who'd learned not to presume too much. "Your... army has grown since our last report."
"Men remember their loyalties when given the chance," Jon said. "The North remembers."
"Aye," Maege Mormont joined them, her daughters flanking her. "Though some remember better than others. You've brought wildlings south of the Wall."
"Free Folk," Jon corrected. "Who've bled and died fighting the real enemy while we've been killing each other over castles and crowns."
Robett's jaw tightened. "They've raided our lands for thousands of years—"
"And we have killed them for thousands of years as well." Jon kept his voice level, though purple flames danced behind his eyes. "Now they fight beside us."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the group. Larence Snow shifted his weight, and Jon caught his eye, giving him a respectful nod—one bastard to another. Larence straightened slightly, returning the gesture.
"We'll hold a war council in the great hall," Jon announced. "After everyone's had a chance to rest and eat. There are things you need to see. Things that will help you understand why I've done what I've done."
"More mysteries?" Maege's tone suggested she'd had her fill of those. "Boy, we've followed you this far on faith and hatred of Boltons. What more is there?"
"Come to the dungeons with me." Jon gestured to Robett and Larence as well. "All of you. My men already brought it down here as that will answer your questions better than any words I could speak."
Robett frowned. "What game is this?"
"No game." Jon was already walking toward the keep. "Just truth. The kind that changes everything."
He heard Maege mutter something about "dramatic boys and their dramatic gestures," but their footsteps followed him across the courtyard. Good. Let them see. Let them understand why wildlings and northmen needed to stand together, why old hatreds had to die.
The entrance to the dungeons yawned before them, dark and cold as a grave. Jon descended without hesitation, though he heard Larence's sharp intake of breath behind him. The smell hit them first—decay and something else, something wrong that made the skin prickle.
"Seven hells," Robett gasped. "What is that stench?"
"Death," Jon said simply. "Death that won't stay dead."
They reached the bottom of the stairs where six of his men stood guard beside a large ironwood box bound with heavy chains. The guards stepped aside at Jon's nod, though they tightened their hands on their dragonglass spears.
"Open it," Jon commanded.
The guards exchanged glances but obeyed, working at the locks with steady hands. The chains fell away with a clatter that echoed off stone walls. One guard gripped the lid, hesitated, then threw it open.
The thing inside had once been Bowen Marsh. Now it was a mockery of life, with milk-white eyes that burned with cold fire. Its jaw had been removed to prevent biting, but it still thrashed against its bonds, reaching toward them with blackened fingers.
Larence stumbled backward. "Gods preserve us."
"The gods have nothing to do with this," Jon said. "This is what waits beyond the Wall. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands. And worse things that command them."
Maege stepped closer, her face carved from stone. "How?"
"I executed him for betraying his vows. For murdering his Lord Commander." Jon let that sink in. "Within minutes, he rose. Just as they all rise in the true North now. The enemy gives no thought to whether you're Freefolk or Northman, Stark or Bolton. Dead is dead, and the dead serve only one master."
Robett's face had gone pale as parchment. "This... this changes things."
"Everything," Jon agreed. "Which is why I brought the Free Folk south. Why I'll take help from anyone willing to give it. We can settle our old grudges when the Long Night ends—if any of us survive it."
The wight's struggles grew more frantic, as if it could sense their warmth, their life. Jon nodded to the guards, who slammed the lid shut and began replacing the chains.
"Now you understand," he said, turning to climb the stairs. "Rest. Eat. Then we plan how to win back the North. Because we'll need every castle, every sword, every able body when the real war comes."
He left them in the dungeon's darkness with their new knowledge, their changed world. As he emerged into daylight, Jon spotted Val waiting by the entrance to the great hall. She leaned against the doorframe with studied casualness, but her eyes tracked his movement like a wolf's.
"Showing off your pet monster?" she asked as he approached.
"Showing them the truth."
"The truth." She pushed off from the wall, stepping close enough that he could smell the pine and snow scent of her. "Like the truth you've been keeping? About what you really are?"
Jon glanced around, but the courtyard had emptied as men sought food and warmth. "Soon."
"The more later they find out," Her fingers brushed his arm, the touch light as snowfall but somehow burning through his sleeve. "The more distrustful they will be."
"..."
Val studied him, her grey eyes unreadable. Then she smiled—not the teasing curve of lips from before, but something softer, almost sad. "I understand holding it off for as long as you can, but you are only denying yourself…yourself."
She left him standing there, her words hanging in the air.
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The great hall of Hornwood buzzed with voices as lords and captains filed in, their boots tracking mud across ancient rushes. Jon took his place at the head table, watching men who'd never shared bread find seats together—Free Folk beside Umber men, Baratheon knights next to mountain clansmen. The sight should have pleased him but the looks between them didn't.
"Right then," Jon stood, and the hall quieted. "Let's start with what we have."
Robett Glover rose first, parchment in hand. "Between all our forces with Mormont, Glover, the mountain clans, Umber, and the rest, we number near eight thousand fighting men." He paused, glancing at the Free Folk. "Plus whatever the wildlings bring."
"Three thousand spears," Sigorn said, his bronze armor catching firelight. "Good fighters all."
"Eleven thousand total." Wylis Manderly shifted his considerable bulk. "The Boltons have perhaps six thousand behind Winterfell's walls, plus whatever Dustin and Ryswell brought."
"Numbers mean nothing if we starve," Artos Flint cut in. "We've stripped the countryside bare getting here. How do we feed eleven thousand mouths through a siege?"
The question hung heavy. Jon had expected it, but that didn't make the answer easier. He stood slowly, feeling every eye in the hall.
"We won't starve." He kept his voice level. "The Iron Bank of Braavos has agreed to provide supplies. Ships are already sailing from Essos with grain and food. They'll dock at Eastwatch and make their way south."
The eruption came instantly.
"The Iron Bank?" Robett's face darkened. "What did you promise them?"
"You've sold us to foreign moneylenders!" someone shouted from the back.
"The North doesn't bow to Braavosi coin!"
Jon let them rage. Better to lance the boil now than let it fester. When the shouting crested, he slammed his fist on the table. The wood cracked beneath his hand, splitting clean through. In the sudden silence, he pulled his hand back, studying the splintered oak.
"I've sold nothing." His voice carried that strange resonance now, deeper than before. "The debt is mine alone. My responsibility, my burden. The North owes the Iron Bank nothing. But can you turn away food when winter is here, when the Long Night awaits us!"
"And can you pay such debts?" Lord Flint asked. "What collateral could you possibly—"
"That's Lord Snow's concern, not yours." Wylis Manderly's voice cut through like a blade. "House Manderly pledges its merchant fleet to help transport these supplies. Unless you'd prefer your men eat their boots?"
Maege Mormont grunted agreement. "The boy says he'll feed us, he'll feed us. I've seen enough to trust his word."
The lords who understood—exchanged glances. Their acceptance seemed to calm the others, though suspicious mutters continued.
"Now," Jon pressed on, "to the matter of taking Winterfell."
"Before we start, I bring news." Robett stood, parchment rustling in his weathered hands. "We received a raven from Moat Cailin." His voice cracked on the last word. "The Vale." He swallowed hard. "Twenty thousand Knights of the Vale have taken the Moat. They march north on the Kingsroad." He looked up, meeting Jon's eyes. "The letter is signed by Sansa Stark."
The hall exploded.
"The girl lives!" someone roared.
"Twenty thousand fresh swords!"
"The girl leads an entire kingdom against the Boltons!" Maege slammed her cup down, mead sloshing across scarred wood. "She has more spine than half you men!"
Jon's heart hammered against his ribs. Sansa is alive and safe. The distant girl who'd wanted songs and knights, who'd dreamed of southern courts and golden princes. Now she leads an army north.
"The Vale fights for Starks now?" Mors Umber called out, his voice cutting through the din.
"Southron knights who've never seen real winter," someone else spat.
"Do we wait for them?" This from one of Stannis's men, calculating eyes already measuring distances and days.
"No." Jon's voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. The word came out deeper than intended, that strange resonance that made men step back. "We don't wait."
The hall quieted, every face turning toward him. Some confused, others already understanding.
"This is Northern business." Jon stood slowly, feeling the weight of their expectations. "Northern vengeance for Northern blood. The Vale can secure our rear, ensure no Lannister forces come north to aid the Boltons. But Winterfell?" He met each lord's gaze in turn. "Winterfell we take ourselves."
Grunts of approval rippled through the northern lords. The Free Folk remained silent as this talk of vengeance and old blood meant nothing to them. They fought for survival, not honor. Stannis's men shifted uneasily, caught between loyalty to their dead king and this bastard who commanded both wildlings and northmen with equal ease.
"Lord Snow." Maege's voice carried across the hall like a war horn. "Speaking of Northern business... have you read your brother's will?"
The question landed like a thunderclap. Jon saw the look that passed between Maege and Wylis, heavy with meaning. Every eye in the hall fixed on him.
"I have." Jon spoke cautiously.
"And?" Robett Glover leaned forward. "Robb named you his heir. Named you King in the North."
The hall held its breath. Jon felt the weight of it—not just the crown Robb had tried to give him, but everything else. The thing inside him turned over, lazy as smoke. Howland's words had cracked something open that couldn't be sealed again.
I am not Ned Stark's bastard. I am Lyanna's son. Rhaegar's son.
But they didn't need to know that. Not yet.
"My brother Rickon lives." Each word deliberate, careful, keeping the beast chained. "He is Ned Stark's trueborn son. The lordship of Winterfell belongs to him."
"He's a boy of six," Artos Flint protested. "Can he hold Winterfell against…the Long Night?"
"Aye, he's a child still. Which is why I'll serve as his regent until he comes of age." Jon stood fully now, decision crystallizing like ice on a blade. "I'll not take what belongs to my father's blood. But I'll hold it safe, guard it well, until Rickon can claim his birthright."
The northern lords exchanged glances. One by one, they began to nod. It was the right answer, honoring both Robb's will and Stark tradition. A bastard who knew his place, yet accepted the burden of leadership.
"Well said," Wylis murmured, his chins wobbling as he nodded. "Your father would be proud."
Which father? The thought came unbidden. Jon pushed it down, buried it deep where the dragon slept.
"Tomorrow we march for Winterfell," he declared, letting authority ring in his voice. "Within a fortnight, the Boltons will be no more."
"And the battle plan?" Justin Massey asked, ever the tactician. "A siege could last moons. Winterfell has never fallen to assault. Unless Lord Snow cha—"
"We won't siege." Jon cut off Justin Massey with a look and a warning. "I won't see my father's castle starved and broken. We need to draw Roose Bolton out."
"Easier said than done," Robett observed. "Bolton's too careful to abandon strong walls."
"He is." Jon nodded. "Which is why he'll only see part of our strength. Four thousand. Just enough to seem like all we could gather, but not enough to truly threaten him."
Robett's weathered face hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening. "That trick's already been played." His fingers drummed against the oak table, a staccato rhythm that echoed in the sudden silence. "We used it on Ramsay, drew him out with a small force, caught him between our forces. Roose Bolton's many things, but he's no fool. He'll have wrung every detail from his bastard's survivors. That particular snare won't catch the same wolf twice."
Jon's jaw tightened. "That's precisely why it'll work." He leaned forward, palms flat against the scarred oak. "Roose's scouts will count every man, catalog every banner. They'll report not to Ramsay, who'd charge out like a rabid dog, but to Roose himself."
The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing across weathered faces.
"The rest?" Jon's voice dropped, carrying the weight of command learned in blood and snow. "They take the long route through the Wolfswood. Silent as ghosts. When Bolton's forces commit to crushing my 'foolish' assault..." He let the implication hang like morning mist.
"I'll lead the visible force myself." Jon met their stares. "Four thousand men. A mix of all our forces—the forces Bolton expects me to have."
Val's knuckles whitened where she gripped her cup. Even those who knew what he was looked uncertain.
"That's madness." Richard Horpe's protest cut through the hall's thick air. "Four thousand against Winterfell's garrison?"
Mors Umber grunted, his one good eye narrowing. "Aye. Boy's got stones, I'll grant him that." The old warrior's scarred fingers drummed against his drinking horn. "But it's still madness as Bolton's got twice that behind those walls."
"Not madness." Alysane Mormont's voice rang clear, filling the space between doubt and faith. "Lord Snow has... advantages." Her knowing look swept the room. "Roose Bolton prizes caution above all else. Show him what seems like a rash young commander with too few men, and that caution becomes greed."
The She-Bear stood, her mail rustling like autumn leaves. "My uncle always said—give a careful man exactly what he expects to see, and he'll never look for what's hidden beneath."
"You're assuming much," Robett warned, his weathered hands spreading flat on the table. "If Bolton doesn't take the bait..."
Jon's grey eyes caught the firelight, holding depths that hadn't been there before Hardhome. "Then we've lost nothing but time. The hidden forces become our siege army." He straightened, shadows bending strangely around him. "But Roose Bolton has one weakness—he believes everyone else is predictable. Show him the young bastard commander he expects, making the mistakes he anticipates..."
"And he'll ride out to teach you a lesson." Wylis finished, understanding dawning in his broad face. "My lord father did something similar at the Trident. Seemed to retreat in disorder, drew the royalists right into a trap."
"When Bolton sees only four thousand, he'll sortie," Robett mused. "Try to crush you before help arrives."
Jon's gaze swept across the hall, lingering on each weathered face—Flint's granite jaw, Umber's scarred knuckles drumming against his sword hilt, the deep lines etched around Glover's mouth. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
"You followed my brother." His voice came out as a deep rasp. "Trusted him with your sons, your honor, your lives."
Artos Flint shifted, leather creaking. The sound echoed in the stillness.
"Robb's gone." Jon let the words fall heavy. "But the North remains. And I'm asking you to trust me as you trusted him. Not because I'm his brother—" A pause, brother. "But because I know these lands. I fight for these lands. I fight for my home!"
Mors Umber's single eye glittered in the firelight. His massive hand stilled on his pommel.
"Trust." The word rolled from Robett Glover like a stone down a mountainside. "Easy word for hard times."
Jon met his stare without flinching.
"I'm not asking for easy." Heat prickled beneath his skin, that familiar itch he'd learned to suppress. "I'm asking you to remember. Remember what the Boltons did at the Twins. Remember your oaths."
Maege's mail whispered as she straightened. "The Young Wolf earned our trust in battle."
"Then let me earn it the same way." Jon's hands gripped the table's edge, knuckles white. The wood groaned faintly. "Give me this one chance. If I fail, you can name me fool and choose another path. But if I succeed—"
"When." Val's voice cut through, sharp as winter steel. "When you succeed."
The correction hung between them. Jon felt the weight of their scrutiny—calculating, measuring, remembering. These men had bled for Robb. Had watched their sons die for him.
Slowly, deliberately, Mors Umber stood. The old warrior's bulk cast long shadows as he drew his sword, not in threat, but ceremony. Steel rang against stone as he drove the point into the floor.
"The North remembers." His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "And Crowfood remembers the Stark words."
One by one, the others rose. Robett Glover's hand found his blade. Artos Flint's weathered fingers wrapped around worn leather. Even cautious Torghen shifted forward, age-spotted hands steady on his pommel.
"Winter is coming," Alysane said, her voice carrying the iron of Bear Island. "And wolves hunt together."
The steel song filled the hall, blade after blade finding stone, a forest of swords pledging faith to a bastard commander who smelled of smoke and secrets. Jon's throat tightened. In their eyes, he saw it. Not just acceptance, but something fiercer. Hope, terrible and fragile as new ice.
They would follow him into the storm. And gods help him, he would not let them break.
Val's eyes found his, a reminder. Not yet. But he nodded, acknowledging what she didn't say aloud.
"We march at first light," Jon concluded. "Tonight, rest. Eat well. Say your prayers to whatever gods you keep. Tomorrow, we begin taking back the North."
The lords began to file out, voices rising in debate and planning. Jon remained seated, watching them go. The game was set, the pieces moving. Soon enough, he'd have to show them all what he'd become.
But not yet. Not until the trap was sprung and there was no other choice.
Wylis Manderly waited until the last of the lords had filed out before approaching with surprising grace through the emptying hall.
"A word, Lord Commander?" Lowering his voice to barely above a whisper. "Away from eager ears."
Jon nodded, gesturing to the corner where shadows pooled thick. The fire had burned low, casting long fingers of darkness across the walls.
"I've sent a raven to my lord father," Wylis said once they were alone, his walrus mustache twitching. "He will most likely join the Vale army as they march north with Lady Sansa. White Harbor remembers its debts."
"Good." Jon's voice was quiet, controlled. "More witnesses makes this easier."
Wylis's pale eyes studied him, shrewd despite the fleshy folds that half-concealed them. "You're playing a dangerous game, my lord. I some of the lords faces, heard the muttering when you spoke of your plan. Not all of them fully back this plan of yours."
"I know."
"Do you?" Wylis shifted his weight, leather creaking. "I understand why you're doing it. Burning Winterfell down will leave a mark on your name you'll never be able to remove. Doesn't matter whose blood you hold, Stark or..." He paused, searching Jon's face. "Or whatever else flows in your veins."
Jon met Wylis' gaze and said. "It must be done."
"Aye." Wylis's voice dropped even lower. "I'll do my best to calm the lords when you... when you reveal yourself. But it might push them away, those who don't know. The North has long memories, and not all of them are kind to—"
"Then I will force unity."
The words came out hard as the flames in the hearth suddenly danced higher, casting wild shadows across the walls. For just a moment—a heartbeat, no more—Jon's shadow seemed wrong. Too large. Wings where arms should be.
Wylis took an involuntary step back, his face paling beneath the sweat. But to his credit, he didn't flee. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded.
"As you say, Lord Commander. As you say."
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Val strode from the hall, her boots striking stone with purpose. She caught their sideways glances of the southern lords—some curious, others wary. Let them look. She'd faced down wights and ice spiders. A few soft southerners meant nothing.
The cold hit her face as she stepped into the yard, a welcome slap after the stifling heat of too many bodies pressed together. Jon's words still rang in her ears. Let him come. Smart, showing strength even without revealing his true strength. These southerns can swallow that.
She touched her cheek, remembering. The scar that ran from Jon's eye to his jaw made him look fiercer. Dangerous. The boy lord commander was gone, replaced by a fierce man. Something that made her pulse quicken when his eyes found hers across a room.
Fool woman. This ain't the time for such thoughts.
"Wildling princess."
Val's hand dropped to her knife before she recognized the voice. Maege Mormont stood by the entrance, arms crossed over her mail. The She-Bear of Bear Island, they called her. Built like her name suggested—broad and strong, with iron-grey hair and a face that had seen its share of battles.
"Ain't no princess," Val said, relaxing her grip. "Just Val."
"Aye, and I'm just Maege." The older woman's eyes crinkled. Not mockery there, but something like respect. "Walk with me. I've questions about the true North."
They fell into step, boots crunching through the thin layer of snow. The yard was busy with men sharpening swords, checking armor, preparing for tomorrow's march. Val noticed how the Free Folk and northerners worked side by side now. A surprise even now.
"You've lived beyond the Wall all your life," Maege said. It wasn't a question.
"Till Jon Snow opened the gates."
"What's it like? The truth of it, not the tales we tell children."
Val considered. "Cold. Hard. You learn young that the world don't care about your tears. You fight or you die. Simple as that."
"Sounds familiar." Maege's laugh was bitter. "Bear Island's not so different. Ironborn raids, wildling attacks—" She caught herself. "Freefolks."
"We did what we had to. Same as you."
They passed a group of spearwives teaching northern girls how to fight with bone knives. One girl, couldn't be more than twelve, managed to disarm her opponent. The spearwives cheered.
"That's new," Maege observed.
"Your southern girls are soft. They'll need to be harder for what's coming."
"The dead."
"Aye. The dead don't care if you're highborn or low, man or woman. They just want you to join them."
Maege stopped walking, turned to face her fully. "You've seen them. Fought them."
"At Hardhome." The memory still made her skin crawl. "Thousands of 'em, pouring down the cliffs like a grey tide. We had dragonglass, fire, good fighters. Didn't matter. They kept coming."
"And Jon Snow somehow stopped it?"
Val met her gaze steady. "He did what needed doing. Bought us time to run."
"How? How did he stop an army of the dead?"
"Jon Snow's secrets aren't mine to tell."
Maege nodded slowly. "The North remembers its debts. And it seems we owe him one." She paused. "You care for him."
It wasn't a question, but Val answered anyway. "He's a good man."
"That's not what I meant."
Val said nothing. Some things weren't for southern ears, even northern ones.
"Well." Maege clapped her on the shoulder, a gesture that would've earned most southerners a knife in the ribs. But from this woman, it felt like acceptance. "Keep him alive, princess of the Freefolks. The North needs him. And I think he needs you."
She walked away, leaving Val standing in the yard. The sun was setting, painting the sky the color of blood. Tomorrow they'd march for Winterfell. Tonight...
Val made her way to her quarters, a small room in the guest tower. Simple, but it had a bed and a fire, more luxury than she'd known most of her life. She closed the heavy door behind her, already pulling at the ties of her cloak—
A knock came immediately.
Val's hand found her dagger. Who'd wait outside her door? She yanked it open, ready to gut whoever—
Jon Snow stood in the corridor, looking oddly certain. The torchlight caught the angles of his face, threw that scar into sharp relief. His eyes…the intensity behind them as they drank her.
Despite herself, Val smiled. "What brings the Lord Commander to my door? Or should I call you Aemon when we're alone?"
"Just Jon." His voice was rougher than usual. "I needed to—"
He stepped inside, and before she could ask what he needed, his mouth was on hers.
Val froze. This wasn't the Jon Snow she knew, always careful, controlled, always holding back. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her against him. She tasted desperation on his lips, felt the tremor in his body like he was fighting to hold something back.
Then she stopped thinking and kissed him back.
Her dagger clattered to the floor. She pressed closer, feeling the heat that radiated from him, too much heat for any man. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she studied his face.
"You're burning up," she said, not moving closer. Not yet.
"I'm always burning now." Jon gaze held hers. "Sometimes I forget what cold feels like."
"Your southern lords won't like this," she said.
Jon's eyes had changed. Through the flickering shadows, his pupils contracted to vertical slits, the grey bleeding away into molten crimson that caught and held the torchlight like hot coals. "I don't care. A dragon takes what he wants."
He kicked the door closed behind him, and Val decided she didn't care about the southern lords either.