Chapter Text
Sansa:
The smell of blood lingered in the air, coppery and sweet—the cold stones radiating an overwhelmingly icy dampness. Sansa never liked the dungeons.
Suddenly, an image of Theon flashed through her mind.
No, not of Theon; of the toothless, broken creature he had become.
She shut her eyes and ran a hand across her forehead, swallowing deeply to suppress the horrible memory and sweating despite the chill. These walls were stained with such sorrow. But, Winterfell was still her home.
“Are you alright, m’lady?” asked a nearby guard nervously.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she answered reservedly, before gesturing to the cells across the room. “I’ve come to talk to the wildlings. I’d like word from north of The Wall.”
“You heard the lady. Get up,” a second guard growled, sticking his foot through the bars and delivering a sharp kick to the leg of the woman sitting on the floor.
For the first time since entering the room, Sansa looked towards the cell. The female prisoner raised her head, her mouth set thinly in defiance—eyes flaring underneath tendrils of hair just as red as Sansa’s. But the woman's sneer flickered briefly to a grimace as she pulled herself up, hands clutching her side in pain.
A second prisoner, a man, lay in the corner seemingly unconscious. His back was facing Sansa, pieces of straw sticking out from a mass of unruly black hair.
Sansa's eyes travelled to the ground beneath him, and dragging her gaze across the puddles and grime, she noticed a patch of (what appeared to be) vomit near the cell’s door. Sansa took a step back, her stomach churning as she composed herself once more. “What are you doing south of The Wall?” she asked cooly then, her eyes returning to meet the prisoner's glare.
“I’m a free woman—free to go where I please,” spat the wildling.
“You are a prisoner of Winterfell and as such, you will answer my questions." Sansa's voice was steady as she repeated herself, her patience icy and commanding. "What is a wildling doing south of the Wall? Are the wildlings on the move?”
“D'ya think if I knew, I'd tell ya?”
Without a word, a guard thrust the butt of his spear into the wildling’s ribcage. She doubled over, letting out a gravelly whimper as she fell hard against the stone ground.
Sansa's face hardened. “Enough.”
“I’m sorry m’lady. She’s been tough—still not told us anything,” explained the guard in irritated desperation. “…O’ course, if you’d allow us to use more forceful methods, I’m sure we could get the answers you’re looking for.”
Sansa gritted her teeth and stared hard at her man. “If you’re implying that we torture our prisoners, I won't allow it. I am not Roose Bolton.” Sansa said firmly before huffing a quick breath in an attempt to collect herself. She waved her hand dismissively. “Leave her be, for now. I’d like to speak to the man.”
“Right.” The guard walked around to the opposite side of the cell. “Come on, boy,” he grunted, reaching through the bars and grabbing the back of the man’s tunic. With a forceful tug, the prisoner was rolled onto his back. Despite a brief flutter of his eyelids, he remained unstirred. His dark hair was plastered to his face in a mixture of blood and sweat, masking his features.
“We found him with the girl ‘bout 15 leagues from here,” the guard grunted as he lifted a bucket of water and gestured towards the wounded man. “He won’t say much either.”
“How long has he been unconscious?” Sansa asked grimly.
“Well… We… Err… We had some troubles with him,” the guard said slightly hesitantly. “He put up a bit of a fight and things got a little rough... The water should wake him though,” he added quickly.
With that, the guard swung the contents of the bucket onto the man’s prone body.
“Seven hells!” the prisoner screamed hoarsely as he bolted into a sitting position, coughing several times before using the back of his hand to wipe the hair from his eyes. With an uncomfortable scowl, he delicately lifted the fabric of his breeches to dump the pool of dirty water which had collected in his lap.
He took a resigned breath then, just before lifting his head to regard his captors. And meeting Sansa’s stare, the prisoner cocked his head as his eyebrows knitted above brown eyes clouded with dawning recognition.
“Sansa?” he practically choked out, quickly standing up in bewildered joy, an unmistakable flash of pain crossing his face as he did so.
“Jon?” Sansa whispered in disbelief, her face softening. “What are you doing here? Guards, let him out." Her voice grew bolder. "Gods, Jon, your face—what did you do to him?” Sansa asked, wheeling to face the guard. “Let him out” she repeated sternly.
“M’lady, we—he—“
“He’s my brother!” Sansa shouted fiercely, noting how the wildling woman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Release him now.”
The guard fumbled deftly with a set of iron keys, mumbling a weak apology as he shoved the correct key into the lock.
“Ygritte comes with me” Jon said, still looking shocked as he offered a hand to the woman on the ground before pulling her upright.
“Of course,” replied Sansa, equally as stunned. “I’ll have some chambers readied—guard, fetch the Maester—Jon, are you hurt?”
“Well, they gave his balls a right good bruisin’… And they beat up that pretty face he’s got” Ygritte answered boldly, placing a hand concernedly (though rather roughly) on Jon’s shoulder.
“I’m alright,” he said, moving a hand to gingerly cup his groin as though he had just remembered his pain, “but, I think Ygritte’s got a broken rib or two…” He paused. “Sansa..." he breathed quickly, his voice hitching. “Robb? Arya? Bran and—”
Gods, he doesn’t know.
Heart in her throat, Sansa's face paled, her skin cold and stricken. “—No, Jon... It’s just me here.” She watched as Jon’s face fell in disappointment. “Can you both walk?”
“Yes,” Jon answered before looking questioningly at Ygritte. She gave a curt nod and Jon wrapped his free hand around Ygritte’s waist as she strengthened her grip on his shoulder.
“Good. Follow me,” Sansa said, turning swiftly to leave the dungeons, her mind not quite caught up to reality.
Could this really be happening?
***
Ygritte (the day prior—early morning):
The sun had just peeked above the skyline, pink shafts of light perforating the dense forest. Ygritte pulled herself away from a still sleeping Jon and stretched her thin arms out, yawning loudly as she arched her back into the stretch.
She knelt down next him, her eyes tracing down the ragged claw marks on his face as she reflected on the events of the last couple of moons. Her stomach sank remembering Jon’s near betrayal, remembering both their eyes brimming with tears as he had stood there, his back facing the pond, remembering her bow arm stretched out and ready to release, and then remembering Jon asking her to come with him—to seek his family—to go home.
They were both turncloaks now—Jon no longer acting as a man of the Night’s Watch and Ygritte south of The Wall, miles away from everybody she had ever known.
But that was their decision, and lowering her bow, Ygritte had left with Jon. They belonged to each other.
"All that matters is you and me—I know I love you and I know you love me.”
The memory of Jon’s words—of their pained love—caused Ygritte’s cheeks to burn warmly. She bent over and planted a rough kiss on his mouth. Jon’s eyes fluttered and his face cracked into a grin as he stared up at her; sleep still lingering in his foggy eyes.
“Hello,” he said, his voice groggy.
Ygritte smiled back devilishly, pushing aside the complex and emotional memories she had been focused on just a few moments prior. Thinking quickly, she grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it into his face before breaking into a sprint. Jon let out a muffled grunt as he wiped the snow from his eyes and pushed himself up to a standing position. By this time, Ygritte had moved behind a nearby tree, already forming another snowball with her numbing hands.
“Good mornin'!” she shouted teasingly, her cheeks flushed with the cold as she leaned out from the tree’s cover to throw the snowball in his direction. Jon dodged it rather effectively, a crooked smile on his wet face, and he bent down to gather some snow for himself.
She ran from her hiding spot and dashed to another tree as Jon’s snowball collided with the side of her face. Ygritte stumbled for a moment, allowing Jon the opportunity to catch and tackle her. They both hit the ground with a thud. Jon quickly sat on her hips, his knees on either side of her as he bent over and pinned her arms to the ground with his hands.
“Got you,” he said amusedly, his dark curls falling into his face.
Ygritte scoffed. Annoyed at her defeat, she looked up into his eyes. “Your nose is all pink, Jon Snow. Looking at ya now, I’d not ‘ave guessed you was a northern lad,” she laughed, shifting under his weight. “You look like a proper southerner all freezin’ and bothered by a bit of ice.”
“Well, I am from the north,” he replied with a joking firmness. “But I don’t usually wake up to a face full of snow… And for someone usually so good at escaping from me, I caught you pretty quick just now” he finished, mussing up her hair.
Remembering the circumstances of their first few days together made Ygritte smile before grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss. The warmth brought color and feeling to her frozen lips. It seemed so long ago that she was his prisoner.
“Aye, you’re gettin’ better,” she breathed, breaking the kiss.
“At kissing you or at stopping you from escaping?” he laughed.
“Both,” she answered, a gleam in her eyes.
Jon smiled and sighed contently. “We should get moving. It looks like—“His voice caught in his throat before finishing his thought as Ygritte began grinding her hips against his crotch. She thrust upwards, feeling him harden in response to her movement. After a few more seconds of friction, Jon bent down to meet her lips. But before he could reach them, Ygritte flipped over, effectively pushing Jon off. She stood up quickly.
Ygritte grinned down at his confused expression. “We should get moving,” she said deeply in a clearly mocking imitation of his earlier words. Giggling at his obvious disappointment and irritation, she held out a hand to help him up.
“I liked the way we were moving,” Jon said rather grudgingly. He rolled his eyes before grabbing her hand and hauling himself to his feet; huffing as he adjusted himself in an attempt to relieve the tension which had built up between his legs.
Ygritte enjoyed teasing him, and she couldn’t help it that he made it so easy. “It’s not like you crows aren’t used to your stones all achin’ in frustration. We’ll move proper later, Jon Snow,” she said with a wink. “In the meantime, we’d best make tracks. It does look like a storm.” With that, she spun around and began trudging forward in the snow.
Jon closed his eyes and exhaled deeply before following her through the trees.
***
Jon (the day prior—morning):
They walked in a comfortable silence (as they so often did) for about an hour before Jon turned to her and spoke. “We’re getting closer.”
“Are we sure we want to be getting’ much closer?” she asked. “We don’t know what’s happened anywhere since you left The Wall.”
“Aye, that’s true,” he nodded glumly, for last he'd heard, his sisters were still in King’s Landing following his father’s death; Robb marching south and Bran acting Lord of Winterfell.
Ygritte hesitated before speaking—an unusual act for her. She then said quietly, “Jon, if the last you heard, Ned Stark ‘ad lost his head… And that was a couple ‘o moons ago... We really don’t know what’s waiting for us at your castle… We should be careful.”
“It’s not my castle,” Jon said almost reflexively. He then looked to her, his eyes swimming in sorrowful thought. “And we’ve got to at least see. We’ll be careful—stay hidden—but Ygritte… Even if Winterfell isn’t my castle, it’s still my home. I’ve—we've nowhere else to go.”
He had abandoned The Watch, an act punishable by death, to find his family—to return home. No longer a man of The Night’s Watch, no longer a Free Folk, and never a true Stark, Jon was Ygritte’s, and that was proving to be more and more important. He’d almost made the mistake of abandoning her once before—a mistake he wouldn’t soon make again.
But even by Ygritte’s side, Jon felt a duty to join Robb’s fight, to bring justice for his father’s death, and to find safety for his younger sisters and brothers.
True Stark or not, his love for his siblings trumped honor; as did his love for Ygritte. Jon wondered what his father would think of him now. Honor wasn’t as clear-cut as it had once seemed, and the ‘right thing to do’ was certainly never presented obviously. Whether there was more honor in rigidly upholding duty or in protecting loved ones, Jon had yet to sort out… But his actions over the past few months had seemed to place him firmly in one camp.
It’s too late to turn back now. We must keep going forward.
She nodded.
“I’m not naïve,” he continued. “I know that war changes everything … But Winterfell is the place I’ve got to start… I’ve got no other ideas.” He hung his head, his voice cracking.
“I know. We’ll find them though—we’ll find your family,” she tried unconvincingly to reassure him.
Jon smiled sadly and reached out to hold her hand. “I hope so.”
They walked a few more steps in silence. “And you’ll always ‘ave me… I’m yours, Jon Snow,” she said with uncharacteristic tenderness, turning her head towards him. Jon gave her hand a gentle squeeze in response, his sad smile softening lovingly as his grip tightened.
***
Ygritte (the day prior—morning):
Ygritte’s head snapped around abruptly. “Did you hear that?” she hissed, pulling Jon to a stop. “It sounds like horses.”
“No, I—“ Jon stiffened, hearing the unmistakable sound of horse hooves and quickly changing his tune. “Ygritte, we have to move,” he said with urgency, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.
Ygritte pulled an arrow from her quiver and positioned it in her bow before racing after Jon. She jumped over twisted roots, breathing heavily from a combination of exercise and adrenaline.
Suddenly, she saw a flash from her peripheries and raised her bow towards the movement.
“Stop!” a gruff voice yelled from behind.
Jon whipped around to Ygritte, drawing his sword and placing his back against hers as six horses and riders closed in around them. The riders sported armor but no notable sigils.
“In the name of The Queen, I order you to drop your weapons,” a heavy bearded man said authoritatively.
“We don’t serve no—“ Ygritte began before Jon cut her off.
“Queen Cersei?” Jon demanded sharply.
“Queen Cersei?" The man bellowed a laugh and shook his head with amused dismissal. "Drop your weapons and come peacefully, wildling—this is the last time I’ll ask,” he said severely.
Jon raised his sword defiantly, and the bearded man’s face hardened in response. “Right. Round ‘em up, boys” he commanded. However, before the guards could even dismount, Ygritte swiftly shot an arrow into the clavicle of the man nearest her. He dropped from his horse with a loud cry. Behind her, Jon advanced towards the bearded man, his jaw set in determination.
Ygritte turned to the man approaching from her left and pulled out a second arrow. But before she could get a shot lined up, the man punched a heavy fist into her cheekbone, sending her reeling back a few steps. Ygritte clutched her face, growling angrily. Without time to recover from the blow, the man rushed her, grabbing her by the hair and swinging her harshly to the ground.
She shouted hoarsely and lying on her back, sent a strong kick into the advancing man’s kneecap, taking grim satisfaction from watching him stumble backwards in the snow.
Before Ygritte could push herself up to face the man again, she received another heavy blow, this time to the back of her head, causing her to fall face first into the snow. The guard she had hit with the arrow had come from behind. He suddenly towered over her and began to deliver a barrage of hard kicks to her ribcage. She heard a crack and spots of light danced across her vision as pain racked her body. After a time, the blows stopped and she felt her hands being tied with coarse rope.
A guard hauled Ygritte up and she saw Jon a few yards away, lying on the ground coughing—his hands holding his crotch and his face paled and bloodied. Jon was yanked to a standing position and Ygritte noticed a small, but open wound on his side as his hands were pulled forward to be tied.
Fear flashed through Ygritte’s mind—Jon couldn’t reveal who he really was. There was no telling what la-dee-da house the guards served, and until she and Jon knew more, they couldn’t afford to take any chances.
“Jon, don’t say nothin’!” she shouted desperately.
Jon gave a sickly and sincere nod in her direction. Despite his pain, Ygritte was touched by the obvious concern he held for her in his eyes.
“We can’t—“But before she could say more, Ygritte was cut off by a sharp slap to her face.
“Shut your hole, bitch!” ordered the offending guard, his eyes cold and angry.
“Leave her alone!” Jon yelled, his voice scratched with emotion.
The bearded man gave Jon a rough shove towards the guard to his right, who promptly lifted Jon on top of his horse with little delicacy or care. The man followed suit and settled himself behind Jon in the saddle, pushing Jon roughly forward to make more room for himself. Ygritte watched Jon’s eyes shut tightly in discomfort before she was hauled on top of another mount by the guard who had slapped her. She angrily tried to shrug his grip off.
The other four men climbed onto their horses and the party set off towards the south in a flurry of horse hooves, leaving bloody patches of disturbed snow behind them.
***
Jon (the day prior—early afternoon):
He felt he was going to be sick. Every bounce on the saddle sent a new wave of nausea up from his core to his throat—the gash in his side deep and smarting. They’d been riding for a few hours and the pain was becoming more and more unbearable. Jon looked towards Ygritte, noting the dark bruise forming under her eye. His expression darkened as he realized how low the rider’s hands were on Ygritte’s waist—she’d stopped struggling awhile ago.
Jon wondered if he had made a mistake in heading south with Ygritte. He’d blindly led them into the arms of captors serving an unknown queen. If they were lucky, the men would be loyal to The Starks. In the meantime, continuing to pose as a wildling seemed to be the best option—acting as a crow would surely get his head chopped off even quicker, and there was no telling how revealing his true name would be received.
The Bastard of Winterfell.
The wind howled and the snowfall had picked up. Jon took a deep breath trying in vain to shift himself into a more comfortable position. The movement made him realize that the pressure in his lower body wasn’t entirely due to pain.
“I have to piss,” Jon said bitterly, breaking the silence with his growling pout.
The guard rolled his eyes in irritation and shouted ahead: “Oi! Stop—this one’s got to piss.”
“Tell him to hold it!” the bearded man yelled back, his voice carried by the heavy winds.
“You’re not the one sitting with him, Henry!” Jon’s guard shouted forth. “I’m not having him piss his breeches while we share a saddle. I’m stopping!”
The horse came to a halt and Jon was pushed off its back. He stumbled, falling to his knees as his feet hit the ground. Jon got up and walked about ten paces—as far away as the rope tied to him would comfortably allow—before fumbling with his laces.
Humiliated and exhausted, he grunted in frustration over the difficult maneuvering required to unlace his breeches while his wrists were still bound together. But after what seemed like a very long time to Jon, he let out a sigh of relief, finally managing to accomplish the task.
“Hurry up, boy!” the bearded man—Henry—yelled.
Jon clenched his jaw and pulled out his cock, wincing as a sudden gust of icy wind passed over his exposed flesh, before letting loose.
Looking down, he watched the snow turn yellow, melting under the heat of his piss.
“Alright, you’ve had more than enough time!” Jon’s guard shouted all-too-soon, suddenly yanking the rope around Jon’s wrists. Jon let out a surprised cry as his hands were jerked abruptly to his left, his penis jerking sharply along with them. His stream crossed over his leg then, leaving several spots of acidic warmth spreading across the fabric of his breeches.
“I hadn't finished!” Jon yelled, whirling around in a mixture of rage and embarrassment as he tried to stuff himself quickly back inside his smallclothes.
“Well you have now,” Henry yelled, looking down from his mount as Jon trudged angrily back to the horses. “Look, Radford,” he laughed, pointing at Jon’s wet leg. “The greenboy's pissed himself!”
Fists clenching, Jon swallowed his fury, struggling to maintain what little, seething composure he had left. He shut his eyes and sighed heavily. His laces had been poorly and loosely tied in his haste, causing his breeches to sag uncomfortably, and it crossed his mind then, that were they not in such a dire situation, Ygritte would have found this funny. He spared her a glance, for which she shot him an apologetic look. Though, Jon swore he saw a glint of amusement in her eyes, causing him to let out a small (albeit somewhat bitter) laugh—no matter the situation, Ygritte was one of the few people in the Seven Kingdoms who could get Jon to smile, let alone to laugh.
His guard—Radford—then set Jon roughly on the horse before also seating himself in the saddle. “No more piss breaks, boy,” he grumbled. “We’re to be at Winterfell by nightfall.”
He might be a prisoner covered in piss and bruises, but at least he was heading home.
***
Jon (the day prior—nightfall):
The ruined castle loomed ominously over Jon in the darkness. In the flickering torchlight, he could see scorch marks and rubble in every direction. Jon’s stomach dropped and he felt his eyes begin to prickle with tears. This wasn’t the Winterfell he had left behind.
What happened here? Where was Bran—his family? And how had he thought bringing Ygritte here—putting her in danger—was a good idea? How could he have been so foolish?
A hundred fears and regrets raced through Jon’s mind as he and Ygritte were led to the dungeons. She walked ahead of him, her red hair reflecting the movement of the candlelight’s flames. They entered a small room. The stones were damp and covered in patches of molding straw. Thick iron bars formed a medium–sized cell on the back wall.
The guard named Henry turned to Jon and Ygritte. “You’ll want to strip off those wet furs,” he said. Jon looked down at his own wilding clothing and realized just how much ice and muck clung to him.
“Well, you’ll ‘ave to untie our hands first,” Ygritte said, lifting up her eyebrows confrontationally.
“Alright, but any funny business and I’ll not hesitate to kill either one of you,” Henry replied, his eyes darting back and forth between Jon and Ygritte.
Jon’s guard, Radford, untied his hands while Henry freed Ygritte’s. The other four guards had already disappeared from the room.
Jon pulled his heavy coat off over his head, building up static and resulting in his hair simultaneously sticking up and clinging to his face. Jon shook his hair from his eyes and yanked off his muddied boots, throwing them roughly to the floor before shedding the rest of his clothes, until he stood there wearing only a thin tunic and breeches. Ygritte was now in a similar state of undress.
“Who would have thought you were hiding those lovely curves under all those clothes?” Henry said slimily, causing an unmistakable flash of fury to cross Ygritte’s face, her jaw clenching tightly. Jon scowled and noticed Ygritte’s hands balled into fists by her side.
Gods, Ygritte, please don’t do anything stupid.
Jon blanched then, watching as Henry shoved Ygritte into the cell. She hissed in pain; hands clinging to her ribs. And it was with measured difficulty, that she turned to Henry to spit a thick wad of saliva onto his boots.
Seven hells.
The man wasted no time before delivering a strong backhanded slap, pulling a sharp cry from Ygritte as she fell to her knees; the sound of the blow reverberating loudly off the stone walls of the chamber.
And then, before he could stop himself, Jon ran forward, crashing into Henry with all of his force. He landed a few good punches, splitting Henry’s lip, before Radford grabbed Jon around the waist and pulled him off. Jon yelped gruffly as the man’s fingers dug into the wound on his side, wriggling forcefully in an unsuccessful attempt to free himself from Radford’s grip.
Radford slammed Jon against the wall in response, snapping his neck with the force of momentum and causing the back of Jon's head to knock harshly against the stones. His vision blurred for a moment and Jon reflexively pushed out his hands, catching hold of Radford’s jaw and digging the blunt of his nails into the porous, red skin—drawing blood. But the guard soon broke free and before Jon could make another move, Radford rammed his knee forcefully into Jon’s groin.
The second time today!
It took a moment for Jon to register the pain before falling to the stone floor, cradling his injured genitals. His eyes rolled back into his head and he let out a low, staggered grunt, feeling as though a lead ball of solid pain had settled in his lower abdomen. Jon squirmed on the ground in desperation—even to find relief for just one second would be worth it. He could smell the damp straw spread out across the stones and began to notice the taste of blood, realizing he had been biting his own lip.
Head swimming, Jon tried to push himself upwards, but was kicked onto his back by Henry who subsequently placed a foot on Jon’s sternum, pressing down heavily. On the edges of his awareness, Jon could hear Ygritte yelling, but couldn’t quite make out her words.
Jon coughed under the weight of the guard’s boot. He was having trouble breathing.
“What’s that, boy?" the man sneered, spit flying from his mouth. He pressed down harder and Jon noticed that Henry’s black beard was smeared with blood from his cut lip.
And then, in one last-ditch effort at freeing himself, Jon kicked his leg out, catching Henry behind the knee. Much to his relief, the pressure on Jon’s chest immediately let up and he quickly wormed his way out from underneath Henry’s boot.
Rage flared in Henry’s eyes and Jon scrambled, trying in vain to move out of reach. But Henry was too fast.
The guard growled as he bent down and picked Jon up by the front of his tunic, closing one large hand around Jon’s neck and slamming him into the stone wall yet again.
Hoisted as such—his feet barely scraping the ground—Jon struggled against Henry’s hold, his windpipe crushed painfully under the man’s firm grasp. But his struggles proved futile, for just then, keeping Jon’s neck pinned to the wall with one hand, Henry roughly removed his other hand from the collar of Jon’s tunic and reached down, grabbing Jon’s balls with a tight fist.
Jon whimpered as his breath hitched, his testicles aching unbearably. He could feel the bile rising in his throat as Henry squeezed tighter, sending tears rolling down Jon’s face. The pain was blinding—his vision spotty—and when the time came, Jon hardly even registered being thrown to the ground.
Hitting the stones, he immediately rolled over, retching loudly. And then, summoning the last of his strength, Jon began to crawl desperately towards the cell's doorframe—towards Ygritte—where he promptly and exhaustedly collapsed.
Gods, his balls.
Jon felt one last kick to the side of his face then, causing his head to ricochet off one of the iron bars and sending him plunging into darkness.
***
Ygritte (a few hours prior to Sansa’s arrival in the dungeons):
“Stop!” Ygritte shouted at the guards, her voice slightly more angry than it was pleading, as she reached for Jon. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull his unconscious form closer towards her.
Henry bent down, his hand extended towards Jon. But before he could make contact, Ygritte quickly tugged Jon closer towards her. “Don’t touch him!” she snarled, clinging Jon’s head against her chest.
The guard slammed the cell door shut with a harsh metallic clang. “Don’t say another word, wildling whore,” he spat before turning to face the other guard. “Radford, you’re to stay watch. I’ll be back in the morning.” With that, the man stalked out of the room, wiping a calloused hand through his bloody beard as his footsteps retreated through the stone corridor.
Radford walked to the far end of the room, sitting down and leaning his back against the cold wall. “Don’t try anything,” he said, meeting Ygritte’s eyes and pulling out his sword to sharpen.
Ygritte swallowed her anger and looked down at Jon’s face. His lip was split and old scars had been reopened. She ran her fingers through his curly hair and saw a large gash on his temple—his hair matted with blood and vomit.
Ygritte ripped a patch of fabric off the bottom of her tunic and began blotting the cuts on his face. When she had finished, she smoothed his hair down lovingly and laid him gently on his side in the corner of the cell.
He had been stupid to rush the guard—brave—but stupid.
His heartbeat pulsed faintly in his neck, comforting Ygritte only slightly.
Her ribs throbbed fiercely and she could feel her bruised face swelling dramatically. Ygritte put a hand on Jon’s leg as she scooted her back against the stones behind her. She rubbed her fingers delicately along Jon’s shin and closed her eyes.
He was still breathing. He’d wake up.
Ygritte took a few deep breaths and drifted into a fitful slumber.