In the darkest light I love you

The horse stopped in a familiar spot. A soft whistle made him smile. Two foxes with fur as white as snow leaped out of a snowdrift. Ghost wagged his tail and immediately ran after them. "We're left alone… what a shame. I wanted to pet Ghost's soft ears." A whiny voice sounded somewhere above Jon's head, and a moment later, a snowball struck him on the head.

Snow smiled and looked up. In the tree, among the branches and snow, there was him – [Name]; his soulmate, his lover. Someone in whom Jon find family.

"Did you miss me or my wolf?" Jon asks, grinning broadly. Between the snow-covered branches, he sees the glint of teeth, the scattered rays of light reflecting in eyes.

"And aren't they one and the same?" [Name] purrs and jumps from the tree. Foxes are [Name's] animals; he's a skinchanger, a warg. Just like Jon, except that unlike him, he's bonded with foxes. He's raised two pups, and they follow him everywhere, like Ghost follows Jon.

Sometimes they saw each other in the woods. Jon, in wolf form, and the white fox he met, could smell [Name] on him. Sometimes it was the only way they could see each other. It was the only way they could be close, when Jon couldn't leave the castle and [Name] couldn't get too close. The wolf and the fox ran together through the snow and lay side by side, simply being together.

They met by chance, once, in the woods beyond the wall. And that's how they started seeing each other. Until… they were who they are to each other now. Someone important.

[Name] jumps down from the tree in one swift movement. Jon almost envies his agility, despite the fur. He steps onto the snow, barely making a sound, and immediately hugs Jon; Snow immediately hugs him tightly. He wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him close. He inhales his scent of forest and snow. A wild boy, or maybe a man, he couldn't quite place him. As if [Name] were suspended between the snowflakes. Mischievous as a young fox, serious as a wild man, seasoned by the hardships of life.

"I missed you, Jon." He murmurs softly. In the Old Tongue. Jon is getting better at speaking and understanding; he still can't cast runes, but he has many years to learn.

"I missed you too," he murmurs in response, and somewhere between the trees he hears the fox's laughter and the growl of his wolf. "They're probably having a wonderful time." He smiles at the thought of two foxes and a direwolf trying to catch them.

[Name] laughed softly. He pulled away from him, kissing Jon's cheek before doing so. "I have something for you," he said quietly. He returned to the tree, where a bag hung from a low branch. He pulled something out.

"I thought of you." He handed Jon a thick wad of leather and fur. "You can decorate a cloak or… anything you want, basically. It's fox fur, warm."

"Where did you get this?" Jon felt his hands tremble. Two fox furs, quite large. He could feel the soft fur. They were white as snow.

"I found a new charge. A small fox, a pup. His mother and apparently sister were already dead. I took care of him, and their furs… Otherwise, they would have gone to waste. The North doesn't like to waste warm leather and fur." ​​He shrugged. "They're white, but maybe someone could dye them black…"

Jon muttered. "Dying them black is almost a crime. They're beautiful." The fur smelled of forest, pine, ryegrass, and snow. Just like [Name]. "It must have been hard for you. You know, foxes, and you…"

[Name] smiled sadly, just the corner of his mouth. He stood close to Jon, caressing the white fur with his fingertips—Jon only now noticed he wasn't wearing gloves. "A little. It's sad they died, but I have a puppy. And besides… Foxes are close to me; when you wear them, it's kind of like… you know." He looked at Jon. Snowflakes were on his eyelashes.

Jon said nothing. He didn't know if he could, if his voice would tremble.

"Thank you. They're truly beautiful." Jon clenched his fists around the fur. The only thing, the only thorn in his heart, was that he couldn't have [Name] with him all the time. He wished so much that…

Two foxes tumbled out of the snowdrift. They immediately ran to Jon, sniffing him, greeting him, and demanding petting. Ghost appeared right behind them. He rushed in, shook off the snow, and immediately ran to greet [Name].

"My sweet boy, I've missed you." [Name] crouched down, petting the wolf's white fur.

Jon tucked the furs into the saddlebags. The horse snorted, stamping his foot. From behind him came the sound of foxes laughing and a wolf sneezing – I know games, [Name] told him that when dogs sneeze while playing, it's a sign they're having a good time. He looked at him. [Name] was wild, through and through. Surrounded by wolves, foxes, eternal winter, and snow. He was someone Jon's heart simply loved.

The foxes ran after him. Squealing and demanding to be petted. Jon finally gave in and crouched down. The foxes nipped at his fingers, prodded him, nuzzled him, squealing happily. They were so… soft. They adored him, just like [Name]. Just as Ghost loved [Name]. Tormund had once told him that the skinchanger left parts of its thoughts in the creature's mind, and that was why… Jon liked it. He had proof that [Name] loved him as much as Jon loved him. The fox's fur was soft, its tail bushy.

[Name] finally stood up and went straight to the horse. He hugged Jon. Tightly, close. Jon embraced him, as he had done so many times. He kissed his lips, cool and dry from the cold.

"Let's go, I'll show you my new charge. You can even choose a name," he said, a smile playing on his lips.

Jon mounted his horse, helped [Name] sit in front of him, and grabbed the horse's mane, lightly stroking the animal's neck first. Jon grabbed the reins, and the animal set off through the snow, straight for [Name's] small cottage, further north, to one of the several settlements. "I hope you don't have to return to your post soon." He leaned against Jon and purred softly.

Jon released the reins. Jon's hands slowly moved up and down his lover's thighs. "I… can't stay longer."

"You slipped away?" [Name] asked in an amused voice.

"A little. I'm taking advantage of you teaching me how to be a warg." He murmured directly into his lover's ear. The hand tightened on his thigh, near his buttock, and a pleasant shiver ran through [Name].

The foxes and the wolf ran somewhere beside them.

They were supposed to be going to an art exhibition; one of the companies his family works with was organizing an anniversary party or something. Of course, they were invited—he, his brothers, his sons. It just so happened that only Baelor and [Name] would end up going.

"You've been ready for an hour," he shouts back, but he can't hide a small smile. [Name] places importance on clothes, on appearance. After all, he's a model, famous, well-known, and all. Baelor doesn't know anything about that. He has [Name], and that's enough for him. They met at a fashion show; the luxurious suits fit the man like a second skin as he walked the runway.

Baelor fell in love almost immediately. [Name] is a work of art. A wonderfully colorful bird, playing with fashion, style, and its body.

"I have to look perfect. You know the press will make a fool of me later. After every party or event we attend, they write how much they don't fit in with you and your world." [Name] finally ran down the stairs. The city lights streaming through the large windows seemed to reflect on the shimmering satin of his suit.

"You always look perfect," Baelor said almost immediately, studying his partner carefully.

[Name] shifted uncomfortably under his watchful gaze. "You're staring. Why? Is something wrong? I can go change if it's too…"

Baelor laughed. He put down the phone and stood, standing in front of the young man, kissing him on the lips. "You look wonderful, as always. Wait for me, I'll change, and we'll go."

[Name] blinks rapidly and only now takes a good look at the older man. Baelor is still in his pajama pants and t-shirt. "You did it again. We're not late at all." He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at his lover, offended.

"Not yet, but I did it as a precaution." He smiles and pulls his partner closer. "You're beautiful, beautiful, gorgeous. Don't worry about what the gossip sites say."

[Name] snorts quietly. "Easy for you to say, you're the billionaire."

"Now you're the almost husband of a billionaire. Don't worry about what those people say. You always look great; you don't have to limit yourself in how you look. I love how you're such a colorful bird. Now sit down and wait."

[Name] smiles, kissing Baelor's cheek. His stubble scrapes against his skin, but he loves the feeling.

Daeron buried his nose in the boy's hair, inhaling the familiar scent. He embraced him tightly, his hands wrapping around his shorter lover's waist, as if to pull him even closer.

"It's just Valarr's wedding," he said, his head against [Name's] head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

His lover chuckled. "It's the next throne's wedding, and you…"

"I'm exactly where I want to be." He finished for him, kissing the top of his head.

The boy purred. "I don't want your father to be angry with you again."

"I know, I know…" He said softly, inhaling his lover's scent again.

They stood on the balcony of Daeron's chambers, and before them the sky seemed to be on fire. From the large stone balcony, they could look out over the royal gardens where the wedding feast was taking place today, which, despite the late hour, wasn't even close to ending. Laughter, shouts, and music could be heard even on their balcony. "It's so beautiful. As if the sky were on fire," [Name] said softly. "I've never known anything so beautiful. The prince must love Lady Kiera very much."

"Do you think so?" he asked, looking at the fireworks. They seemed endless. As one faded and disappeared, another appeared in the sky.

"Yes," [Name] said excitedly. "He set the sky on fire for her." Joy radiated from his voice; Daeron was sure [Name] was smiling. "Could you ask for anything better?"

"I don't think so," he replied after a moment. "They like each other, but it's a political marriage."

[Name] snorted. "You don't have a romantic streak in you."

Daeron said nothing, just smiled. He was almost certain his lover rolled his eyes. He slid one of his hands along the body in his arms; a moment later, his hand was on his lover's neck, his fingertips gently caressing the skin. The boy in his arms was warm, alive, and that was what mattered. He was with him on this balcony, in the castle. His father and other troubles could wait.

Valarr loved Kiera, Daeron was certain.

"You're right," he said a moment later. He felt [Name] lift her head and look at him. He looked down. Fireworks, colorful sparks, reflected in the boy's eyes, and the lights created a cortical glow on his face. "Valarr loves Kiera. He loved her the moment he saw her. Just as I loved you the moment I first saw you in this forest."

[Name] opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Daeron kissed him. It wasn't a passionate kiss, not a quick peck. Just a tender touch of lips. Everything he wanted to say, everything he felt.

"You know I love you, right?" Daeron whispered as he tore his mouth from [Name].

"I know." The boy replied in an equally whispered voice. "Just as I love you."

The fireworks seemed to slowly fade, the feast still going on. Daeron suspected the party would begin in earnest once the nannies took the children to bed. He had no desire to go there. He preferred to sit in his chambers with his lover. Like in some love ballad. Alone, on a balcony at night. A prince and a woodcutter's son.

"Daeron, have you ever seen fireflies?"

"Not here. There aren't any in the city, but there are in the gardens at Summerhall."

"I'll show them to you tomorrow. Whole… clouds of fireflies. You can see them best in the forest, at night. Maybe we'll see dragonflies by the stream too."

"Sounds wonderful. I can't wait."

He didn't worry about his wounds. He didn't worry that Aerion was bleeding. No…

He staggered. He leaned heavily against the stone wall. His armor was in the way, the grinding of metal on stone, a fresh wave of blood flowed down his thighs. He staggered again. Blackness obscured his vision. He fell to his knees, his head spinning.

He would die here. He will die at the gate, next to his uncle, surrounded by at least five maesters, his brother and Aerion's father, terrified lords and ladies. Even that knight… was taken to Lyonel's tent.

And Aerion…

"My prince…! You, help me take the prince!"

Someone is saying, someone close, a young man in his head. His voice is like honey, pleasant. His vision is blurred, and he can barely see the face before him, only that it's a man's face. Everything is blurry, his head aches, but the real pain is almost in his groin. He feels blood running down his leg.

The man calls out, but no one comes. Aerion hears him cursing and muttering something furiously. Aerion feels fingers grasping his chin and forcing his head to turn. He spoke to him softly, but sharply. The man must be close; Aerion smells herbs and sweet wine. He also sees the man's blurry face, and can only tell that he's not an old man, but rather a young one.

Hands touch him gently but firmly. The man—Aerion assumes he's a medic—touches him, pulls him upright. Blood is streaming from a wound in his leg, but he's standing, leaning against the wall. The medic's hands strip him of his armor, or rather, rip him off in a hurry. If he were at full strength, his vision not clouded, he would have made some comment, a remark, a sarcasm. A young man is undressing him, and Aerion can't even scoff at it.

In this state, he would have accepted any help. This man—whoever he was—was the only one who actually paid attention to him before he likely died. He wants to help unbutton his armor, reaching out, but the man pushes him away.

"It'll be faster if I handle this," he says close to him, smelling wine on his breath. Wine and honey. Aerion doesn't have the strength to argue in this situation. He gives up, his strength failing. In the background, he hears his father's cries, Valarr's wailing. No one asks about him, no one helps; the man takes care of him. Aerion hopes he'll survive long enough to truly thank someone for once.

Cold sweat trickles down your back. The Prince's chamber is cold; the fire isn't burning, only candlelight warms it, but even that doesn't help, as the terrace doors are open, letting in a cool breeze. Only your incense burns in the room. The faint scent of wood and flowers fills the room.

Aerion – the Prince – lies on his bed. His wounds are dressed, his body covered in bruises, scratches, and gashes. Leda, it barely made it. The Prince's wounds were serious, especially the one in his groin. You never would have thought you'd be between the Prince's legs. Especially to stitch up the wound. But still – they're the Prince's legs. It's amazing how strange life can be.

Lord Ashford was helpful enough to show you the Prince's room, where you carried him. The Maester only arrived later, when you were in the middle of cleaning the wound between your legs. You were very lucky no major scandal erupted, but I think everyone was more preoccupied with Prince Baelor.

Prince Baelor was the center of attention. Even Prince Aerion's father was with his son instead of his son. It was a bit sad. So you decided to take care of the prince. Your sense of duty played a part in that, but so did simple human concern. It was also the only opportunity you had to be close enough to the prince. And it was nice to look at him. He was handsome.

The door to the room opened slowly, creaking ominously. You stopped what you were doing—sewing one of your shirts, torn somewhere on the way through the forest—and stood up quickly, almost tripping over a chair.

Prince Maekar stood before you, his sternness, strength, and the anger in his eyes that seemed to never leave him. The prince entered, accompanied by a Maester, an old, grim man.

"It was he, my prince, who dressed Prince Aerion's wounds. He hasn't left his room since then," the old man saw, looking at you with reluctance. You swallowed. Ever since the maesters finally noticed the prince and his condition, that someone else, not they, had taken care of the prince, they were rather displeased with your presence. He, too, looked at you with a strange hostility.

"Very well. Leave us alone," Makekar said sharply. The old man looked at the prince and then at you with great reluctance. Then he slowly left the room. The door closed behind him too loudly, too hard, but Maekar paid no attention.

Maekar took a deep breath. "They told me my son was dying," he said, looking furious, but his voice calm. "They told me to prepare for the worst. Then they couldn't find the prince, they lost him, so badly he was almost dying. Imagine my surprise, and everyone's, when he was found in his chambers, in the company of… a stranger, not even a maester, but someone who had dressed his wounds and cared for him. With someone, someone, my son will survive."

You had no idea what was going on. The prince was watching you, like a hawk or some other predator. "I… I knew how he was bleeding, the blood flowing down his leg like a girl giving birth." You winced slightly at the memory. "I couldn't leave someone like that…"

"You're not a maester. Not officially, are you?" The prince's pale eyebrow arched. "But you're educated like a maester, and a good one at that. You have knowledge despite your young age. Why don't you have a chain? Who are you, exactly?"

The prince sat down in a chair at the table. Instead of wine and fruit, it was filled with your belongings—boxes of needles and thread, jars and bottles. His violet eyes still practically gutted you with their intensity.

"I'm [Name] Snow. I come from the north," you finally said. "I came to Oldtown to learn to be a maester, but becoming one was never my goal. I only wanted the knowledge of healing."

"Why? From what I can see, you're talented."

You swallowed. "I… I'm going back north. The people of Gift need someone who can heal, just as the Wildlings beyond the Wall need someone who can bind their wounds and help their women give birth." You said quietly. "That was my plan from the beginning."

Maekar merely grunted. "You know Gift… or are you the bastard son of a Wall guard?"

You nodded cautiously. The prince didn't comment. He didn't need to, even if he might not understand, he accepted the explanation, and that was more than enough for you.

"And yet you're in Ashford."

"I wanted to earn money on the way north. For a good horse and more medicines, ingredients, threads, and needles. I didn't plan on running into the prince along the way," you said honestly.

Maekar didn't say anything, not right away. He looked at himself, then stood up and walked over to the bed where his son lay.

"I won't punish you, you don't have to be so scared. I really have nothing to punish you for."

Silence again. Chills constantly ran down your spine.

"I should reward you. For saving my son." He snapped his fingers loudly. The door opened again. An older man entered the room with a box; it wasn't small, but it wasn't large either. He carefully placed the box on the table among the needles and thread. He opened the box, and inside were pouches; you only guessed they were full of gold.

"If you plan to leave, the gold will be useful. Until then, stay and look after my son until he wakes up. I'll cover all expenses, and buy what you need. The crown will pay for everything." Maekar nodded.

You stayed. It wasn't just that Prince Maekar had ordered you to stay, but also that you didn't want to leave Aerion; he was your patient, after all. You should have supervised his recovery for as long as possible to ensure the prince would definitely survive.

He was unconscious, but at that moment, his life was out of danger. Prince's wounds were healing slowly, but they were healing, which was the most important thing. On the other hand, it had only been two days. The wounds like this would take many months to heal. Maekar had told you that you were only waiting for Prince Aerion and Baelor to be well enough to travel to Summerhall.

So you waited. You sat in the prince's room, by his bedside, and cared for him as best you could. You wiped his sweats, changed his dressings. Anything to keep his wounds clean and well-cared for.

The prince was visited several times by his brother and cousin. Princes Valarr and Daeron were kind to you; they didn't comment on you or your work in any negative or malicious way. They were more interested in the north and the Wall than the prince.

Despite everything, you were most looking forward to the prince waking up.

Aerion felt someone touching him, a touch as light as a feather, like the lightest brush of fingers, barely a fingertip, delicate, tender. Sometimes he was in a strange half-sleep and felt someone dressing the wound between his legs. The same gentle touch on his thighs, even breathing on his skin as the person tending his wounds changed the dressings. Even in his sleep, he could smell the incense. The scent of wet trees, some flowers and herbs.

Someone was speaking to him. Quietly, calmly. The voice sounded like the whisper of the wind. It told tales, stories. About midnight, about trees with bleeding eyes, about the Wall, about wolves and direwolves, about the Others, about lands covered in snow and ice. Whoever this man was, he spoke so… tenderly, with such love for snow, that Aerion longed to feel it on his skin, to see those lands of ice.

He woke to a cold day. He heard the rain more distinctly than usual. The smells were more pronounced. His eyes stung. He slowly opened them. He opened them and blinked a few times. He recognized this place. A room in Ashford Castle. He was still in that cursed place. Someone was moving around in the room, he could hear it. He wanted to say something, but his throat was as dry as the deserts of Dorne.

The person he was in the room with finally turned around, and he could see them. It was the man. The one who had dressed his wounds. He knew it. He felt it, remembered the color of his hair, hazy, but he remembered it. The shape of his cheekbones, his jaw. It was him. He had saved his life. And he was handsome.

"Prince…" He began softly, and Aerion wanted to puke. Where was that tone that had commanded him to stand still, to command him? He was tired of this almost pleading tone. Prince, stfu. He opened his mouth, but only a groan emerged.

His healer approached the bed and helped him rise a little. He handed him a cup of boiled water with lemon. Still lukewarm, it hadn't had time to cool.

"You…"

"I, prince, have dressed your wounds," the man said. "Now rest."

His father told him that in two days they would leave Ashford and go to Summerhall. Prince Baelor and Valarr would go with them. That way both he and his uncle would recover.

"Tell him to come with us. Order him," Aerion said—demanded—when his father told him everything. His father had sat with him that evening, the same day he woke up, telling him about their plans, about his uncle, and everything that had happened. Neither of them mentioned the fact that Maekar had been with his brother instead of his son, and had completely forgotten him.

"I want [Name] to go to Summerhall, with me."

His father looked at him with his flooded gaze. "I told him. I ordered him, but he refused. He said he was going north. I can't force him. He never planned to stay."

Aerion wanted to scream. He wanted to yell. "Why? Why can't he stay?"

His father frowned. He didn't say anything. Aerion felt like he was going mad.

"He has his own plans." There was no room for the prince in them. The words weren't spoken, but Aerion could almost hear them. "And we were so lucky that…"

Aerion was left alone that evening. The maester examined him. He was furious that [Name] hadn't come by yet. That he'd disappeared when his father arrived. His belongings were still on the table. Aerion wanted to see them, but his leg was so painful that he couldn't stand.

He lay there thinking. [Name]'s herbal mixtures smelled throughout the room. Just like the wine he hadn't finished. He wanted him to stay. To ride with him. Aerion was a jealous beast. He wanted him for himself. Those tender, gentle, yet strong hands that had touched him as he died.

“Tell me about yourself,” Aerion demanded. His room was warm, a fire in the fireplace warming him. It was before noon the next day. Only a day and a half remained before he had to part ways with the handsome physician.

“What would you like to know, my prince?” he asked with a small smile. He was arranging small bottles of medicine in a box.

“Everything. You know too much about me. Too much, considering you’ve already been between my legs.” He admired [Name]’s confusion at the mention of that wound with savage pleasure.

“I’m just a physician, a herbalist. A bastard from the north, returning home. There’s nothing fascinating about me.”

“I already know that. Tell me something else,” Aerion demanded. “Where are you from? Whose bastard are you, some Lord? Why are you returning to the North? You have talent, you’re wise. Your lord father banished you… Tell me everything.”

The man shrugged. "I'm not the bastard of any lord, but of a member of the Night's Watch. I was raised in the shadow of the Wall, in the winters of Gift."

"You've been beyond the Wall?" Aerion asked, interested.

[Name] nodded. "So many times, just like wildlings cross the Wall, sometimes we do it from the other side. Though it's very rare." "Father said you trained as a maester to help and heal people in the north."

"Yes, though I never wanted to be a maester specifically. I prefer to call myself… whatever, I don't know, a herbalist, a healer." He shrugged.

Aerion watched silently as the man packed his things. A weight settled in his chest. [Name] would leave him soon. Maybe he'd never see him again. Maybe he'd go beyond the Wall and die, and Aerion would never know.

He wanted to tell him not to go. That jealous, murderous beast in Aerion wanted to stop him. He wanted him for herself, to never touch anyone else. To keep his hands on Aeiron.

But [Name] was strong. Perhaps stronger than Aerion or even Maekar. He looked into his father's eyes without fear, his willpower was iron. He didn't touch Aeiron in any erotic way, not even when he was tending the wound between his legs. Aerion was provoking him, wanting to break him. To make him grip his thighs tighter, to pinch his skin tighter, to make her grip his hand tighter. To kiss him.

[Name] had the strong will of the North. Cold, hard as the Wall. He wouldn't be broken.

“Prince, can we talk?” You catch up with Prince Maekar just in time before he disappears into his brother’s chambers for hours. Maekar stops and ducks into the empty rooms next door.

“What is it?”

You hesitate a bit. “Tomorrow… the prince will go to Summerhall with his family. I would prefer to go north immediately.”

Maeakr watched you intently for a moment. A strange, thoughtful look. You almost hesitated to ask for what you wanted, but then again, you really had no other option.

“In that regard… I have a small request. I need horses. Good, solid horses. Horses that will carry my belongings and saddle as well. Strong, young… I know I’m asking too much, but…”

“You’ll have horses. Do you want to leave tomorrow before us?” he asks, the words echoing through the empty room.

You nod. “That would be best.”

"Go to the stables first thing in the morning, find Beryn. He'll know everything and help you choose the right horses; he knows them like no one else. Did you buy everything you wanted?"

You nod cautiously. You'd stocked up, bought enough supplies to need a packhorse, but you'll need all of these things—needles, thread, medicines, glass bottles, vials, vessels, mortars—you'll need them. You were afraid the prince would explode when he saw the bills, start screaming, but he just waved his hand, told his secretary to handle it, and went back to drinking his tea.

"I want him to come with me." Aerion hissed like a viper. Daeron looked at him like he was an idiot.

"But he doesn't want to come with you," Valarr said dryly. "What? I'm not lying," he replied when Daeron nudged him in the ribs.

Aerion had had enough of their company. The Seven had placed some kind of curse on him. Valarr and Daeron had been going everywhere together lately, spending time together. Aerion was sure they'd fucked at least once. He would stake his dignity on it.

"Have you talked to him?" Aerion asked his brother.

Daeron nodded. "Once or twice. He's nice. All right, I like him. But I don't think that's enough to make him stay."

A silence fell between them. Tomorrow they would go to Summerhall. His uncle was still weak, but he himself longed to finally leave this cursed castle.

"Why exactly do you care so much about this? There are plenty of good-looking men all over the kingdom. Why does it have to be this one?"

"Valarr…" Daeron began, before Aerion could shout at his cousin.

"You've settled on the one man who doesn't want you," Valarr said sharply. "Sorry, but someone had to tell him." He had already told Daeron.

Aerion closed his eyes. He clenched them with all his might.

It was the last evening. Tomorrow morning, you'll head north, and Prince Aerion to Summerhall Castle. The last evening you might be able to see his face. You cautiously enter the chamber. Aerion lies on the bed. He's dozing, but he wakes as soon as he sees you.

"I came to say goodbye. Tomorrow I'll go north," you say quietly. You stand beside the bed. In a wave of weakness, you sit on the bed, on the silk sheets. Next to the prince. His violet eyes seem to glow in the twilight.

"What must I do for you to go to Summerhall?" he asks, looking at you with those eyes, the same sharp, hard gaze his father has.

"I'm sorry, Aerion." You don't even know how his name escaped your lips. The prince's eyes widened slightly.

"Forgive me."

"It doesn't matter. You saved my life. My name is nothing in return."

"I'm sorry I can't fulfill your request, but… I never planned to stay in the south. There are people there who need me and my knowledge. I promised myself I'd return. Besides… I'm sorry, but I can't stand the south. The views, the forests, the nature are beautiful… but it's the humans who ruin everything."

Aerion lowered his gaze. He smiled ironically. "The people of the north are truly unbreakable." He laughed softly, bitterly. "A strong will as the Wall itself."

Aerion was woken by the servants early in the morning. The servants helped him dress, and the maester bandaged the wound in his groin. Daeron burst into the room moments later.

"Ready to go?" Daeron asked, genuinely pleased and happy. Everyone had had enough of Ashford.

Aerion only nodded. "Yes, at least we'll be traveling with [Name] for a while before…"

Daeron let out something like a squawk, like a groan. Aerion frowned. "What?" Daeron's expression fell, the smile fading slightly. Aerion's heart pounded.

"What about [Name]…?"

"Aerion… he's already gone. Apparently he left the castle before the sun even rose. Beryn said his father gave him three good horses, packed his things, and rode away."

"North. As he said," Aerion finished. His voice sounded dry, like scorched earth, like dry grass. "He's a good man, don't blame him…" Daeron began quietly.

Aerion laughed bitterly. "He was the first man I was willing to beg to stay with me. I wanted him. I wanted his tenderness, the gentleness he showed me."

His brother's eyes were wide. He looked at him in deep astonishment, and Aerion didn't know why.

"Do you love him?"

Aerion blinked. "I don't think so… not yet. But maybe… I could."

Perhaps there was someone else in his heart. Daeron had told him this during their journey. Aerion thought he might be right, and someone was waiting for [Name] in the North. A man or a woman. Aerion almost immediately thought of killing that person, of taking [Name] from their, but at the same time, he thought of how awful that would be. That's vile, even for you.

So he rode silently to Summerhall. Silently, he listened to Daeron's quiet counsel to forget, to spare himself the pain and simply forget. It would be better that way. Better to forget [Name], the North.

But Aerion couldn't. The more he pushed it away, the stronger it came back. He tried for days to forget, so he could read old northern legends before bed. The scent of incense, herbs, flowers, honey, and sweet wine… in every scent, he saw the memory of [Name], and that jealous beast inside him growled. It was angry.

When Baelor recovered, they all returned to King's Landing. A year at Summerhall healed his wounds. He was back on his horse, able to compete in tournaments again. And he fought. He was aggressive and brutal.

Months passed, and Aerion felt like a completely different man. As if the Aerion before Ashford had been a different man. Jealous, obsessed with the scent of incense, a scent he couldn't even remember now.

Lovers… didn't help. He sought out men who reminded him of [Name]. In appearance. In stature. In scent. In anything. He took them to bed even if only one thing reminded him of [Name]. He made them touch each other tenderly, but no touch was like that.

Finally, something inside him snapped. He couldn't do this. He couldn't spend the rest of his life dwelling on the memory of those few days.

"I'm going north," he said over dinner, almost three years later. The fork slipped from Daeron's hand, and Valarr choked on his wine. Egg let out a wild squawk, and Dunk shifted uncomfortably in his armor somewhere behind him. His father and uncle looked at him with something strange in their eyes. Even the girls and Matarys looked at him in surprise. Aerion was sure even Uncle Aerys had looked up from the book at that moment.

"I'm going north. This week. I can't…"

"Aerion." His father sounded desperate, though his voice was as cold as ever.

"You've never been to the North, never even thought about the North, until… oh." Egg fell silent, understanding in his eyes.

"I have to. I have to find him."

He rode north. Exactly three days later. His father tried to give him guards, bodyguards, a retinue, tents, and everything else a prince might need on his journey. But Aerion refused.

He took only a sword, a strong horse, gold, and a few essentials. He didn't go seeking comfort. He didn't go searching for [Name] in castles or lords' halls. He expected to search in huts, camps, perhaps even beyond the Wall, though honestly—he feared that, and would rather avoid it.

He rode alone along the kingsroad, chasing memories of the man and his tender touch.

The Castle Black was unwelcoming, but it was better than camping out in the open, or in some hut.

He waited. Aerion had waited for weeks. The Lord Commander had said [Name] had passed through the Wall, would stay there for a while. Healing, helping. The guards knew him. He did this—he'd go beyond the Wall to help the wildlings, spend a few months there, then return and spend a few months in the north, in Gift, or further afield. For the past three years, he hasn't left the north. He was here. Aerion was so close. So he stayed at the castle and waited.

The woman gratefully accepted a small bottle and two bags of dried leaves. You told her how to brew them. The baby in her arms whimpered. You promised it would help her son. You were sure. You'd treated children's stomach aches before. The woman smiled. She handed you a few strips of dried meat. You gratefully accepted them. It was a fortune for her, here beyond the Wall, where people knew no money, giving away what they had most precious – food, furs, bones, and ornaments. And you gave them medicine.

You stayed at the camp for a while longer. Then you moved on. To the next one.

The road was difficult, the horses trudged through the snow, but they had grown accustomed. You could see the Wall in the distance.

Two days later, you saw a patrol of Black Brothers.

"Someone is waiting for you at the castle," Jorg, a First Ranger and also an old acquaintance, said. You looked at him in surprise.

"Waiting at the castle? For me? Who is it?"

Jorg nodded vigorously. "Handsome as hell, young, around your age, maybe a little younger, fair hair, purple eyes. Prince Aerion. He's been waiting for you for weeks now, and before that, he was searching for you in the North."

Your heart almost leaped out of your chest. The memory flowed through your mind like a waterfall of icy water. Aerion? Aerion reached the Wall and was waiting for you there.

"You're coming back…? You're keeping the prince waiting for you?" Jorg smiled teasingly.

You snorted. "I have to go to another settlement. In a few weeks, I'll return to the castle and go to Gift. Jorg… don't tell him…"

Exactly two weeks later, you cross the Wall. You won't be back for several months, and by then, you'll have replenished your supplies and bought more herbs. Now it's time to stay on the other side of the Wall.

Your heart pounded like a drum in your chest. The prospect of meeting Aerion… you didn't know if it was torture or a sweet gift. You couldn't believe Prince Aerion had actually come to the North. For you. It sounded like a mistake or a joke. But how would Jorg know to think of such a thing?

You decided to cross the Wall and meet the prince.

Jorg allowed you to stay in the Castle for a few days. To rest, to gather your strength. To eat something other than dried meat. Your rooms were austere, but sheltered from the wind, with a fire burning in the corner.

A knock on the door sounds like a clap of lightning. You shout permission and freeze.

Aerion steps inside and closes the door. With the bolt. You slowly rise from your spot in front of the fire. The prince hasn't changed much. Still just as handsome, still just as… amazing.

"[Name]," he says, looking you over carefully. "You haven't changed a bit." He adds, quieter now.

"Same as you." You say almost immediately. You look into his eyes, your heart pounding so loudly and forcefully that you wonder if Aerion can hear it. "I can't believe you…"

The prince smiles at the corner of his mouth. Lightly, delicately, almost mockingly.

"I have a scar. On my groin," he says, looking into your eyes. "You should look at it."

Jon, however, didn't look at the candles. He stared at the flames in the fireplace. The fire burned high and bright. It illuminated and warmed the room. Shadows danced on the walls, and the wood crackled.

The door to the room opened quickly and violently, then closed just as quickly. The Lord Commander glanced at the young man in black, his cheeks flushing.

[Name] entered the room, his hair full of snow and his clothes covered with it. He could barely carry two buckets stuffed with pieces of wood, and he had several large pieces in his arms. With a groan of relief, he dropped the wood onto the floor by the fireplace and shrugged off his cloak.

He sat down on the bear skin in front of the fireplace and threw another piece of wood into the fire. He seemed completely unaware that Jon was watching him.

"Aren't you overreacting a bit? Why don't you go to sleep?" Jon asked after a moment.

[Name] turned to him. "I can't leave you like this. Who's going to watch the fire? You should go to sleep too," he said, turning back to the fireplace.

Jon reluctantly looked at the pile of letters, reports, and simply more or less unnecessary documents. There were so many. Ever since he became Lord Commander, he'd felt like he just sat at his desk and read.

The ghost yawned and got off the bed he'd been sleeping on. He stretched and went to [Name] and lay down next to him on the skin. He basked in the warmth of the fire, and [Name] immediately began stroking his white fur. The wolf's fluffy tail began to move steadily. Jon loved these moments of tenderness. Wildlings said that a warg left a part of his thoughts in his wolf's mind, Jon had no doubt about that. He had proof before him. [Name] was the only person—besides Jon and his family—the direwolf tolerated.

[Name] added more wood to the fire. The flames shot up. Even from this position, he could see beads of sweat on the boy's forehead; he stripped off more of his clothes. He was left in his oversized black shirt. Jon had long since shed several layers of clothing. [Name] was probably the only person who could stoke the fireplace enough to heat the room at Castle Black.

They sat in silence, Jon still trying to work at his desk, and [Name] and Ghost in front of the fireplace, where the boy was sewing something with slow, precise movements. It seemed to be one of Jon's scarves or sweaters. He was so focused on the task that he didn't even feel Jon staring at his neck and shoulders. The oversized shirt exposed the skin at the nape of his neck and slightly exposed his shoulders.

Jon silently felt desire stir in his body, flowing through his veins.

Their relationship was… close. Friendly, then intimate. Romantic. Love. Jon doesn't even remember when or how the lines blurred. How they transitioned to friendship, then to… this romance and the feelings they shared. Jon loved him, had sex with him. He promised himself it would be just this once. That he would be a sensible man. That he would act like the Lord Commander. But he couldn't. He couldn't let go of these feelings of this small thing, this warmth in this mission full of snow and ice. [Name] couldn't either. They couldn't either. And then it was too late. The words had been said. The kisses had been given.

After the first time, there were more and more. They made love, kissed, had sex.They whispered quiet words, quiet confessions, quiet promises. And if anyone suspected anything, they didn't say anything. They didn't hurt [Name]—though strangely, they looked at him, at both of them, as if wondering how they could both have decided on this, this relationship—and Jon, in return, turned a blind eye to their trips to the brothel. As long as they didn't bother [Name] and Jon, and they focused on their works on castle.

He tried to return to his work, but the letters still blurred before his eyes, and the numbers confused him. The fire crackled loudly, Ghost purred, and [Name] took a deep breath.

Jon didn't hesitate any longer. He blew out some of the candles, the ones closest to the documents, and stretched his aching bones. In a few steps, he was at the fireplace. He sat down behind [Name] and embraced him, resting his head on his shoulder.

"Finally decided I was more interesting than work?" [Name]'s amused voice sounded softly against his face. He felt lips on his cheek. He hugged him tighter, the hands on the boy's stomach tightening like blacksmith's tongs, pulling him closer to Jon.

"You're always more interesting, but the sad chores still have to be done. Numbers and letters dance before my eyes, and that's it for today. And what are you doing?" He touched the black fabric in [Name's] hands with his fingertip. "Is that my sweater?"

[Name] nodded. "You tore it in combat yesterday, didn't you? When you were training with the recruits. Someone has to mend it; the Lord Commander can't walk around in a torn sweater," the boy muttered, exasperated.

Jon sighed softly. In a deliciously slow motion, he ran his hands over [Name]'s body until he found the hands holding the needle with black threads. "Why are you doing this? It's not your responsibility, it's my steward's. You don't have to care for Lodr Commander's clothes, you don't have to tend the fire…"

[Name] shifted in his arms, settling more comfortably. He leaned against Jon, resting his head on Jon's strong shoulder, stretching out his legs, warming his perpetually cold feet in the warm fireplaces. "Oh, your steward sewed the sweater, but as soon as I saw it, I had to fix it. It's terrible work. If my grandmother—the seamstress—saw this, she'd faint from despair." He grumbled. Jon watched with fascination as the boy's fingers in his arms smoothly moved the needle, creating a perfectly straight stitch. "I know all that, but… I don't care about the Lord Commander, only Jon. My Jon."

Jon snuggled closer to [Name]. He inhaled his scent. Fire, ash, and wood. [Name] smelled of warmth. He smelled of fire, in this icy wasteland, he smelled of fire and warmth. He kissed his bare shoulder; once, a small kiss, barely a mouth on skin, then another kiss, and then another… he tasted of wine and pleasure. Warm flesh. He kissed again, slowly, tracing a trail of kisses along his shoulder.

Their first time was similar. On the cold stone floor, warmed by the fire from the fireplace, on skin heated by their sweaty bodies. They made love for a long time, in the warmth of the fire and the heat of desire. Jon remembered it well; it was something special, seared into his head, his thoughts, the very essence of his being.

Then somehow they always ended up in bed, or other places, like on a wall, in an icy crevice; as the ice melted beneath [Name's] sweaty back. The floor in front of the fireplace had somehow eluded them. Until now. Desire coursed through Jon's veins, stirring his tired body to life. It began to burn, just like [Name's], whose fingers moved the needle ever more slowly, lost in the sewing.

Slowly, his hands moved over [Name's] body, slowly moving from her stomach higher and higher until they reached the lacing on the front of her shirt.

The sweater, needle, and thread finally remained on the floor. Ghost returned to the bed with his tail tucked between his legs and a disapproving look, and they were left on the floor. Naked, sweaty, and lost in desire. Making love in the warmth of the fire.