#tormundjon

hello sza :D

02 - kiss (WHAT AN EXCELLENT PROMPT)

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Jon had been shy about it at first, about Tormund’s tendency towards displaying affection in front of others. He’s been raised to be extremely private in his personal matters, side effects of being both a Northerner and Lord Eddard Stark’s son, and he’s not used to the free folk yet, the way they’re so open with their affection and their love. It’s not uncommon to see lovers holding hands as they walk, mothers unashamedly showering kisses upon their children, siblings leaning against each other as they go to sleep after a long day of exertion.

Tormund, though, it seems goes above and beyond.

Jon had jumped, the first time Tormund had reached for his hand and held on to it as they’d been walking. It had made Tormund laugh, the sound coming from deep inside his chest, rich and delighted. “Uppity Southerners,” he’d teased.

“‘M not a Southerner,” Jon had mumbled, blushing.

“Hold my hand and prove it, then,” Tormund had demanded. And, well, Jon was never one to back down from a challenge, of any kind.

So he got used to the hand-holding, and then he began initiating it, and he supposed that was that.

And then Tormund starts with the kissing.

At first it’s just quick pecks on the cheek whenever he does something that puts that fond look on Tormund’s face. It makes him go red head to toe, which makes Tormund (and the rest of the free folk) laugh, and tease him about his sensitive Southern sensibilities, or whatever. But he can’t deny that he likes it, likes how warm it makes him feel inside, and how happy Tormund looks when he gets to do it.

And then Tormund graduates on to kissing his knuckles whenever they’re sitting together hand in hand. Just as Jon begins getting used to that, Tormund decides it would be a good idea to kiss his temples or his forehead. And one particular evening, when they’re all sitting by the fire and unwinding after their dinner, Tormund pulls Jon in close, and drops a kiss to the tip of his nose for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and then goes back to his ale like everything’s normal.

Well, to him, it is, but Jon is blushing so hard he can feel the warmth radiating off his skin in waves, and everyone else is laughing at him, making him flush even more. “Redder’n Tormund’s hair,” roars one of the men by the fire, and that sets everyone off again.

“I’m just not used to it,” Jon tries to tell them. “It’s not how we did things in the South-- I mean, at Winterfell--”

But no one’s listening, because apparently he must look quite a sight. Tormund is grinning into his ale now, the arse, and it’s that more than anything else that sends a flare of unexpected defiance through Jon. Is this how they do it here, then? Fine. He can do that. He can absolutely do that.

“You fucker,” he growls, low in his throat, and pulls Tormund’s ale away from him before kissing him soundly on the mouth.

This is so unexpected that Tormund freezes, going absolutely still even as Jon all but throws himself at him. Then he comes back to life, arms going around Jon, and starts kissing him back with the kind of enthusiasm and vigor that Jon’s only seen him dedicate to ripping someone apart with a sword.

And oh, oh but it’s good, and Jon can hear someone whistle, the free folk bursting out in laughter again. This time it’s got more of an appreciative tone to it though, with a few cries of “Well done, crow!” and “Look at ‘im go!” and Jon finds himself grinning into the kiss. He doesn’t even care that they’re all watching, they’re all seeing exactly what he’s doing with his mouth, the fact that he’s half in Tormund’s lap already, and that his trousers are beginning to get tighter at the groin.

“Well, well, well,” says Tormund when they break apart. Jon’s gasping for air, and Tormund is licking his lips, and there is a heat in his eyes that has nothing to do with the fire. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Snow.”

“I think you’ll find,” Jon tells him, punctuating every other word with shallow kisses to his mouth, “that I’m full of surprises.”

“Known that for a while,” Tormund reminds him, and begins kissing back.

This time, though, the free folk don’t appreciate the show as much; someone throws the remainder of a bone at Jon and it hits him in the shoulder, distracting him. “All right, take it inside now!” yells the culprit.

“You’re just upset because you’ve been alone so long your pecker’s in danger of falling off!” Tormund calls back over Jon’s shoulder.

Jon laughs at the vehement cursing that follows. “No, let’s definitely go back inside, though,” he tells Tormund. “I’m not that comfortable with all of this just yet.”

“Inside it is, then,” Tormund says decisively, and all but drags Jon to their tent by the hand. Jon, for his part, can’t stop laughing, feeling drunk on it, the warmth in his cheeks and the laughter of his people following him to the privacy of his and Tormund’s quarters.

Some free folk customs he could definitely get used to, he thinks.

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hope you enjoyed it sza! i love the idea of jon blushing at tormund’s pda so much, honestly :’)

hey anon! sorry it’s kinda late, it’s been a hellish week D:

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“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” curses Jon, flipping through his notebook so quickly that he’s in danger of ripping out half the pages. “Where the fuck is that section--”

“Keep that up you’re not going to have a notebook any longer,” comes an amused voice from somewhere above Jon, making his hands go still. He looks up to see the tall redheaded TA from his Northern Cultures class, grinning down at him as he stands there with his hands in his pockets. “What are you looking for anyway?” he asks, sitting down next to Jon without waiting for an invitation.

“I can’t find my notes for the wedding cultures lecture,” Jon grumbles. “I swear I had them in here.”

“Maybe you’ll find them if you slow down,” suggests the TA. Tormund is his name, Jon remembers; he’s spent many hours in class paying more attention to him than to the actual lecture.

Which might explain why there are no notes for some of his lectures -- he just never actually wrote them down.

Shit, that’s embarrassing.

“You’re suddenly red in the face,” notes Tormund.

“It’s the cold,” Jon mumbles, snapping his notebook shut.

“It’s April.” Tormund sounds amused again.

“I get cold easily,” Jon mutters, digging his grave deeper.

“Right,” says Tormund. He’s not laughing yet, but it’s close. “Anyway, if you can’t find your notes, you can just ask me.”

“Oh.” Jon’s been silently panicking for so long he’s forgotten that that’s an option. “I... I suppose I could.”

“Go ahead.”

“That question on the test about violence at Dothraki weddings,” Jon says. “I didn’t study that because I didn’t think we’d be asked about the Dothraki because, you know, it’s Northern Cultures, but anyway. I guess I just wanted to make sure my answer was correct,” he finishes lamely.

“What did you write?” Tormund asks.

Jon hesitates. “Uh...”

Tormund chuckles. “That bad?”

“I was literally pulling it out of my arse,” Jon tells him, sighing. “But I suppose at least some of it has to be correct, right?”

“I can find out for you,” Tormund answers. “I’ll be the one grading those tests, anyway.”

“Fuck,” sighs Jon. “That’s just great. Just fucking great.”

“You can’t have done that bad, your tests are usually good,” Tormund assures him, patting his knee.

“You pay attention to my tests?” Jon asks, grinning. He feels weirdly flattered.

“Some of your answers are interesting,” is Tormund’s vague reply. He’s grinning too. “In fact, tell you what -- I’ll make you a bet.”

“A bet?”

Tormund nods. “I won’t grade your paper, the prof can do it himself. And if you score more than two-thirds, I’ll take you out for coffee. My treat. Sound good?”

“Are you asking me out?” It’s Jon’s turn to sound amused.

Tormund shrugs. “If that’s what you want, yeah.”

“No, yeah, that sounds nice,” Jon says. “Where are you gonna take me?”

“Slow down there,” laughs Tormund. “You still haven’t passed yet, you know.”

“With that answer about the Dothraki? I probably won’t,” sighs Jon.

“Maybe I’ll take pity on you and take you out anyway,” muses Tormund, a glint in his eye. “Maybe. We’ll just have to see.”

Jon knocks his knee against Tormund’s. “Looking forward to it. Hey, maybe you should take my number. Just in case, you know. So you can reach me if you need to.”

Tormund hands Jon his phone. “Go ahead then,” he says. “I’ll ring you. When your test’s done.”

“You do that,” Jon says, saving his number and returning the phone. “Anyway, uh. I gotta go to class. I’ll see you around?”

“I’m your TA,” Tormund reminds him with a grin, “so you’ll be seeing me whether you want to or not.”

Jon laughs too as he gets to his feet. “S’pose I will.”

“Count on it,” grins Tormund. “I know I am.”

-x-

thank you for the prompt, i hope you like it :D <3

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“What’s that you’re writing?”

Jon pauses in his scrawling to see Tormund standing over him, squinting curiously at the paper in his hands. “Nothing,” he answers vaguely, shifting aside on the log to make space for Tormund. “Just... the things I saw today. I’m writing them down so I don’t forget. Sort of like a diary.”

Tormund stretches his legs out, closer to the fire, and takes a swig from his ever-present wineskin. “Can I see?” he asks a moment later, wiping his mouth with his furs.

In response, Jon moves his hand so that the paper is more visible to Tormund. It’s nothing much, just crude drawings of the plants Tormund pointed out to him earlier, and short descriptions of each one, but Tormund nods approvingly when he sees it. “Not a bad way to remember,” he says. “Is that what you do in the South? Write down this stuff?”

“Depends,” Jon answers. “On what’s considered important enough to remember. Robb and I used to write down whatever our maester taught us, so we could have it handy if we ever forgot something. And Sam writes down just about everything, you must’ve seen him do it.”

“He’s a maester too, eh?” Tormund asks.

Jon nods. “He’s with Bran now, in King’s Landing. I thought I could, maybe...” He trails off.

“Maybe what?” Tormund prods, when a few seconds pass and Jon hasn’t continued.

“Maybe find a way to send these to him,” Jon finishes, and then gives Tormund a small, sad smile. “But I think we’re too far North for that now. No raven is going to be able to go all the way to King’s Landing, it’s just too far. But he’d have liked to see these.”

Tormund makes a thoughtful sound at that. Jon waits for him to say something, but Tormund remains quiet, just staring into the fire with that contemplative look on his face.

Eventually, Jon gives in. “What?” he asks, nudging Tormund with his elbow.

“What?” Tormund repeats absently, not looking away from the fire.

Jon nudges him again, harder this time, and that gets his attention. “You’re thinking of something,” Jon says. “Aren’t you?”

“Aye,” Tormund admits after a moment. “Not sure if it’s possible, so I don’t want to get your hopes up, little crow.”

“What is it?” Jon asks.

“The weather will be clearer in a few weeks,” Tormund tells him. “It’ll be safer to travel then. I thought perhaps we could go South.”

“South?” Jon repeats, blinking in surprise. “What, just to send a raven?”

Tormund shakes his head. “No, not just to send a raven.”

“Then?” asks Jon.

Tormund shrugs, leaning closer into Jon’s side. Jon leans right back in, soaks up the warmth, and waits patiently for Tormund to answer.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve seen your sister,” Tormund finally says. “Perhaps we could go visit.”

For a moment Jon is too stunned to do more than utter a lackluster “Oh.” Then he shakes his head a little, as if trying to clear it, and then asks, “You want to take me to see Sansa?”

“If you want to go,” Tormund says.

“Of course I want to go,” Jon says at once. “Of course-- it’s been so long, and--” He stops, collects himself for a moment. “And I’d love to have you with me.”

“Down in the South, with your smelly air and shit weather?” Tormund asks teasingly, though there’s an element of uncertainty to his tone that Jon doesn’t fail to catch.

“You were fine the last time,” he answers, and then adds, “Besides, it’s not as if we’d be staying. Just a few days, right?”

Tormund’s expression clears, and that’s how Jon knows he’s gotten to the heart of the matter; Tormund’s insecurity that Jon might decide that the North is not for him after all. “Aye,” is all he says.

“You know I’m not going to go back to stay,” Jon says quietly, resting his head on Tormund’s shoulder. “South of the Wall, I mean. This is my home now, Tormund. You said it yourself, it’s where I belong. I don’t want to leave.”

Instead of replying, Tormund lets out a pleased sort of harrumph, and then leans his head on top of Jon’s. “I know, little crow,” he says.

“Don’t forget that,” Jon tells him.

“Might need to be reminded every now and then,” Tormund admits, voice low.

”Write it down, you’ll remember better,” Jon says, grinning 

Tormund snorts. “And what, send that one to Sam too, eh?”

“Gods, no,” laughs Jon. “That one’s just for the two of us.”

“Just the two of us,” repeats Tormund. “I could live with that.” Then he gently extricates himself from Jon’s side and gets to his feet, stretching out his hand. “Come on, now, fire’s gone out and it’s getting colder. Let’s go back inside.”

Jon takes his hand. “Sounds perfect to me.”

-x-

hi anon, thanks so much for the prompt!

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Sunrises are different up in the North.

When Jon had been far younger, there had been times when he had sneaked out of his room just before daybreak, wrapped in his thickest furs, and gone up to the highest point he could manage without being caught by his father’s men. He used to sit down by the window in the tower and watch as the dark night sky lightened, slowly but surely, going from jet black to an inky purple, to soft blue and, eventually, pale gray. The sun was not always visible, but its arrival was always evident in the lightening sky, and Jon would watch, fascinated and awed, as the world woke up around him.

It only stopped when he’d gotten caught one day, by Lady Stark no less. Her disapproving look had made him tear up immediately, and he’d never ventured back to the tower for the sunrise after that. It didn’t help that she so clearly thought he was up to something unsavory, though what, he couldn’t possibly imagine. He was, after all, only eight, and that was far too young for the sort of villainy his father’s lady wife seemed to expect from him.

All of that seems a lifetime ago.

Up here, North of the wall, the sun shines much more than it ever did in Winterfell. Part of that has to be due to the end of the Long Night, thinks Jon, but there’s something else, too. The air is cleaner here (though he’ll never admit this to Tormund). The world is quieter, softer. It’s still cold, yes, but somehow, brighter, too.

When the sun rises, the sky doesn’t stop at a stony pale gray. It continues on in shades of pink and orange and yellow, and when the sun is finally high up at the peak of its arc, the sky is the color of clear turquoise. It’s so different from what Jon’s used to that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get bored of it.

Sometimes Tormund joins him on the snowy outcrop Jon favors for the view, sleep-slow and bed-warm against Jon’s side, eyes at half mast. He does his fair share of grumbling and complaining, and most of the time he’s not even looking at the sky, but Jon knows he’s only here to keep him company, and he appreciates it all the same. The security of Tormund by his side is something he can never tire of.

This morning, though, Tormund seems more awake than usual. He’s sitting upright, back against a bundle of furs he’d brought with him, and he’s got his legs spread in a V, Jon between them with his back to Tormund’s chest and Tormund’s arms looped loosely around his waist. “Look at the sky,” he says, voice low in Jon’s ear.

Jon laughs. “What do you think I do here every morning?”

“No, I mean, look,” says Tormund, and Jon does.

“What am I looking for?” he asks.

Tormund rests his chin on top of Jon’s head. “Is it not brighter? Look at the colors, Jon, look, and listen.”

Jon focuses his senses for a moment, and then stills in surprise at what he hears. “Birds!”

“Birds, aye,” confirms Tormund. “Know what this means?”

“Summer?” asks Jon, not sure if he’s right but hoping he is.

“Summer,” says Tormund, and chuckles. Jon feels the vibrations against his back, and smiles to himself.

“Finally,” he says. Summer had seemed like an impossible dream before, something long-gone, lost forever to the Night King. He’d fought for it without ever believing he’d live long enough to see it and now - and now here they are. He’s not just alive, he’s free, and he’s got the prospect of a long life with someone he loves stretched out ahead of him.

Jon has no idea what he’s done to deserve all of this.

“Have you ever seen a Northern summer, my pretty little crow?” asks Tormund, tightening his arms around Jon just a little. “No, I suppose you haven’t. It is the most beautiful thing you can imagine, Jon.”

“It looks like it,” Jon agrees quietly, looking out over the view as far as his eye can reach.

“Nothing can compare,” Tormund says. “Winter is beautiful, aye, but harsh. But summer, in the North, is the warmer than a lover’s embrace.”

“Is it?” questions Jon. Tormund’s embrace is warmer, he’s damn sure of it.

“Well, most lovers,” Tormund amends with a laugh. “Other lovers who are not me.”

“Of course,” says Jon with a laugh of his own. “Lesser men, I’m sure.”

“Definitely,” says Tormund, and kisses the side of Jon’s head. “That goes without saying, my pretty crow.”

“Prettier than the summer?” Jon asks teasingly, having long gotten used to the nickname.

“Like I said,” Tormund says, and kisses Jon’s cheekbone. “Goes without saying.”

-x-

i absolutely can, thank you so much! <3

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Fire and blood, blood and fire, teeth and talons and claws and wings--

Jon wakes with a choked off gasp, sweating despite the pervading cold. It’s still dark, and he can hear the wind howling outside their makeshift tent. A deep breath next to him tells him he’s woken Tormund up too.

“Jon?” Tormund’s voice is gruff with sleep. “All right, little crow?”

“Yes,” Jon whispers back, turning so that he’s lying on his side facing Tormund. “Nightmare. Sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” Tormund answers, voice heavy in the dark. A moment later Jon feels fingers on his skin, and then Tormund is wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him closer. “This all right?”

“Yes,” Jon repeats, putting his own arm around Tormund and pushing his knee between Tormund’s thighs. “It’s perfect.”

“Going back to sleep?” asks Tormund. Jon can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks.

“In a bit,” he tells him, moving until he’s got his head over Tormund’s heart.

“Can hear you thinking,” Tormund grumbles. “Stop it. No good’ll come of it.”

“I’m all right, really,” Jon assures him. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will,” Tormund says. He raises his free hand, runs his fingers through Jon’s hair.

“I suppose I was just wondering,” Jon says slowly, closing his eyes and relaxing into Tormund’s side, “where Drogon went. In the end.”

“Which one was he?” Tormund asks.

“Biggest one,” Jon tells him. “The one she rode. The one I told you flew off with her - her body.”

“Mm,” says Tormund. Jon feels it as much as hears it. “Who knows? Perhaps back East, where they come from.”

“Do you think he’ll ever come back?”

“Doubt it,” Tormund says. “What would he come back for? You weren’t his rider, and there’s no one else.”

“You’re right,” Jon says thoughtfully. “Still. I suppose as long as I know he’s out there somewhere I’ll keep thinking about it.”

“No harm in thinking about it,” Tormund tells him, “but don’t go far enough that it invades your dreams, little crow. That’s no good.”

Jon makes a sound of agreement in the back of his throat, and doesn’t answer. He focuses instead on the sound of Tormund’s heart under his ear.

Daenerys’s heartbeat, right until the moment he’d stopped it, had sounded exactly like the beating of Drogon’s wings. Tormund’s is soft in contrast, steadier, far less angry, and Jon concentrates on it, tries to sync his breathing with the steady rise and fall of Tormund’s chest.

It works; he finds himself calming, eventually, the tension in his body seeping out until his eyes are falling shut of their own accord, his breathing slower, deeper than it had been earlier. Wherever Drogon is, it’s far enough from Jon that he doesn’t need to worry about hearing those wings again, heartbeat-quick and furious. Instead of that he’s got this, the warm sleepy scent of Tormund, his heart sure and reliable under Jon’s ear, body strong and protective around Jon’s.

And he’s safe. He’s safe.

-x-

there you go anon, hope you enjoyed <3

thanks for the prompt sza <3

47 - stars

-x-

“Do you believe in the stars, little crow?” Tormund asks, keeping his eyes on the sky above them.

“What do you mean?” Jon laughs, turning his head to look at Tormund. “Of course I believe in them, they’re right there!”

“Not what I meant,” Tormund says.

“What did you mean, then?”

They’re lying on their backs out in the cold night air, sharing a thick fur spread out on the ground. It’s their only protection against the elements, but the North isn’t as cold as it used to be during the winter, and Jon thinks he’ll be fine as long as they don’t stay out too long.

“I meant the stories they tell,” Tormund answers.

“Stars tell stories?”

“Everything tells a story, if you care enough to listen,” Tormund tells him. “The earth, the air, the sky, these trees... everything.”

“And what stories do the stars tell?” Jon asks, shifting closer to Tormund. He’s beginning to shiver a little, and Tormund is solid and warm, and completely unaffected by the cold. Jon should be too, he thinks morosely, considering he grew up in Winterfell -- but even that pales in comparison to the real North.

“They tell us of our history,” Tormund says. He shifts a little to accommodate Jon, arm moving against Jon’s as he searches for his hand. He finds it eventually, and Jon laces their fingers together. “And of our present,” Tormund continues. His voice is lower, more serious than Jon’s used to hearing. “And of our future.”

Jon follows his gaze, tries to see what he’s seeing. The night sky is beautiful, as it always is -- diamonds and velvet, and the moon large and heavy, bathing everything in silver. But that’s all it is, he thinks. That’s all he sees. No matter how long he stares at the stars for, he is unable to divine some deeper meaning, or see anything out of the ordinary. It’s the same night sky he’s been looking at since he was a child.

Next to him, Tormund chuckles, a lovely rich sound. “You’re not going to find anything, looking like that.”

“Tell me how, then,” Jon demands. “Or show me.”

Tormund laughs again, and raises their joined hands. He points at something in the sky without letting go of Jon’s hand, and says, “Look there. What do you see?”

Jon looks. And looks. Then he looks some more. “Stars,” he says in the end, feeling a little dumb and not liking it at all.

“Aye,” Tormund says patiently, though the hint of laughter to his tone hasn’t gone away. “Look closer. What does it look like to you?”

Jon squints. “Tormund, honestly, I can’t see anything-- oh. Oh, wait, wait, I think I see...” He narrows his eyes further. “It looks a little like a bear, I think? Or is that just me?”

“It is a bear,” Tormund tells him, sounding impressed. “Very good, little crow. And next to it, a cub. Do you see?”

Now that Jon knows what to look for, it’s a little bit easier. “Yes.”

Tormund hums, pleased, and then points at something else. “And that over there. A warrior. Do you see the bow and arrow?”

Jon nods, not risking opening his mouth to speak; his teeth are chattering a little now. Tormund notices, and shuffles closer, allowing Jon to all but burrow into his side, leeching as much warmth off him as he can.

“There’s more,” Tormund tells him. “So many more. And that’s not all there is to it. If you’ve got the gift for it, you can see so much more than what you do right now.”

“Do you?” Jon asks, voice muffled due to his face being half-pressed into Tormund’s furs. “Have the gift for it, I mean.”

“My mother used to,” Tormund answers, taking Jon’s hand again. For a moment Jon thinks Tormund will show him more stars, but instead Tormund just lets their joined hands lie on his belly, rising and falling with each steady breath. “My sister, too,” Tormund adds.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Jon says, surprised. “What happened to them?”

“Wights,” Tormund answers shortly. “Long before I ever met you. Long before I even met Mance.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly.

“What for?” Tormund asks rhetorically.

Jon doesn’t know what to answer to that, so he remains quiet.

Tormund sucks in a breath, and then says, “It died with them, the gift. There were more people like them, but too many died in the wars. I don’t know if there are any left.”

“I suppose we’ll find them, if there are,” Jon muses quietly.

“Perhaps,” is all Tormund says. “It don’t matter anymore, though. After everything that’s happened, I think I’m perfectly fucking fine not knowing the future.”

Jon thinks about that. “Yes,” is all he says, in the end. “I suppose. It’s not as if knowing the future ever really makes it better.”

Tormund makes a sound of agreement. “Better to do what we can with what we have,” he says. “That way it feels...”

“Realer,” completes Jon.

“Realer,” agrees Tormund, and gives Jon a soft smile that Jon returns immediately.

They both turn their heads back up, returning their gazes to the night sky, and Jon finds himself wondering what these stars say about him, about his past, present, and future. If he’d known, years ago, what he would do, what he would become, would it have made any difference? Changed anything at all in his life? Would he still be who he is now?

Then Jon realizes that Tormund is right; it does not matter. He is who he is, and he’s come to terms with the actions of his past a long time ago. All that’s left for him now is the future, whatever it holds. And if the stars say something different?

Well, then he’ll just have to rewrite them.

-x-

24 - agony

coming straight for the feels, huh anon? ;D

-x-

Jon was always going to leave. Tormund has known that for a long time. But drinking and laughing with him, teasing him... for just a while, Tormund had let himself forget it. He’s just a man, after all. He’s got his weaknesses, buried deep down though they may be.

He just never thought a crow could become one of them, but this crow has, after all, always been different from the rest.

There is a quiet desperation to Jon’s grip when he embraces Tormund, for what is possibly the last time. Tormund grips back just as hard, cups the back of his head. He can tell Jon is as reluctant to let go as he is; he doesn’t want to go, he wants to stay here, in his home, where he belongs.

Tormund would keep him here forever, if he could; in this moment, where he is safe in his arms, solid and warm and real.

But the moment ends, and Jon lets go even as he looks like it’s killing him to do so, and Tormund lets him slip away even as he feels like his very soul is weighed down from the misery of it all. Jon is standing right there, and yet with every passing moment he seems further away, as if he’s lost to Tormund already, and Tormund can’t look away. He lets Jon give him Ghost, and he watches as he gets up on his horse, and he can’t look away, because he doesn’t know when he’ll see Jon again.

If he ever will.

The man who saved the world, thinks Tormund. The king who knelt after all. Off to fight someone else’s war, so far away from home that Tormund can’t even imagine it.

He’s not a stupid man. He’s lived a life filled with blood and battle. He knows what Jon’s chances are. He knows the look in a dead man’s eyes. He knows what a caged wolf looks like, what a crow without wings looks like.

With every second Jon gets further and further away from him, and Tormund can see the unhappy hunch of his shoulders even from where he’s standing. Jon looks woefully desolate like this, without Ghost by his side, without his people by his side, marching off to fire and blood and gods only know what else, and Tormund can’t look away.

Ghost whines, low in his throat. Tormund would, too, if he could. He wants nothing more than to go after Jon and bring him back, keep him here where he belongs, where he’s safe, where he can breathe. He wants nothing more than to go after him, protect him from whatever comes next - but it’s not his place, and the Southerners are his people even less than they are Jon’s, and he’s got a duty to the people he does belong to, the free folk of the North.

Jon is just a speck on the horizon now, and Tormund’s heart has never been heavier.

-x-