#wildlings

When you first walked through the well of the Wall, Tormund at your shoulder, there was a sort of imposter syndrome that overtook you. You felt out of place—never having thought you'd be at the place you were today. Your face stayed hard, though—not as a mask, but the actual feeling in your heart as the Brothers of the Night's Watch stared you down. Their sneers were heavy, glares hard, but yours was harder—a dark stain upon the world because you'd gone through life like it was just that—something to scrub away, but it continuously grew darker and darker.

Your bow was tucked underneath your arm, quiver tied against your back, while your snow-covered boots pounded against the ground heavily, kicking up dirt and ice alike. Your fur-lined hood encompassed your head like a lion's mane, evidence of your pride and authority over the fate of the future.

"They like to stare." Tormund muttered, face unmoving like yours, but there was a certain scope of humor in his lips, like the entire situation could be laughed away. You knew that was his way of coping—knew this was just as jarring for him as it was for you, but he still reveled in the thought of change. Because soon enough, with Jon Snow's help, the Free Folk would no longer have to struggle beyond the Wall.

"Ignore them, Tormund. They are curious, but hateful."

Tormund scoffed, "I'd much rather punch someone, but I'm sure they'd kill me next." Your lip quirked into a smirk, and you nodded in agreement, tugging your hood back to reveal the thick curls on your head as you stopped in front of a duo. They greeted Tormund with a nod, assuming he was the one to talk to, but Tormund raised his eyebrow and nodded towards you, "The Queen Beyond the Wall is the one you want to speak to."

Everyone paused, suddenly seeing you in a new light that was tainted with judgment and cynicism, but you just raised your hand to the man across from you, nodding once. He shook your hand loosely, a bit surprised by the firmness in your grip, then he spun around, "the Lord Commander has been waiting for you. He would like to discuss the prospect of a partnership between the Night's Watch and the wildlings."

Your nose screwed up at the use of the name, but you didn't comment on it, moving inside, the warmth in the building settled into your bones with comfort. Tormund grumbled at the sight of all the curious men watching, but you just shook your head at him—muttering something about not picking a fight.

"He's just beyond there." The man motioned towards an archway, where a thick table sat, not hidden from lingering eyes or peeled ears. You didn't see Jon Snow as you approached, but you smelt him—the thickness of cedarwood and something a little smokier. But then he called your name, and there he was leaning against the wall beside the window, hand on Longclaw's hilt.

You hid a smile, pausing near the archway as Tormund approached, sizing Jon up playfully. Then Jon hugged the man firmly, "I hope the journey was well?" Tormund shrugged, "well enough as it gets beyond the Wall." Tormund sat heavily in a chair, and then you approached Jon Snow.

"I thought you were crazy when they told me. Moving the wildlings South, what a stupid man." Jon chuckled at you, face soft like a child's, but eyes full of hardness and leadership. He grabbed your arm gently and shrugged, "I need as many people as possible to fight against the White Walkers, and you're the first person I thought of."

His eyes were tender as he watched you, hand lingering on your arm, but then you sat by Tormund and sighed heavily, "they hate me, you know? Can tell it in the looks." You glanced out into the main room, and just as you said, the men were glaring at you distastefully, some a bit more curious than others.

Jon ran a hand down his face, hands resting against the table as he leaned forward, staring across the table purposelessly. "They don't see what I'm trying to do here. They don't see what is possible and what matters. They only understand centuries of hatred and brainwashing."

Tormund nodded, "then how will you pull this off?" You nodded in agreement, the same question on your mind.

Jon shrugged honestly, "no other choice, but to pull it off. Even if it means fucking people over, I don't care." He glanced at you, long, but gentle, eyebrows pulled high as they usually were, "need your help though."

You nodded, skin burning with his gaze as you cleared your throat, "moving thousands of Free Folk from Hardhome won't be easy, especially since half the leaders want nothing to do with you. Not only do you need transportation, but you also need to convince them. And I can only do so much."

Jon licked his lips, staring at his hands, concentrated. "they either die, or move South."

Tormund let out a thundering laugh, reaching across the table to slap Jon against the arm, "hell of a point, pretty boy."

You spent hours in that room with Jon and Tormund, trying to figure out plans that often led to death or failure, but eventually, you planned out something efficient, although risky. And once all was said and done, Jon showed you to your bedchamber for the night.

The two of you walked along the Wall, staring out through the thickness of the cold, Jon's hand tucked beneath his cloak. "What have you been up to?" His voice was quiet, like he was trying to push away all the negative attributes of why you were there. He just wanted to be in your presence, even if it meant shoving important things away for the moment.

Your shoulder knocked into his briefly as you walked, "fighting White Walkers, uniting clans—the typical stuff." Jon chuckled, nodding, pulling his hands from his cloak and reaching towards you hesistantly. You paused, turning to him, breath hitching as he grabbed your jaw gently and pulled you close.

"I missed you. A lot." He stared deep into your eyes, tenderness and the like in his face, but his hands were gentle as they wrapped around your waist, forehead pressing against yours—warmth shared between you. Your eyes fluttered closed as you agreed with him, "the distance is too much."

That first time Jon kissed you, both of you were surprised. You were still acting under Mance Rayder, but also supporting Jon during his time beyond the Wall. You stuck up for him against other Free Folk, made sure he was fed, and through it all, you built a pleasant relationship.

The two of you were one in the same most days—in the way that you wanted more for your people. Both of you were loyal and compassionate toward others, so something built there. You huddled together late at night when the snow was heavy for warmth, but hands roamed those nights, and you enjoyed it nonetheless.

You hunted with him when meat became scarce. Then, once Mance decided to let him go, you and Tormund traveled with him to the Wall. You shut your heart off that day, the logic in your mind screaming that it was likely you would never see him again. But that was until the fight—the one that ended with Mance dead, you destraught and named The Queen Beyond the Wall, and Jon Snow sorrowful over killing Mance.

There was an understanding, though, so you bid him goodbye, hardness and determination for the future in your eyes.

Now there was more ache beneath your muscles because you missed him, but never really admitted it until now. You reached up, running a delicate hand over his hand, "we could die, and not even pull it off."

He grunted, eyes still closed, lips ghosting over yours, "then we'll do it together." He kissed you then, soft and angel-like, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, arms wrapped around you tightly. You tucked your hands beneath his cloak, wanting to feel the warmth in his skin, and Jon shivered at your touch, kissing down your chin. You stretched your head back, a light moan vibrating in your throat.

When he pulled away, he grinned to himself, cheeks and nose red, and you eyed him suspiciously, "what?"