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The Free Folk always seemed to be touching each other.
Arms thrown around shoulders, hands placed on knees and thighs, even kisses on cheeks. It was casual, warm, affectionate.
Jon was not used to it.
True, he’d spent a lot of time among Free Folk the past few years. And he’d grown to love Tormund’s strong, pleasant hugs. They made him feel strangely comforted and safe, though he felt like a child admitting such things.
But now, traveling with them, Jon saw more and more how relaxed the Free Folk were with each other. Felt more and more the lack of touch in his own life.
This was never more obvious than when the camp went to their bedrolls at night. The others would lay side by side for warmth in the icy air. Tormund had offered to sleep by his side their first night away from Castle Black.
But Jon...he couldn’t. Not because Tormund was a man. But because Jon hadn’t slept a night beside someone since, since…
He forced blonde hair and bloody lips from his mind.
No, it was better for Jon to sleep alone.
Sometimes, on the coldest nights, Ghost would come to him. He’d take comfort in the wolf’s warmth, would bury his face and hands in white fur and feel at peace as their heartbeats sounded as one. Would curl around Ghost after he woke from bad dreams, using the wolf’s scent to lure him back to sleep.
But Ghost was not a pet, and Jon could not, would not chain him to his side. He would not deny Ghost the freedom to run, to hunt. So other nights, Jon would lay cold. And when he finally found sleep, he’d take comfort in other things. In dreams of padding through the forest and a fresh kill under his teeth. Precious dreams that often chased the nightmares away.
But still, Jon would wake cold.
Tonight, Jon was sitting by the fireside, taking warmth where he could find it, unsure where Ghost was. He saw families, bedmates, partners preparing to bed down together. And he felt a strange pang of jealousy.
He thought of Ygritte suddenly, of pressing against her warmth as she teased him about pulling a knife on her in the night. He smiled a little at the memory.
Jon thought of Ygritte often these days. She’d been one of the first people he’d truly been comfortable with, been himself around.
Growing up, he’d known a lack of touch, a lack of comfort. He’d felt it keenly.
As a child, he’d been able to wrestle with, play with his siblings. At least, the siblings willing to suffer his presence. He still remembered the cold day when Sansa learned what bastard meant.
But he could embrace Robb, embrace Arya, embrace Bran and Rickon. Those memories were precious to him.
Yet he’d not felt a mother’s warmth. Lady Catelyn had shown him nothing but distance, but coldness. And even his father, well his so-called father, could be awkward. Jon knew Ned Stark had loved him, cared for him. But Jon had been aware of the differences in their status for as long as he could remember.
Your father is a Lord, and you are not. It is improper for a bastard to ask for the affection a Lord would show his trueborn children.
Jon sighed.
In the light of the new revelations about his parentage, knowledge that still didn’t feel quite real, the awkwardness between Jon and Ned made even more sense. It was a wonder Ned Stark could even bare to look at him, at this thing who killed his sister. This thing who was the son of an enemy. Who was-
Blond hair and bloody lips again appeared before him. Jon swallowed and pushed them down.
Still. Jon knew he didn’t deserve, wasn’t owed touch or kindness from anyone. And he knew Ned did his best in impossible circumstances.
Yet he wished his father would have told him. Would have told the family. Maybe the true knowledge of Jon’s birth would have broken the distance between them, maybe the honesty would have made him more part of the family, maybe it would have given him someone to tuck him in at night…
Or maybe it would have simply gotten them all killed.
Jon breathed out low and ran a hand through his hair.
He’d clung to Robb especially as a child. Cuddled with him, slept beside him. Used him as a replacement for the touch he lacked elsewhere. But as they’d gotten older, Lady Catelyn’s icy stares made it clear that such things were inappropriate.
And one day Theon had mocked them, called them a pair of pillow-biters and well...after that Jon made sure to be careful. To not tarnish Robb’s place. To keep any embraces short, strong, suitably masculine.
He'd done the same with his other male siblings, worried the lonely bastard would be a poor influence.
Arya was young enough that he’d still been able to hug her, spar with her, braid her hair. But Jon remembered dreading the moment when that would be taken from him too.
Tears were pricking at his eyes. Gods he missed them. He’d never see Robb again. Never see Rickon again. Bran was remote, unknowable, ice. And Arya...Arya might never return to them.
Sansa, at least, he might be able to see. But she was a Queen. And what was Jon now?
Blond hair, bloody lips.
Ghost padded over to him, and Jon gratefully buried his hands, his face in the wolf’s fur. Ghost licked at Jon’s ears, and he inhaled the comforting scents that clung to the wolf. Dirt, pine, elk.
Jon held the memory of finding Ghost close to his heart. The touch, the affection from that small sweet pup had been vital, had gotten Jon through some of his coldest nights.
Especially after he came to the Wall.
Jon remembered feeling how cold, how hard the Wall had been when he first arrived. The boys there, Pyp, Grenn, Sam, Jon knew now they’d all been so scared. They all needed comfort. But they didn’t dare seek it with each other, for the Wall was full of cruel men, ice men, men who would punish you for being too soft.
Jon brought a hand to the scar over his heart.
When he first traveled with the Free Folk, Jon recalled feeling a certain awe at how different it all was. The men here were hard, were strong, and so were the women. But at the same time, they could also be soft, be affectionate, and being so didn’t make them lesser in anyone’s eyes. It even seemed men could be with men and women with women without judgement, a concept which Jon still struggled to wrap his mind around. There were no places among the Free Folk, no titles, no lords, they were all just...people.
One of his first nights with Tormund and Ygritte’s band, before they climbed the Wall, Jon had shied away when Tormund tried to put an arm around his shoulders. Then he’d frozen, worried he’d caused offense to the massive Wildling warrior. Worried he’d exact some kind of punishment. Yet the big man had been surprisingly gentle. Tormund had simply looked him in the eye and said, “It’s alright to seek comfort, Crow. The nights here are cold, you need to find warmth wherever you can.”
Jon smiled at the memory.
Ygritte had teased him then for his courtly Kneeler ways, and Jon found himself slowly agreeing with her. She was right, it was silly, stupid for people to separate themselves from each other because of station, rules, vows. And so he’d fallen into her and fallen for her and it had felt so warm, so right, and gods he should have stayed with her. With them.
But he’d had his honor.
And look where that had gotten them. His honor had gotten Ygritte killed, had gotten Rickon killed, had gotten so many killed.
And now Jon Snow had no honor anyway. He was a Queenslayer, an Oathbreaker, and there was blonde hair everywhere and blood was dripping from her lips and it was the coldest touch he’d ever felt and…
Jon was truly crying now, trying to hide it with his hands.
He felt a warm body sit beside him, take him into strong arms. For a moment, Jon tried to pull himself back together, back he heard a whisper in his ear. “Let it out, little crow. There’s no shame in tears.”
So Jon did.
He sobbed against the strong shoulder and a large hand soothed his back. He took the comfort, comfort he’d been missing for a lifetime. He didn’t know how long he cried, didn’t know how long he stayed wrapped in those arms.
Finally, Jon calmed. He felt the tears abate, the sadness that had taken hold of him eased by the warmth around him.
Jon looked up. Tormund gazed down at him, eyes full of sorrow.
The large man shifted, went to take his arms from Jon’s shoulders. He never wanted to touch uninvited, to do anything that made Jon uncomfortable.
But as Tormund moved, Jon caught his wrist lightly. Placed his arm back around his shoulders. Sank into the warmth of Tormund’s body.
Jon felt as if some chain around his heart had broken. The nights were cold. He needed to find warmth wherever he could.
Tormund settled around him, and they sat comforted by each other for a long time.
They stared at the crackling fire, at the hot sparks that broke and flew towards the sky.
Jon breathed in deep.
“You mentioned, once, that you’d be willing to share furs with me, for warmth at night.”
Jon’s eyes were fixed on the ground. He didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare see how Tormund would take his words.
“Would that...I mean would you still be interested in that?”
Tormund put a hand under Jon’s chin and gently tilted his face up to meet his gaze. Jon found himself staring into kind, blue eyes.
“Of course, little crow.”
So that night, Jon found himself sharing the comfort, the heat, the touch of another.
Jon slept soundly where no nightmares could find him.
He felt warm.