Chapter One.
The Battle of the Bastards left a cold, vacant stare in Jon Snow's eyes. One that often lingered after his battles, but would disappear slowly, Sansa knew. She watched her brother and his men reclaim their beloved home, Winterfell, as she walked around the courtyard, trying to shake off the terror and anger Ramsey Bolton had left in her heart. Although his hounds had devoured him, and the banners of his House were burned to ashes, she couldn't let go of the thought that her tormenter had lived in her home, perhaps even walked or slept in her bedroom. She requested to have Jon's room, so Jon could take the chamber that once belonged to Ned and Catelyn. Jon realized perfectly well why she so desperately wanted to change rooms, and accepted right away.
So that night, as Sansa lay in her new bed in a state of restless tossing and turning, Jon took it upon himself to rediscover the home that was once so familiar to him. His knuckles were still bruised and battered and the cuts in his face still fresh, but he'd washed off the blood, put on clean clothing, and felt more human than he had in a long time. As human as he could, under the circumstances. The frigid winds of winters kept him on his feet as he walked over the wall and greeted his guards. Being unable to sleep, taking late night walks was something he'd done for years, even when he was still a boy.
The sky was black but clear – the stars and the moon bright and full, meaning that the day to come was going to be as cold or colder than the last. In his head, Jon could hear Ned Stark's promise echoing, and a shiver traveled down his spine. ''Winter is coming''. Even the winds seemed to whisper it.
As he made his way over the wall, towards the Bell Tower, Jon heard scuffling down at the courtyard, and he watched two of his men drag a woman – whose head was covered with a sack – through the gravel, towards him.
''What is this?'', Jon called out as he walked down the wooden stairs and approached the small entourage.
The man on the left, a blonde man whose face was scarred by battle, was the first to talk.
''One of Ramsey Bolton's whores we'd presume. We found her chained in the stables''.
''She bit me!'', the other one exclaimed, pressing his hand to his bleeding ear.
''Remove that sack'', Jon ordered immediately.
The two men looked at each other in hesitation ever so briefly, before quickly pulling the jute sack off her head.
When Jon Snow lied his eyes upon the woman's face, he froze for a short second. Despite the heavy bruising on her left cheekbone, the cut in her bottom lip and the dried blood under her nose, she was beautiful. Her hair was kissed by fire and reminded the young king of Ygritte, but this woman's shade was darker. Jon's eyes wandered from the thin scar on her forehead to her thick brows, and then towards the steel grey eyes underneath them. They looked straight at him, no sign of fear, and Jon noticed they were so bright they almost shared the same color as the moon on this dark, cold night. Her mouth had been gagged - presumably by the two men to prevent her from biting – and for some reason, it irritated Jon.
''Remove that gag'', he ordered.
''But, your grace-'', the wounded man started carefully.
''Now!'', Jon commanded. ''She's no animal''. His voice was strong and firm, slightly angry, even, and the two men quickly unbound the woman's mouth.
Immediately, the woman started fighting to break free, and the two men visibly struggled to contain her. Jon ordered them to stand firmly and let the woman exhaust herself, which didn't take long. Her body seemed underfed and there was little strength in her bones, though her eyes spit fire.
''Who are you?'', Jon asked as he stepped closer and inspected her face. She was around his age, he guessed. Maybe slightly younger.
Though she was clearly conscious, the woman did not speak, and Jon tried again.
''Where are you from?''.
The woman raised her head a little, visibly clenching her jaws together, as she looked straight into Jon's eyes. For some reason, he was slightly taken aback by this because lately, everybody but the people really close to him – like Sansa – had looked at him with some sort of hesitation, even admiration or fear, sometimes. This woman had no fear for him, and certainly no admiration.
''Who hurt you?'', Snow tried again. For a short second, he thought he saw the young woman's lip tremble, but it also could've been an illusion of the dark.
Jon grew more curious by the second, but he realized quite quickly she wasn't going to answer any of his questions. He wondered if she still even had a tongue, considering Ramsey Bolton's love of torturing people - especially women.
''Speak!'', the scarred man hissed as he pulled his dagger from his belt and put it to the young woman's throat. ''This is the King in the North in front of you. Answer him!''.
The steel eyes looked to the right, at the scarred man, and then turned towards Jon.
''Kill me'', she answered. Her voice was soft but determined, and all three men frowned. ''If it please you, of course.. your grace'', the red-haired woman added sarcastically.
For a few seconds, no one spoke, and Jon tried to suppress a soft smile. For some reason, it felt refreshing to be addressed and made fun of as an equal. It reminded him of a time many years ago, when he was just Jon Snow the bastard.
''We will do no such thing'', Jon answered finally. ''Put your dagger down''.
The sharp blade disappeared into black leather, and Jon saw a flash of disbelief shimmering in the woman's otherwise angry eyes.
''You will wake the handmaiden and have her be provided with food, clothes… and a bath'', was his order. ''I will speak to her in the morning''.
A deep frown appeared between the woman's brows as she was taken away by the two soldiers, and Jon returned to his chamber, trading the cold winter air for the slightly less cold comfort of his bed.