He kisses her in a darkness that tastes of steel and terror and grief (she tastes like hope).

*/*/*/*/*

He doesn't expect to live long enough to face her reckoning but the swords flare—his; hers—and they slice through monsters like knights of song (she is a beauty in this light; she is a knight). Still, when he sees her later, in the semi-darkness of Winterfell's Great Hall and strides towards her, she flushes, lowers her eyes and hurries away (it hurts more than a blow against his chest).

*/*/*/*/*

They argue. Of course they do. She cannot trust and he cannot explain and there's too much between and behind them to make any of this easy.

His words are quick and biting, cruel and not near as careless as they appear. Her words are slow and few, and all the more damaging because of it. She leaves him aching and raw with anger and pain; he thinks he sees a tear on her cheek as she stomps away (he wants to call her back, apologize, take her in his arms and kiss her again)(hope is in short supply these days)(he doesn't know if she felt the same or anything at all).

*/*/*/*/*

He offers her apologies that erupt into another argument and she seems more offended by his pardons than by his kiss or the words he spoke in anger. There are no tears on her face this time when she leaves him, only a clenched jaw and her hand tight on Oathkeeper's hilt.

He's baffled, angry...aroused. With his sweet sister, argument was prelude; he doubts it will be the same with this wretched wench; he doesn't want it to be…but he also doesn't know what it is he does want or how to get it even if he did (he's never courted anyone before; never learned sweet words to lure a woman to him).

*/*/*/*/*

The tension eases between them when she catches him using his ration of food to supplement his squires' meals (he feels foolish, having so many, but they seem to have piled up at his feet like the seven-times-damned snowbanks sloping up the walls of Winterfell; like the snow, they refuse to leave). She calls him foolish and before he knows it, she's pooling her rations with his and all their squires get something extra. It leaves her with a little less and him with a little more, and she gives him an almost-smile that stops him in his tracks (hope burns hotter than dragon- or wild-fire and is twice as dangerous).

*/*/*/*/*

He kisses her in a darkness that tastes of steel and terror and grief (she tastes like hope). She blinks those amazing eyes that gleam in the moonlight (but not the way the Others' eyes glow; hers never will; he won't allow it). She's baffled, angry (aroused?) before they turn to face the enemy, their swords blazing beacons in the night.

*/*/*/*/*

She tells him she's ugly; he tells her he knows (doesn't stop her from appearing in his lustful dreams; doesn't stop him from yearning to make his dreams reality)(not that he tells her that; he still values his life enough to be cautious; still doesn't know what she thinks about it)(her eyes say one thing but her words another).

She blinks at him, scowling, and leaves without saying anything more.

*/*/*/*/*

They face the Others side-by-side time and again, and survive. They eat together and he even manages to coax an almost-smile and a half-laugh from her on more than one occasion. They share bread and salt with those they fight beside and call friends (the squires can no longer be considered squires; they've seen too much; done too much)(he's lost more than one and cannot stand to lose more) and if it weren't for the enemies at the gates, at the growing hopelessness of their position, he would think he was almost-happy (foolish; he's lost everything he once valued)(he's found so much more).

And before battle, before the enemy rushes in, he kisses her in darkness and prays she lives to stand in the light.

#####