A/N: This is a direct sequel to Kisses in Darkness (stand in the light).
*/*/*/*/*
She comes to him in darkness, trembling and afraid (he's afraid, too).
*/*/*/*/*
He kisses her at her bedchamber's door and she pushes him away. He doesn't blame her. She glares, her astonishing eyes angry and confused, even in the dim light of the lanterns in Winterfell's dark hallways. She asks him what he wants of her and he wants...he doesn't know what he wants or what he feels. He tells her he knows his sweet sister lingers between them and he wonders if the wench feels the shadow of that past love and all he had done because it. She simply blinks and turns away (he doesn't blame her for that either)(sometimes the darkness of his soul is deeper than the endless night that has engulfed them).
He goes back to his own bedchamber and wonders if mayhaps he's the only one who feels the weight of his sweet sister's shadow, reminding him of all he's done, of who he is, of where he belongs (in the dark or in the light)(can one be known without the other).
*/*/*/*/*
She tells him he's mocking her, being deliberately cruel. She tells him to go to one of the many women who hover round him and leave her in peace.
He bows his head and turns away.
*/*/*/*/*
There are words he wants to say to her (if he only knew what they were). He can natter with the best of them, lightly entertaining his hosts or guests while supping, but the words he wants to say to her are stuck in his throat (they make a fine pair)(he talks without saying anything)(she says nothing yet says everything).
*/*/*/*/*
He takes her words to heart (although he seeks out no other woman) and does not kiss her before the next battle (it feels…wrong).
Their enemies separate them on the battlefield for the first time and it's only his discipline as a knight, a soldier, a Lord Commander that keeps him focused while terror gnaws at his mind and belly (he cannot even see her sword, flaming in the darkness). She's a warrior, too, strong and skilled, and she would no more appreciate his fear for her than she does his kisses (but he's afraid, oh gods yes, he's afraid).
When the battle is over (not won, never won, it seems), he cannot find her for long, heart-stopping minutes as he pushes his way through the exhausted soldiers, the bodies of the dead, peering at each face, his blood roaring in his ears. Then he hears his name and spins, turning in time to catch an armful of armored wench and a mouth that presses hard enough against his that their teeth clack together and he tastes copper and salt (from his blood or her tears), but nothing has ever felt so good, not even when he found his sweet sister in the sept, beside their son's body.
*/*/*/*/*
She comes to him in darkness, trembling and afraid, with clumsy hands and hungry mouth and something—something shining in her eyes.
But he's sick of secrets and love in the shadows (it takes all his strength of will to send her away, well-kissed but still a maid).
*/*/*/*/*
She's silent and blushing the next morning when he takes his place beside her amongst their gaggle of squires (those who still live, anyway)(although more than enough new ones have appeared to take the places of the fallen). He simply smiles and acts as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed.
*/*/*/*/*
It's during their morning sparring session that he broaches the subject of the night before.
She is blushing and uncomfortable, interrupting him, stammering out nonsense and apologies that make him stare at her as if she's run mad.
He finally interrupts her with a kiss and tells her he will not dishonor her, that he will only bed her once they have spoken their vows in front of the Seven and any else who care to see.
Now she calls him mad, looking as horrified as if he had suggested they prance naked through the Great Hall. He laughs and the muscles in her jaw and mouth tightens before she lifts her sword and attacks. He finds himself grateful they are using only tourney swords else he doubts there would be enough left of him to be laid in state in the small sept on the grounds of Winterfell. He's torn between regret that he has caused her such distress, and amusement at her stubborn refusal to hear him out or believe his words.
*/*/*/*/*
There's no attack that day nor the next, and he seeks her out simply to talk, carefully keeping his distance. He tells her stories of his childhood at Casterly Rock, of his days squiring with Lord Crakehall, and asks for stories of Tarth and her childhood.
She tells him sparse stories, reluctant, wary, and he wonders what it will take to break through her walls...if it's even possible to breach those walls at all.
She's puzzled, scowling, skittish, and he wishes he knew how to court her (his relationship with his sweet sister was simply there)(courtship is something new and confusing for him, too).
*/*/*/*/*
He kisses her before the next battle and they fight side-by-side. He sees when an ice sword slices through the boiled leather on her arm, and blood immediately flows, steaming in the cold air. His heart stops even as they both keep fighting (he wonders if there's time for any courtship at all).
*/*/*/*/*
He watches as the maester cleans her wound with boiled wine. She keeps her eyes on his, and crushes his hand as the maester works, sewing the wound shut, but she makes no sound.
*/*/*/*/*
She comes to him in darkness, for comfort, for warmth.
He holds and kisses her, and tells her he wants to court her as sweetly as any other maid…but winter is here. Even so, he refuses to bed her until they are wed, and she buries her face against his neck.
He's not certain if she's crying or laughing as she nods.
*/*/*/*/*
He persuades one of the squires, as tall as she is, to be a stand-in. He practices removing his cloak from around his neck and placing it over the squire's shoulders until he can do it without fumbling.
*/*/*/*/*
They speak their vows in the sept, the prayers intoned by possibly the last septon in the North. They stand, bathed in the weak sunlight of the short day, in front of the gods, their squires, his family, and any else who care to see.
He removes his cloak and fastens it over her shoulders with almost as much grace as if he still had both hands, and is rewarded with her flushed cheeks and shy smile (the ritual kiss must be longer than usual, if the septon's throat-clearing is any indication)(or the cheering of the watching crowd)(he'll take his sweet brother to task for that)(later).
*/*/*/*/*
She comes to him in darkness, trembling and afraid (he's afraid too). But there are no more secrets; no more shadows.
Even in the darkness, there's light.
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