I own nothing.


As soon as she warns Robb not to let their parents know that he's met her, a crack appears on the plaster of their relationship.

He is immediately concerned, because he wants to know that his father and Catelyn approve of her, an indication that she could be 'the-one-he-spends-the-rest-of-his-life-with', and she knows that's he's freaking out inside.

He hates lying to her and telling her he doesn't care, while all he wants to do is shout to the heavens "Why?"

Because if she's not so keen on him, then he could smash his head against a wall, because he's loved her ever since she'd kissed him after his confession before they first made love.


He spends his two weeks of holidays at Winterfell, writing Arya's history essays for her and playing Skyrim with Bran.

Ygritte's absence is all but intolerable. He is bursting at the seams with excitement, and barely holding in his urge to confide in the whole family about her. When he is alone, he draws her face, a poor substitution for the familiar curves and crevices. They talk on the phone nightly- he is always the one to call her. She insists it's because she can't afford long calls, but the seeds of doubt are already planted in his mind.

His longing for the sound of her laugh and the scent of her body, is not aided by the fact that his parents don't know about her existence. He wants nothing more than to tell them, but in respect for her wishes, he sits by and listens to them string off available women. Robb is spared the bombardment, still uncertain after his soul-sucking break up with Jeyne.

"Daenerys Targaryen is single." Catelyn provides helpfully. "I hear she's very nice."

"Isn't she kind of crazy and weirdly power hungry?" Robb asked doubtfully, and Ned huffed.

"I've met her- she's a very pleasant girl."

"And have you seen her legs?" Theon added, "Damn, she's fine."

"Theon, don't be disgusting- you're dating my best friend!" Sansa reprimanded.

"Hey, don't get on me," he defended mockingly, "I'm like a wild bird, I can't be tied down!"

"Did he just compare himself to a bird of paradise?" Arya's friend Gendry murmured, and she giggled.

That was an unfortunate addition- Arya's first crush.

Jon is somewhat torn between wanting to punch the guy for so much as breathing on his sister, and shake his hand, because he was quite an alright sort of bloke.

Of course, Ygritte would probably tell him to stop being so uptight about it (Jon Snow), and let them do their own growing.


Sam listens to Jon's incessant ranting over a drink one of his days in the North.

He sits in relative silence, nodding and asking occasional questions, and then theorises that Jon is being ridiculous.

He spends the next round explaining that he is inventing problems like a dramatic teenager, because discounting that pash with some girl outside the eighth year disco; he's had no love life whatsoever and is still, in theory, a dramatic teenager.

He tells Jon very firmly that this Ygritte is most likely a very nice girl- he'll come to the city one day and meet her at the diner, but in the meantime, Jon is absolutely not to make ridiculous fantasies over nothing and if he wants teenaged melodrama, he should attend one of Sansa's sleepovers.

"I have, actually." He confesses glumly.

Sam blinks in surprise, and Jon clarifies: "They dragged me into her bedroom as I was walking past and held me down. Theon's girlfriend painted my toenails blue."

Sam winces.


She's working the when he gets back into the city, and he intends to wait for her shift to finish before he goes over there, to spare Mance's sensitivities. But he waits and waits, and paces back and forth, pining desperately like a puppy at a window, and in the end she still has an hour to go, and he can't stop himself from tugging the glass door of the diner open, the force casing the venetian blinds to clang against the frame.

"Not with that damn entrance!" Mance barks as he takes no more than three steps inside "You can bloody well go outside, and come back in like a civilised person-"

"Or I could see Ygritte and then go outside and come back in-"

"Piss off Mance."

And there she is. He grins at the sight of her, and walks past Mance to embrace her, kissing her longingly.

"The holidays sucked without you." He confides into her hair, and she laughs.

"That's true."

"They would have been amazing if you were there."

And there was the moment again, the same sort of discomfort.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow." He slumps in a slight defeat, but cups the side of her head, her orange strands smooth and soft against his palm, wisping through his fingers.

"Shall we go back to mine, when you finish?" she whispers.

She shifts slightly in his arms, before replying.

"What about mine? I picked up the underwear on the floor for you."

Despite the awkwardness, he laughs and agrees.


As usual, the sex… he can't even think how to describe the sex.

But as he lies next to her, breathing heavily and bathed in his sweat and her scent, he realizes how difficult this makes the intended task.

"Ygritte," he begins, trepidation lacing his tone, "why- why are you so keen to avoid my family? Or come to my apartment- we've been seeing each other for five months and you've never even set foot through the door."

"Maybe I like my bed, Jon Snow." She replies, not looking at him.

"Ygritte…" he draws out, rolling onto his stomach so their bodies are pressed up together. She still won't look at him, only at the finger that he's using to lightly trace patterns on the smooth skin around her belly button. "I only say this because I l-" he catches himself at the last moment, as she gives him a wide eyed, panicked look, and quickly finishes with, "like you. I really, really, like you a lot." He can see the alarm fading from her face, and for a moment, he fears that she finds the prospect of loving him abhorrent, until he remembers Sam's advise and dismisses the notion. He wants to scream out, 'I love you, I love you, I love you', and he's fighting every impulse to, but he knows the moment has gone.

He's so afraid that she'll not love him like he loves her… she's swirling and amazing and confusing, and he can never quite discern what she's thinking.

"Oh?" she prompts, and he emerges from his thoughts to continue.

"I just- I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Why would I be uncomfortable?" she challenges, finally meeting his eyes as she props herself up onto her elbows.

His breathing hitches, and he wonders if she knew what that does to her breasts.

Of course she knows, he tells himself.

"With me. In case you feel like you don't know me, or you're afraid that something bad will happen if you meet my family-"

"What would happen?" she asked, sitting up now, and becoming quickly defensive. "Would I embarrass you in front o' your pretty lord father with my poor slumming ways?"

"No, Ygritte- don't put words in my mouth!" he exclaims, but she continues anyway.

"Just because I don't curtsey and drink tea with the queen means that you're better than me?"

"What?" he squawks, scrambling to sit up as she slides out of bed and walks to the bathroom door.

"If you're bothered by the fact that I don't wear a dress made of silk from Tralalalaleeday, I'll cut off your pretty cock, Jon Snow, and wear it around me neck."

She stomps into the bathroom, allowing the door to fall open with a bang as she busies herself with fiddling with the tap that's broken but she can't afford to fix. He places his face in his hands for a moment, before slowly following her and wincing as his bare feet touch the cold tiles.

"I'd never care about that, Ygritte." He murmurs from behind her. She tenses as she listens, and he moves forward, pulling her into him and resting his face in her hair. "You wouldn't ever- never embarrass me- do you hear me? You're perfect, Ygritte. You're fucking perfect."

There's a pause as she absorbs this, and he inaudibly curses himself- he's gone too far.

But then she twists, turning to face him and kisses him on the jaw.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow." She whispers again.

His grip on her tightens as he realises with a jolt that he trailed after her- he'd do that for her. That he needs her. That she has him stripping away his own principles. And he holds her tighter because he realises that if she left, he'd be falling freely, alone. A wreck.

They stand like this for some time, the cold irrelevant, neither wanting to move until he says,

"But I would like to see you in a silk dress."

"Would you?" she seems genuinely curious, and in response, pulls her up from the tiles sharply, pressing her against the sink at the same time.

"So I could tear it off you." He mutters into her ear.

She laughs, and he feels her calf hooking around his leg and sliding up past his knee.

"I'm yours, Jon Snow," she tells him, "and you're mine."

He moans in agreement and kisses her collarbone, and she adds

"You rip my pretty silk dress- and I'll blacken your eye."

He's just happy that she's not angry over nothing, that he doesn't even mind the threat.


The weather has warmed slightly, and he decides, one day, to invite her to see Winterfell.

She seems quite interested, by the way she perks up at the idea, but hesitance comes across her face.

He doesn't want to pressure her, and he would rather see the wide, beaming smile than the doubt, so he quickly amends that they can camp out in the old castle and she never even needs to set eyes on his parents.

She seems reassured, and agrees after a moment.

"Or maybe I'll take you there, Jon Snow."

Mance gives her the weekend off and they catch the train and then a bus before taking a short hike up the side of the grounds to the old castle.

The Starks, having lived on the estate since the days of Brandon the Builder decided in Victorian times that the castle was more of a relic than a home, and the Lord and Lady Stark at the time had built a smaller, and less grand (but far more extravagant) home over the hill and closer to the main road.

She is awestruck by the size of it, and he laughs at her expression of wonderment as she looks up toward the roof and spins around, and much to her surprise, his timing is well honed enough that he catches her when she stumbles over.

They manage to find a room with a good view of the grounds- she calls it "fucking freezing" but agrees that it's beautiful.

"Do you draw Winterfell?" she asks suddenly, arms folded across her chest, as he places his charcoal equipment aside as he searches in his bag for another jumper for her.

He pauses, before admitting that he doesn't.

"I worry that I won't do it justice." He explains. "Starks have lived here for hundreds of years, and I'm only a Snow."

"You'd be a better artist then any of them Starks." She tells him. "I bet you could."

He doesn't reply, only gazes past her to the majestic grounds and rolling green moors. When he looks back, her smile had become impish.

"You could even draw the inside of this room… or maybe with a little inspiration."

He raises a brow and waits for her to clarify, but she only begins to undress and lies seductively on a sleeping bag.

Oh.

But he complies.

That weekend, he draws the entirety of her- not just her nakedness, but her hair, the way it shines in the Northern light, he draws her hands and her collarbones, her stomach and her thighs, her draws her feet, crossed at the ankles and he draws her eyes. When she demands he warm her frozen model's body, they make love, and while she sleeps, he draws her face, peaceful and serene.

(Also not murderous.)

As they ride back on the train, on the Sunday afternoon, she reads Harry Potter aloud to him and he sketches with felt tip pens.

The colour has never been so vivid to him; he has never seen it so mad and vibrant.

In everything he draws, he watches her hair and adds heavy splashes of orange.


When they are back at home, they go out one night.

As they walk back to her apartment, he has finally prepared the moment to tell her he loves her, when the heel of her boot breaks.

She curses and hops around, and the time was lost.

She seems quite angry about the break, and as half the sole has worn away, she doubts any cobbler would be able to fix them.

He's admittedly disappointed, because he loves the way her legs look in those boots, and loves the way she loves them, but her distress seems rather unwarranted.

But maybe that myth about women's devotion to shoes was true- he'd just never seen Ygritte as being anything like Sansa.


Over the next few days, she stops trying to make love to him, and she becomes less responsive to his advances, more despondent. Pale with ongoing stress, and crabbily irritable, she claims it's because she's on her feet all day, and the little ballet flats she's now wearing are killing her. She otherwise doesn't complain, she rolls her lips tightly together. But he's waiting for her in bed one night, when she gets home from work. She dives under the duvet, letting in a waft of cold, unheated air attack him, and he feels her feet; half frozen in the early spring winds.

He offers, one night, to buy her a new pair of boots, but she will not accept, despite his best efforts of persuasion.


He goes north for the weekend with his father, because Arya misses him and has been picked on at school and she needs her brother, and he goes because he loves her.

Ygritte walks with him in her "crappy damn piss pot shoes" to the street corner his father's towncar is supposed to meet him at. He's concerned, to leave her on her own, with the mysterious, looming problem, and he can't keep the idea that it's him out of his head. It's her lunch break, and she's huddled inside her coat over the uniform that he's not ashamed to admit he loves her in. They're five minutes early, and with little persuasion they kiss.

As his fears stray with distraction, he doesn't care that they're in public, or they're making other people uncomfortable, because he knows that she doesn't give a damn and he loves her.

He's not sure how long they've been standing intertwined, when a foreign hand comes down on his back, they break apart and they're horrified to see his father.

"I'm not sure how long you've been doing that before I arrived, but the ten minutes I've been waiting in the car ought to be a sufficient farewell."

Jon begins to stutter something, lightly squeezing Ygritte's waist, but she pulls away from him.

He turns, surprised, and she avoids his father's gaze, giving a brief parting smile. She looks sad- almost sorry, and if he's not mistaken, there are tears in the corners of her eyes. He goes to ask her whether she's okay, but she turns away from him before hurrying down the busy street- and all but running as she reached the corner.

"I'm sorry." His father apologises profusely as the car pulls into the traffic, "I didn't realize she'd react like that- is everything okay?"

"I'm not sure…" Jon replies, worriedly staring out of the window.

He begs his father not to tell the others what happened- he'll sort it out, he tells Lord Stark; he'll see what the matter is.

Because he loves her like a crazed fool, and she was upset, and he wants to know what's worrying her.

She doesn't answer her phone all weekend.


When Robb sends him the photos, he doesn't want to believe it.

He walks into the kitchen of his city apartment on the Sunday evening holding his phone, a moment later it tings, and when he leaves the room he wants to die.

They can't be real, they mustn't be.

It can't be her, not Ygritte.

Not his Ygritte.

He storms over to Robb's apartment and hammers on the door, probably waking the neighbours, but he doesn't give a fuck, because his world is spinning and he feels like he's been clubbed over the head, and if he's not careful, tears will spill and never stop.

Half of him just wants to shrivel up and stop existing, and he doesn't even care that Sam was right about the melodrama.

Robb admits him inside, and Jon immediately accuses him of foul play.

The Smalljon and Theon are both there, and for once, neither are laughing or spouting innuendos.

Theon does not even tease him for his glassy eyes.

They all saw her, they all agree.

It was Ygritte- his Ygritte, in the hotel lobby with Robert Baratheon, her mouth that he kissed, and her arse that he gripped as they entered the elevator.

And now more so than ever, he just wants the world to stop, and he wants to freeze and never melt.


The next day he tells her it's over.

He goes to her home, and she sits on the bed they made love on, where he lost his virginity, and she listens mutely, passively, as he speaks.

He wants nothing more than to be loud and angry and shout and smash things, but all that comes out of his mouth is a quiet, steady voice, devoid of emotion.

He tells her that he loves her, that he wanted to be by her side forever, that she broke his heart and killed him, and on the inside he is empty.

He wants to call her a cold merciless bitch, but he can't bring himself to speak the words.

For once, she has nothing to say. She only whispers five words as he leaves.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow."


Thank your for reading this (I hope you enjoyed it) and Merry… Boxing Day/Happy Holidays!
Reviews welcome Xx