i. Jon knows the person before him to be a woman even before she screams in a distinctively female voice. "No! Don't kill him!" she begs, covering the old crow's body with her own slight frame. His face twists in compassion, but the man she protects would likely wish to die rather than become their prisoner.
His companions are prepared to cut her throat and get her out of the way. He can see the sword coming down, and at the last moment he decides to act, deflecting the blow. "She's mine." So instead of having her head cut off, she's heaved onto his shoulder, struggling and kicking.
ii. "You southrons are a strange lot," Jon says, staring into the eyes of his would-be killer. "I spared your life and this is how you replay me." There is no outrage in his voice, rather it is wonder.
Lyanna Mormont's eyes sparkle in the dim firelight. She holds onto the knife she's managed to pull off of some unsuspecting man. "You've let him die. My uncle. You've murdered him." There are no tears.
"I did not touch him," he contradicts her softly. "It was you I fought and you I took as mine."
"I'm not yours," Lyanna protests, the weapon closing in on his neck, a breath away from drawing blood.
He kisses her, uncaring of the wound he just inflicts upon himself.
iii. Soon enough she's wearing one of his furs over her shoulders to protect her from the cold. The only thing she has left of her stay with the crows is a pair of black boots and the piece of a black cloak that she's strangely protective of. Even so she has no problem sliding under the covers with Jon when the night falls.
There is one thing she is grateful of. The wildling never tries to touch her. Despite the fact that he claims she is his and he may have his will of her if he so wishes, he hasn't tried even once to do anything more than warm.
iv. Blood falls on the ground, and Jon skillfully ducks out of the way after having delivered his blow. His opponent falls to the ground. Lyanna has half a mind to tell him to stop as he continues to rain punches down on the man, seemingly preferring his fists to his other weapons. Alas she has enough trouble getting up from the ground, and no real desire to save the man's life.
When he's done, Jon climbs off and wipes the blood away from his hands. He pays no attention to the curious onlookers. Instead he steps towards Lyanna and hauls her up. "Get inside," he growls, his too serious face touched by a sort of wildness she's not yet seen in him. He pushes her in front of him, the people parting to make way for them.
Later after he's left her huddled under the furs in their hut, she hears his voice outside. "Anyone daring enough to touch her will share the same fate. She's mine." And this time it brings a thrill and not dread.
v. "Summer child," Jon whispers in her hair as she shivers even wrapped in his arms. "Southrons." Though he says it teasingly, without malice.
"I am not of the South." They've had this conversation over and over. She tells him she's from the North and he dismisses her words with a lazy smile.
"You are a summer child. And a southron." But he kisses her all the same. "And mine. You are my southron summer child," he presses on, pulling her tighter against him.
And because she recognizes the truth in his words, Lyanna allows him more than kisses and tentative touches for the first time.