AN: Again, thank you to all you lovely people who reviewed! I'm really enjoying writing this story and I'm glad you are too!

Every Loyalty

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Chapter IX:

Eastwatch-by-the-Sea

Jon Snow had made a fool of her in that courtyard, but it reminded her that no matter how allowing he'd been with her so far, he was still a man who wouldn't tolerate challenge from a woman.

Larisa had mostly managed to avoid him throughout the voyage north, and she got the feeling he was respecting her desired distance. Willem continued to pester him with questions about his time on the Wall, and of the difference between wights and White Walkers—a trifling detail Larisa had little interest in, save that the mere idea of those things being real were beginning to take its toll in her dreams.

And now they were aiming to capture one.

Their ship arrived at Eastwatch with Ser Jorah Mormont, a follower of Daenerys, and Gendry, a bastard son of Robert Baratheon's that Ser Davos had befriended and found again in Fleabottom; he'd decided to join their cause, and Jon Snow.

Now the men and her brother sat in the common hall with a large man (one of the largest she'd ever seen, besides the Mountain). She soon recognized him as the red-haired Wildling leader who helped Jon take Winterfell back from Ramsay Bolton. Tormund, she'd heard him called.

"Isn't it your job to talk him out of stupid fucking ideas like this?" the Wildling grumbled.

Larisa was trying to set a pot of water to boil in the kitchens so she could devise a stew; they'd brought plenty of provisions from Dragonstone. But she could hear the talk clear enough from the next room over.

"I've been failing at that job of late," Davos said, resigned.

"How many queens are there now?"

"Two," Jon replied.

"And you need to convince the one with the dragons, or the one who fucks her brother?"

Larisa nearly snorted at the man's candor.

"…Both."

"You really want to go out there…again?" Tormund asked.

Larisa set down the knife she was cutting vegetables with. So Jon's not the only one to have fought…those things.

That thought eased her mind, if only slightly. Until the Wildling spoke again.

"You're not the only ones," he said. Larisa peeked out behind the door and saw them get up from the table. Tormund led them down a dark corridor, and she followed a good way behind.

They went into a dank room with several barred cells, a small prison. "My scouts found them a mile south of the Wall," Tormund explained. "Said they were on their way here."

"You're the Hound. I saw you once at Winterfell," she heard Jon say. And she chanced leaning in the doorway, just enough to see inside the cell. There were only three: the Hound Sandor Clegane, a man who wore a patch over one eye, and a surly third who had the look of a drunk only momentarily sober. They all looked like outlaws and thieves.

"They want to go beyond the Wall too," the Wildling said.

"We don't want to go beyond the Wall, we have to," said the one who wore a patch.

"Don't trust him," Gendry said. "Don't trust any of them. They're the Brotherhood, and the last thing their lord told them to do was sell me to a Red Witch to be murdered!"

"Ser Jorah Mormont," said the third, leaning forward in his seat. "I hardly recognized you. They won't give me anything to drink down here, haven't been feeling like myself."

"You're a fucking Mormont?" Tormund sneered. "Of the last Lord Commander?"

"He was my father," Jorah replied tightly.

"He hunted us like animals."

"You returned the favor, as I recall."

She watched silently as the men on both sides of those bars traded barbs with one another, all of them shifting back and forth with hands on hilts and tense posturing.

These are dangerous men, she thought. And she didn't feel safe among any of them, save the ones she knew.

Not that she'd come here to feel safe.

"Thank you kindly, lass."

Davos took the bowl of stew she offered gratefully. She knew Jon had been watching her as she served him. It made her spine prickle uncomfortably while she kept her attention on the task at hand. Ser Jorah and Gendry were polite enough, while Tormund and the men of the Brotherhood acknowledged her with mild curiosity; save for Clegane, who was more interested by the sight of food.

Willem pulled a face as he chewed. Uncertainty pricked at her then, wondering if she'd done something wrong to the meat.

"What're you scowling at?" she asked tersely.

Will grimaced. "What did you do to it?"

Larisa looked across the table to Davos, who was oddly silent, and Gendry, who did little to hide his reaction. Jon and Ser Jorah were perhaps better at keeping their expressions deceptively neutral, but she had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

It couldn't possibly be as bad as all that, though. She picked up a spoon and hesitantly tasted the broth.

And she nearly choked on it.

Bloody perfect, she wanted to sigh as deep embarrassment heated her face and neck, and she set the spoon back on the table before wiping her mouth on her apron.

"I'm…sorry," she said. "It seems my culinary efforts—"

"If that's what y' fuckin' call it," muttered Clegane. Beric Dondarrion, the man who wore a patch over his eye, sent him a sharp look behind her back.

"—still have much to be desired," she finished, dropping her gaze to her folded hands. Larisa spent her childhood learning from her mother what was required of the lady of a house, and she'd spent the better part of three years putting those lessons into practice at Golden Tooth.

Unfortunately, it entailed a lot of delegating. The truth was she'd known very little of menial work until she was forced to serve Sansa.

Tormund leaned towards her with a conspiring grin. "Guess you never had pig anus."

"E-Excuse me?" she stuttered, indignant. Davos shook his head as Jon gave the Wildling a warning glance.

"When you're freezing your balls off and close to starving, you gotta get creative," said Tormund. He raised the bowl to his lips and drank the rest of the broth down.

"Not enough meat, but it don't taste like a pig's shithole."

Perhaps months ago she would have been more offended by a Wildling's presence, let alone his crudeness. But after close to six months of travel among men, on land and at sea, Larisa settled on nodding, smiling a bit to herself in amusement.

And the meal went on, until the pot was empty and the bread on the tables were gone.

Larisa later stood with Will and Davos on the Wall, and watched Jon Snow march with those men out through the other side, into the wind and snow.

"Don't worry," Davos said. "He's come back from worse."

Larisa only pulled her coat tighter to herself and returned to the keep.

Eastwatch was smaller than Castle Black, according to Davos. But it still afforded a maester's study, where Larisa spent most of her time puttering about the old books left to rot. The Wildlings occupying the keep obviously weren't using them, but to be fair, much of the stock consisted of records, and most of it inane.

But eventually she came across one dusty tome on herbology for healing, among other practices. It was detailed as it was advanced, and somewhat hard to read, but it gave her something practical to think about. Maybe it would make her more useful than a scullery maid.

She decided to keep the book for herself, often writing small notes in the margins to remind herself of the herbs' uses.

That night, when she thought the frigid cold would eat her alive, she drew herself up a steaming bath. Desperately, she missed summers at Casterly Rock, the warm beaches there. She missed the view of the ocean from her chamber window, and her garden that bloomed wonderfully with wildflowers.

She missed her mother's soft singing voice, which had often filled the halls. Larisa still remembered the songs that lulled her to sleep as a child. She even missed her father, and Lancel, before the war when their brother Martyn still lived, and her family was still a family. She knew she would never have that life again, even if she were to return home…

And against her will, she thought of Jon Snow, out in the middle of that seemingly never-ending expanse of ice and mountain range. Her rational mind knew those men might not come back alive. He might not.

But…she wanted him to.

She wanted him to. He was a good leader, and a good man, no matter what doubts he had of her. He'd made that very clear at Dragonstone.

"And what will your people do if the Night King butchers you?"

"I should think you'd be relieved."

And still…still she couldn't forget the memory of his strong hand gently holding hers in the dark. Or pressing her against the wall along with his body.

She lowered her own farther into the scalding bathwater.

If she closed her eyes she could feel it now, the back of that hand brushing her cheek. It traveled the length of her neck, and between the valley of her breasts to graze them. Those fingers would slide down her slick skin, past her navel, and down below the water.

Larisa's own fingers dipped inside, relieving the need she felt like a dull throb. But there the daydream became hazy enough that she couldn't bring herself to finish.

It felt wrong, somehow, to imagine him touching her.

He wasn't hers, and would never be. Nor should she want him…a man, and for now a king, she reminded herself…a man who would never make a wife of a widow.

Larisa was in the kitchens preparing the midday meal when her brother burst in, claiming that Davos needed her help.

She hurried to the sleeping quarters where Davos and Tormund's Wildlings had set down poor Gendry, who looked frozen solid. Icicles were only now melting from his beard; his hair dripped into his eyes and he shook like mad while Davos heaped blankets on him.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"They were surrounded," Davos answered for Gendry, who at the moment was hardly conscious.

"By wights?" Davos nodded affirmatively. Larisa's lips pursed as she looked down at Gendry. "And how did he escape alone?"

"Jon sent him back here so we could get a message to Daenerys. The raven's likely already on its way."

Despite any lingering misgivings, Larisa stayed with Gendry that night. She applied cloth soaked in hot water to his chest and forehead until he at last stopped shivering. By morning he had regained a bit of color to his pale skin, and Larisa felt it safe to let him sleep in peace.

She climbed the stairs that led up to the top of the Wall, where Davos stood with the Wildlings watching the ground below from their posts.

"Have you eaten?" she asked him. The man glanced back at her briefly.

"Have you slept?" he returned. She gave a wan smile. The truth was she felt her weariness in her bones almost as powerfully as the bitter cold, but the worry that roiled in her chest would hardly let her sleep now.

And that hardly changed when two of Daenerys's dragons roared in approach, flying down from the skies and over the Wall to land at the base of Eastwatch. From their vantage point, Larisa could see the silver-haired Dragon Queen, and a few of the men that had set out the morning before—at least, all of the ones she knew by name. Save for one.

When they too reached Daenerys on the ground, Davos wasted little time in pleasantries.

"Where's Jon?"

Larisa watched the queen's face, which did little to hide her regret, and grief that made her blue eyes look sunken.

"He fell," she said.

"Where?" Larisa pressed. She had never addressed the other woman directly before, and certainly not so pointedly.

Daenerys straightened, if only somewhat, and she answered, "A frozen lake, surrounded by…those things."

"Did he surface? Did you see him?" Davos asked. She was silent for too long.

"I don't know," she said.

"And you left him?" Larisa said. Daenerys met her gaze then, held it sharply, if not with much heat.

"I had no choice."

Jon could no longer feel his face or his limbs, even though he knew that his left arm once blazed with pain. He hardly had the strength to hold onto the large horse that carried him swiftly through the snow, over rolling hills and the barren expanse of the far North. Not that he could see it; he'd been in and out of conscious for the past several hours.

Seldom few thoughts were able to take root in his mind either, besides the memory of Uncle Benjen's face, oddly pale and sad. But he'd been ready to face that hoard of wights that surrounded him on all sides. Ready to die.

Jon felt he was ready to die as well. He'd more than done his part, and if this was where his second life ended…

When he was able to open his eyes again, it was to a hazy view of Tormund and Davos, carrying him inside the belly of a large ship. His ship.

He hadn't the strength to move an inch of his body, but he felt the thick furs that piled on top of him. His eyes were getting heavy again as some prickling warmth started to thaw his skin.

And then there wasn't Tormund, or Davos, or anything at all.

Eastwatch and the Wildlings became a fading memory behind them when their ship began to set sail for King's Landing. Once again, Larisa found herself sitting at a frozen man's bedside, this time trying with all her might not to become ill herself.

Ships rocked far worse belowdecks it seemed, but it couldn't be helped. She sighed, staring down at him with a dark frown.

It was just like this man to create such a fuss.

Her gaze traveled from his face, down over the thick blankets that she now knew covered a series of dreadful scars.

Davos helped her dress the few cuts she found, with the help of the herbs she'd read about in that dusty old book. The herbs she'd found in a hidden store in the maester's chamber, but she hardly knew if what she was doing was right; there was a less than subtle difference in reading about something and trying it out on a living person.

"His shoulder is so heavily bruised," she prodded gently at the purplish skin there. "Should I bandage it?"

"No need, I think. Nothing appears to be broken," said Davos. "Best just to let him rest."

Larisa couldn't help but hesitate, the tips of her fingers ghosting over the terrible marks that marred the man's chest and abdomen. She stopped at the one over his heart.

"These were not shallow wounds," she said softly. She finally looked up at Davos in horror.

"Who…what did this to him?"

Davos's eyes shifted away from her, nervously, and in that moment Larisa knew he was keeping a grave secret. And he had been, for a long while.

Larisa locked her gaze with his, refusing to let him lie to her. "Tell me."

The sound of his shallow breathing roused her from those thoughts. Larisa sat up in the hard, wooden chair that had been carving notches in her spine, and she took the lukewarm cloth from his now damp forehead.

"Lara." Jon's voice was coarse with disuse, his eyes dark with confusion and pain. She sat on the edge of his bed and tried to smile as she swallowed past the lump forming in her throat.

"We're heading south now, to the capital," she told him. "Tormund will stay at Eastwatch, but we have the wight. You were successful."

She didn't think he entirely understood her. He still looked unfocused, not altogether present of mind.

"How do you feel?" she asked tentatively.

Jon shook his head. "I saw…Benjen...Uncle Benjen. He was alive."

Larisa briefly held the back of her hand to his cheek, and found it overly warm. Likely he was fevered, disoriented. She shushed him gently, blinking back the tears welling up. All the while she inwardly scolded herself for it; the man was, and would be just fine. There was no need for her to lose control of herself so easily.

"Don't move so much," she stopped his attempt to rise and get out of bed. "You injured your shoulder, as well as nearly froze to death."

Jon blinked a few more times, and suddenly his gaze seemed to focus on her face, a touch of clarity out of the haze of fever. He nodded, allowing her to settle the blankets more securely over him. She was forced to lean close for a moment, her cheek mere inches from his as she adjusted the pillows behind his head.

"Thank you," he said, a tired, gravelling whisper in her ear. She leaned back in surprise, just far enough to look back at him. He sighed, and glanced down at her hand that rested near his on the bed.

Jon eventually reached out and held it for a moment, smoothing the back of her warm hand with his thumb.

It was too…familiar. Too much.

Larisa quickly tried to ease away, "Your grace—"

"Jon," he corrected.

But the strength behind his eyes soon faded, along with his grip. She waited until he finally slept before she was able to reclaim her hand.

Instead, she brushed back his hair away from his face. Despite the quiet voice inside which reminded that she shouldn't, Larisa pressed her lips to his sweating forehead in a soft kiss.

"Sleep well," she smiled. "You brave fool."