AN: I know this took me a while, but I wanted to see where they took the rest of the season before I started back up with this. Like the rest of the world, I wasn't...entirely...satisfied with how they ended things. So there will definitely be deviations here and there going forward.

Every Loyalty

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Chapter XI:

All That Matters

Jon had lost count of the battles he'd faced. He'd grown used to pushing his body past the limits of what was probably considered sane by any normal means (like he was a judge of what could be considered normal, anyway). It had been a long while since he was given the luxury of considering what was sane and respectable, in the name of pushing forward. Surviving until the next.

But maybe he shouldn't have been that surprised when his shoulder all but gave out on him after blocking a strike from Grey Worm's spear. The strength behind the hit wasn't particularly overwhelming compared to what Jon knew the Unsullied commander was capable of; they were only sparring, both for maintaining their sharpness and to pass the time these past few weeks at sea, on route to Winterfell.

But Jon was forced to play it off as the spear's blade glanced off his sword. He twisted to avoid the next strike that cut the air beside him, and he managed to slip past one more before their weapons met again in a clang of metal against metal. The impact shook through him, eliciting a lance of pain up his right arm. Jon gritted his teeth as he fought through it, and with a final shove that pushed both men back, Grey Worm spun his spear in his hand to bring the end of it down with a heavy sound that echoed across the deck of the ship.

They parted after a final nod of respect, and those that had stood watching resumed their duties aboard the ship, or otherwise filtered away from the scene. Jon also nodded to each of his men that similarly greeting him before he made his way down belowdecks.

Shielded by the partial darkness the hall afforded him, he leaned against the wall and reflexively cradled his right arm with his left, letting out a long breath through his nose. Not that it helped relieve the sensation of pure fire lighting up where bone met the joint and muscle of his shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

The dryness in her voice nearly made him smile, despite himself. He glanced up at Larisa, who stood on the steps leading down to the cabins. The sunlight pouring in behind her framed her unimpressed frown with a contrast that, to him, just made perfect sense.

"Nothin'," he said. She didn't seem convinced.

Raising a brow, she turned on her heel and said, peering back at him, "I'll be back with a salve."

Jon held in a sigh. After a moment's hesitation to decide whether or not he wanted anyone's attention just then, even hers, he eventually trudged over to his cabin at the end of the long hall.

True to her word, Larisa knocked before she entered with a small bowl and several strips of cloth. She sat beside him on the edge of his bed, as she had done in the days after he nearly froze in the Far North, on the voyage leaving Eastwatch for Winterfell.

Her hands were more confident now, undoing the buttons securing his leathers and helping him out of his tunic while trying to move his shoulder as little as possible.

"It doesn't look inflamed, at least," she muttered, and began applying the salve. "If you didn't throw yourself around so recklessly…"

Jon saw her concern for what it was, in her chiding tone and the concentration that wrinkled her brow.

"You really are a kind woman," Jon said, mostly serious.

Her gaze flicked up to his. He was all too aware of their closeness, her hands on his bare skin that she was even now refusing to look at. She couldn't escape his eyes though, and he was sure that if he stopped restraining himself and touched his hand to her cheek, it would come away burning.

"And you are insufferable," Larisa said at last. His fingers turned her chin up to him.

"Careful," he warned, moving in to close the distance between them. "you're speakin' to your king."

"I know to whom I speak." Her grin softened the bite in her voice, but at the last moment she ducked out of his grip to stand at his side. She reached for a few strips of cloth and wrapped his shoulder carefully.

"Now that you've bent the knee to Daenerys, are you still yet a king?" she asked, but the words were barely out of her mouth before Jon dragged her down by her hips across his lap, pinning her there with a grim smile. The only way to steady herself was to cling to his left side, her free hand on his naked chest, and she was forced to stare directly into the intensity of his dark eyes.

Slightly chastened, she changed tactics.

"You'll injure yourself further if you don't let this heal properly," Larisa said. She brushed his bandaged shoulder gently with her fingers.

"What will you do if you lose the use of this arm when it matters?" she asked.

"I won't live long if I don't use it," Jon countered. His gaze slid down the view he had of her dress, down the gold chain that hung from her neck down to the tops of her breasts, then back up to her lips. He hadn't tasted her in weeks.

A nagging thought towards the back of his head reminded him that it was the middle of the afternoon and someone might soon demand his attention.

But Jon felt her fingers coil in his hair, nails scraping lightly against the back of his neck, and it was enough. His kiss was more bruising than he intended, but she met him with the same and moved to straddle his hips.

"You still want this?" she asked against his lips. His brows furrowed in confusion.

"What?" he managed coherently.

"Me," she amended, pressing one more lingering kiss to his lips before she settled back enough to see his face while she caught her breath. "You want me?"

Jon's mind and blood were too immersed with the prospect of having her in his arms that her words almost didn't register. It took a moment for him to truly understand what she was getting at. Finally though, seeing the small shred of vulnerability she was trying to hide behind a flushed, but mostly blank expression, his heart softened.

He reached her with a kiss while his hands moved under her dress to grip her thighs and bring her flush against him, so he could show her rather than having to put in words the effect she had on him. Jon took full advantage when her mouth opened in a small gasp against his; he ran his tongue over her bottom lip before he claimed it.

All the while his fingers worked to rid her of the dress, finally getting at enough strings to loosen it from the top and slide it up and over her head. His pants were not far behind, but by that time Larisa had pushed him onto his back. She lowered herself, trailing her soft hands down the length of his body, until Jon was forced to grip her shoulders, groaning as he dropped his head back against the headboard with a loud thud.

Larisa laid tucked against his left side afterwards, toying with the pendant that hung from her chain. Jon knew it had value to her beyond a piece of jewelry; she'd had it since he first met her, and to his memory had never taken it off.

"Did someone give that to you?" he asked.

"My mother, before I left Casterly Rock."

That fell between them as her eyes grew heavy, with what he assumed was at least some sadness, if not exactly regret. They hadn't spoken about her decision to come north since that night, and he wouldn't force her to again.

Instead, he took her hand with the pendant, feeling the craftwork edges for himself. Larisa sighed, resting her other hand over his and stroking his knuckles.

"Whatever this is…it's not a good idea," she said. Jon chuckled.

"We're a bit past that now."

"Your people would hang me if they knew," she pointed out.

"I doubt it's you they'd be hanging."

She turned to him sharply then. "Is this a joke to you?"

Jon silenced her by pressing his lips to hers—the only surefire way, and the best he'd come up with as of yet.

They eventually parted though, their panting breaths mingling between them. Jon knew too well the last time he'd felt something like this, and there was a great deal about it that scared the shit out of him. It was the worst timing and the most inopportune situation. But unfortunately, he'd never been one for caution.

"None of that matters," he said.

"Doesn't it?" Larisa scoffed incredulously. After a moment, a smile tugged at Jon's mouth.

"Can't say I thought you'd be shy."

Maybe shy wasn't the right word, but it was worth it to see her indignant again, pursing her lips with that haughty, slight up tilt of her chin.

"This is something new to me," she said, surprising him with her honesty.

Though he asked, "What is?"

She never answered him properly, only turning her body toward him to lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth, his jawline, and where his neck met his shoulder before he stopped her to return her affections.

But later her silence would linger in his mind.

There was a fair amount that she didn't say. From what Sansa had told him of her experiences in King's Landing, he could only assume Larisa had a similar upbringing. Unlike himself, she'd been taught not to trust. Not even her own family.

But for everything she didn't say, Jon had a feeling he was finally starting to piece it together.

Willem could've kissed the snowy ground when they finally arrived at Winterfell. He decided if he ever had to step foot on another ship again, it would be too soon.

All the Northerners were gathered outside the gates to meet them, but if he had to guess, they were probably there to see Queen Daenerys. Her white hair made her stand out next to Jon, and they were surrounded by her forces on both sides.

Will knew what their sheer numbers looked like; he remembered his father once brought Will and his brother Martyn to see his uncle Tywin's army, at the start of the war. Thousands of golden-armored men moving like one massive weapon—it almost hadn't seemed real to his eyes.

So he could admit that just being a part of the spectacle of the Dragon Queen even in some small way made him sit a bit taller, especially when her two dragons soared overhead and struck fear in their spectators. Though he still did his best to stay close to Davos and Jon when they entered the gates. He glanced over at his sister and noticed her staring ahead and Jon and Daenerys.

There was something strange about Larisa lately. On the ship she'd often disappeared into her cabin at odd points in the day, and once straight after dinner. He'd been left to clean all the dishes and toss the remains by himself, but when he demanded to know just what the hell she'd been doing, she gave some excuse about having to speak with Tyrion. Will couldn't remember why, exactly.

But he didn't have the time to think more of it. They were meant to dismount their horses and meet Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell. She looked as cold as ever when she welcomed Daenerys, and colder still when her eyes roamed over him and Larisa before she turned to watch Jon embrace a boy who sat in a large, wheeled chair beside them. He heard Jon call him Bran, and suddenly Will felt stupid for not recognizing the crippled Bran Stark.

There was one more who had yet to appear, the other sister, if he remembered right. He looked around the crowd of Northerners again, as if he would know who she was even if he did somehow spot her.

"Come on," Larisa whispered to him as she tugged on his elbow. He was tempted to fight her grip out of annoyance, but thought better of it as they moved into the great hall. He took a seat next to Davos and his sister and tried his best to stay quiet while Lyanna Mormont and Sansa Stark questioned Jon's decision to support Daenerys.

The way Will saw it, he'd had no other choice. It wouldn't matter who sat in a dusty old chair with a crown on their head when the White Walkers were coming. And after what he saw at the Dragon Pit, that thought terrified him more than anything.

The meeting dragged on after that, and Will lost interest. He stared aimlessly out the large windows until it finally ended, and with no tasks from Davos, he was able to take his training sword outside into a small clearing and practice the techniques Jon had taught him.

"You'll get yourself killed with a wide swing like that," a voice interrupted him, and his concentrating, making him trip a bit in the snow. He whirled around and saw a girl, barely taller than him with mousy brown hair that brushed only a little past her shoulders.

But she didn't dress like a girl. She wore leathers like a man, and there was something about the way she stood with her hands folded behind her back, along with a bored expression on her face, that irritated him on sight.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarked.

She slowly paced around him, taking a long, scrutinizing look at him as she went.

"You're scrawny. You'll be fighting people bigger than you for a long time," she observed, quirking a brow.

Her smile was easy, and somewhat sharp. "Not for that long if you don't tuck in those elbows."

Will brought his arms in reflexively, but still glared at her. He spied the short, thin weapon strapped to her belt and narrowed his gaze.

"What do you know about sword fighting with that little—"

All he could do was suck in a breath and tense up as the blade was suddenly thrust less than an inch between his eyes.

"You should choose your words more carefully," she said. "Anyone is capable of anything."

"Don't be so hard on him." Jon approached from behind Will.

"He's a scrapper like you," he added.

The girl smiled, and Will finally realized just who he was dealing with; the resemblance was there between them, as it was between Bran and Sansa.

With a last deep nod to Jon, Will made his leave to give the siblings their privacy. It must've been years since they'd last seen each other, and he'd rather not watch such a private moment.

He knew enough of what that was like, anyway.

Once again, Larisa struggled to keep her temper leashed as she bowed her head to Lady Sansa. She sat primly at her writing desk with her chin resting in her hand. Larisa's former handmaiden, Martha, stood behind her.

"My Lady in Waiting," Sansa drawled. "It seems you've made use of yourself to my brother."

Despite the barb, there was nothing in her face or her tone, mocking though it was, that suggested she knew the truth. Of course, Sansa had implied once that Larisa's motives for joining Jon's expedition south was to get closer to him, to manipulate him. While that wasn't true, as bad as it would be for Jon if his people knew he'd bedded a Lannister as well as bent the knee to a Targaryen woman, it would be worse for Larisa if she gave away anything to his siblings. Evidently, to Sansa especially.

"Martha's filled your role suitably," Sansa continued. "I no longer have use for you."

Larisa had been biting the inside of her cheek in order to hold her tongue, but it was becoming exceedingly difficult.

"I haven't yet seen your shadow, Lord Baelish. Did you persuade him to return to the Eyrie?" she asked, if only to strike a nerve.

"I had him executed on grounds of treason," Sansa replied. Her mouth curved in a telling smile. "For his crimes against my family, and to me, my sister Arya slit his throat after he was denounced before the Northern lords."

Larisa held in her shock behind a neutral expression, or at least, as neutral as she could manage with such an image in her head. Sansa's threat was evident in her pointed stare.

"Garda may have use of you in the kitchens. You're free to report to her."

Sansa turned her head away from her to inspect an open letter in front of her, and Larisa knew a dismissal when she saw one. She forced herself into a curtsey and left Sansa's chambers.

Anger and indignation fought with her anxiety, roiling inside her as she contemplated going to the council room, where she knew Jon was meeting with Davos and Tyrion. It was all too tempting a prospect to demand Jon intercede and speak to his sister.

But Larisa knew that would be no easy solution. If she was ever to incur favor with Sansa, it wouldn't be through forcing her hand, or by using Jon; in that case, she would play directly into Sansa's hands. And more, Larisa would be exactly the creature that the Lady of Winterfell believed her to be.

She made her way to the kitchens and eventually found Garda: a middle-aged woman graying at the temples, and a heavy gait. She was sweating over a large iron pot of stew that she stirred with a large wooden spoon.

"By the gods, what use would I have for a skinny wretch like you?" she lamented, but she couldn't exactly ignore an order from the Lady of Winterfell. She paused in her stirring long enough to grab one of Larisa's hands and inspect it. One of her thin brows rose.

"Well, well. Not exactly useless, then."

Larisa considered her hands, which once were soft and properly refined and maintained. Now they were slightly rough and somewhat boney from months of toil for Jon's men.

"They're strong enough to strip hides from the rabbits," Garda said. Larisa followed the older woman's gaze to the far table stacked with the game hunted just that morning.

Larisa felt ill at the sight. "You can't be serious."

"Certainly you've stripped a hide before."

"Not quite."

"Well then, my dear lady," Garda smirked, "better late than never."

Larisa positively simmered as she withstood Garda's instructions on how to properly strip the animal. Hours later, her back ached something fierce and her hands and apron were stained with blood. Though when she was able to wash herself and begin serving out the midday meal, there was something gratifying about seeing so many men, women and children there together. Eating, telling stories, laughing together over a simple meal that she had helped prepare. It was a far cry from that first day at Eastwatch, when her first attempt at cooking for Jon's men and the Wildlings had gone so horribly wrong.

And in that moment, it didn't matter that these were not her people, and she would likely never be one of them.

With that sobering thought, Larisa got up to bring her dishes back to the kitchens. She stopped just shy of the doorway, where Jon Snow was aiming to leave as well. Both of them froze, until Larisa had the presence of mind to bow her head in respect.

"My lady," he said. His voice was neutral enough, but the gravel in it caressed her spine, sending a near shiver tingling along her skin. She reminded herself that she couldn't outwardly react; already she could feel eyes from those in the dining hall watching their exchange.

"Are you faring better here?" he asked. It was a fairy patronizing question, considering they'd both known full well that his sister wouldn't make things easy for her. Larisa restrained the urge to voice complaint at being made so low as a scullery maid; this was not the place to argue.

"I'm faring better on land, than at sea," she replied, smiling a little. "I imagine preparations for fortifying Winterfell are progressing?"

"Queen Daenerys and I'll be checkin' on that now, actually."

They looked out to the snow-covered courtyard to Daenerys, who was already astride her horse and waiting for Jon. When he looked back at Larisa, she read in his eyes the apology he couldn't say aloud. She tried at a smile and gave another low curtsey, allowing him to take his leave.

She watched him go out to greet Daenerys, and Will who brought Jon's horse. As the two rode out of the gates of Winterfell together, Larisa gradually recognized that a pinprick of jealousy was beginning to turn her stomach. Almost immediately, she refused to acknowledge something so vapid and pointless. But the thought remained, nonetheless.

Larisa sighed heavily and turned back to resume her duties with Garda.

Oh, how she loathed the North.