Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Song of Ice and Fire, The World of Ice and Fire, nor the Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon franchises. I make no money from my writing, I do it for my pleasure and yours.
An additional point. The other stories I am updating are not on hold. This is only a short story of probably around 4 chapters at the most. I'm wanting to try writing fluff in my slightly better wording style as it will be a while before I get to write any in my other stories. This is a practice run. I hope you like it.
Jon
Jon Snow's weary steps echoed through the cold stone halls of Castle Black as he approached the entrance to the Lord Commander's chambers. The heaviness in his chest mirrored the burden of leadership that now rested on his shoulders, a mantle worn unwillingly after his resurrection. His plan, a simple journey south to find warmth, shattered like brittle ice against the harsh reality of the North.
Sansa's return, marked by the scars of torment, had thrust him into a new conflict. The war for Winterfell, their ancestral home, loomed ominously on the horizon. It was a battle they faced with grim determination, yet the odds stacked against them seemed insurmountable.
The door groaned open, revealing the dimly lit chamber within. Jon's gaze, a mix of weariness and resolve, shifted to Ghost, the colossal direwolf at his side. A silent understanding passed between them as Jon issued the command, "Ghost, stay. I wish to be alone."
The bond between man and beast, forged in the crucible of death and rebirth, resonated in the air. Ghost, a spectral guardian, had become Jon's silent sentinel, an embodiment of the loyalty that transcended the veil of mortality. The direwolf's watchful eyes mirrored Jon's own burdened soul.
The room, though sparse, bore witness to the weight of Jon's solitude. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering like the uncertain flames of their struggle. The taste of bitter anticipation lingered on Jon's tongue, a stark reminder of the impending conflict that awaited them.
The Lord Commander's chambers at Castle Black were a study in austere functionality, a reflection of the harsh environment beyond its walls. Stone walls, cold and unyielding, framed the space, their grey surfaces absorbing the dim light that filtered through narrow windows. The air carried a perpetual chill, a constant reminder of the unforgiving climate of the North.
The room itself was modest, furnished with essentials befitting the leader of the Night's Watch. A large, weathered desk dominated one side, strewn with maps and scrolls that charted the complexities of the realm beyond the Wall. The wood, worn with age, bore the scars of countless decisions and strategies.
A bed, simple and unadorned, occupied a corner of the chamber. Its linens, though clean, held the faint scent of the wilderness—a mixture of pine, snow, and the distant waft of wood smoke from the Castle Black hearths. The Lord Commander's nights were often restless, haunted by the weight of responsibility and the echoes of battles long past.
A hearth, set against another stone wall, crackled with a meagre fire. The flames danced in the darkness, casting wavering shadows that seemed to whisper tales of ancient mysteries and the ghosts of fallen brothers. The Lord Commander's chair, positioned near the hearth, bore the marks of wear from long hours of contemplation and command.
Sparse decorations adorned the room—a few pieces of weaponry mounted on the walls, reminders of the dangers that lurked beyond the Wall. A tattered Night's Watch cloak, proudly displayed, spoke of honour and duty amidst the desolation.
The atmosphere within the Lord Commander's chambers was one of solemnity, a sanctuary where the weight of leadership met the isolation of the frozen landscape. It was a place where plans were forged, decisions made, and the destinies of men intertwined with the fate of the realm. In this unassuming space, Jon Snow, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, once navigated the complexities of duty and survival, a lone figure in the vast expanse of the North. Now it was a place to find solitude.
The direwolf's imposing form settled near the entrance, a living embodiment of protection. Ghost's low growl warned off any who dared approach without Jon's permission. A silent pact governed the Night's Watch, and Ghost, in his vigilant stance, enforced it with primal authority.
Sansa, far from the icy confines of Castle Black, ventured into Moles Town on a mission of mundane necessity. Her absence, a stark contrast to Jon's solemn contemplation, underscored the vast expanse that separated them. The connection, though strained by distance, held firm in the shared struggles they bore.
Alone in the chamber, Jon grappled with the harsh reality of their circumstances. The taste of iron lingered in the air, a metaphor for the bloodshed that awaited them. The cold touch of the surroundings mirrored the chilling resolve in Jon's heart.
As the door closed behind him, the Lord Commander stood in the dim light, a solitary figure amidst the shadows. Ghost, a silent companion, remained at his side—a testament to the enduring ties that bound the living and the departed. In the quiet of his chamber, Jon Snow prepared for the war that awaited, surrounded by the echoes of a direwolf's steadfast vigil.
Sansa
The encounter with Littlefinger left Sansa seething. As she made the journey back to Castle Black from Moles Town, the snow-covered landscape seemed to mirror the chill that had settled in her heart. The silence enveloped her, a stark contrast to the storm within her mind.
The conversation with Lord Baelish echoed in Sansa's thoughts. Littlefinger, the master manipulator, had betrayed her once again. His feigned innocence, his claim of ignorance regarding Ramsay Bolton's sadistic nature, was a veiled deception. Sansa, with the wisdom gained from her turbulent past, saw through his intricate web of lies.
Littlefinger's machinations unfolded before her like a dangerous dance. He had orchestrated Ramsay's brutality, either intending for Sansa to endure the worst or anticipating her escape. In his twisted mind, he played the role of the benevolent saviour, a knight in tarnished armour, ready to rush to her aid or subtly support her quest to reclaim Winterfell.
The bitter taste of betrayal lingered on Sansa's tongue, a taste as cold and unforgiving as the Northern winds that swept through the barren landscape. She clenched her jaw, the tension in her muscles reflecting the anger that simmered beneath her composed exterior.
As she rode through the snowy expanse, Sansa contemplated the roles of her metaphorical knights. Lady Brienne, steadfast and true, stood as a beacon of honour and loyalty. Jon, with the burden of leadership on his shoulders, had become a protector she could rely on. They were her guardians, sworn to defend and shield her from the shadows that lurked in the North.
The frigid air stung Sansa's face, a physical manifestation of the emotional wounds inflicted by those she had once trusted. Winterfell, distant and draped in a blanket of snow, loomed on the horizon—a symbol of both her heritage and the struggles that awaited her.
In the quiet solitude of her thoughts, Sansa vowed to navigate the treacherous path that lay ahead. Littlefinger's deceptive game had only strengthened her resolve. She would not be a pawn in his schemes. With Lady Brienne and Jon by her side, Sansa Stark, the resilient daughter of the North, would reclaim her home and rewrite the destiny that had been stolen from her.
Jon
Jon's wearied frame sank into the hard wooden chair at his desk, surrounded by the starkness of Castle Black's command chamber. Maps sprawled before him, their intricate lines and symbols seemingly indecipherable, a puzzle that held the key to reclaiming his home. The silence of the room pressed in on him, a suffocating weight on his shoulders.
Hoping for a revelation, Jon's eyes traced the familiar contours of the Northern lands, his mind grappling with the strategic intricacies of the impending conflict. Yet, the solace he sought eluded him. The urgency of their predicament coiled within him, a relentless knot tightening with every passing moment.
Futility gripped him, a bitter taste on the edge of his thoughts. If he wanted clarity, he knew he had to uncoil the tension wound around his mind. A breath, a moment of respite, beckoned. Perhaps a few hours of sleep and a bath, a rarity at the Wall, would provide the mental reprieve he so desperately sought.
His gaze drifted to the tin bath in the corner, waiting to be filled. A luxury seldom indulged in the frigid halls of Castle Black. A rare warmth lingered in the water Sansa had used after her return. Tonight, after she had bathed, he would use her water for himself, even if it was a little cold. The thought brought a momentary ease to Jon's troubled mind. The bath would wait, a promise of comfort amid stark practicalities.
Deciding to surrender to the embrace of sleep, Jon acknowledged the weariness etched on his face. Sansa's absence at Moles Town granted him a temporary respite.
Memories stirred, childhood images of Sansa and Lady Catelyn, spending hours navigating the Winter Town market in search of materials. A quiet smile tugged at Jon's lips, a bittersweet reflection on the simplicity of those times. The market, once a place of familial warmth, now felt like a distant memory amid the looming shadows of war. If her procuring habits were like those sweet times, she would browse for a while longer. Gazing through the window, he estimated, his sister's equestrian skills, never the most impressive, and shopping habits, hinted at a few hours of solitude before her return.
The weight of Longclaw's swordbelt pressed against Jon's side as he loosened it, the familiar touch of Valyrian steel a comforting weight on his journey to undress. Layers of outer garments peeled away, revealing the stark simplicity of his under tunic, breeches, and boots. Each article of clothing, a shield against the unforgiving cold, was carefully folded and laid upon the table at the room's far end.
In the dim light, Jon approached the hearth, where embers flickered with a dying glow. He added another log, coaxing the flames to dance and cast shadows that played upon the stone walls. The warmth, a rare indulgence in the icy halls of Castle Black, enveloped him like a fleeting embrace.
As he reclined on the bed, Jon's thoughts echoed in the eerie stillness of the room. His eyes closed, shutting out the harsh reality beyond the walls. The descent into slumber proved elusive, the restlessness that had become a constant companion refusing to yield. His muscles, knotted like the tension in the North, resisted the embrace of true relaxation.
This respite, a momentary peace since his resurrection, felt alien and uncertain. Jon's shoulders carried the weight of unspoken burdens, the echoes of his journey beyond the veil. The tranquillity, like a fragile wisp of smoke, lingered in the room, teasing him with the promise of reprieve.
His mind, accustomed to the clamour of battle and the howling winds beyond the Wall, struggled to adapt to the quietude. Sleep, a sought-after sanctuary, seemed an elusive spectre, dancing just beyond Jon's grasp.
Jon's form rose from the bed, a fluid motion that spoke of the ease with which his body responded to his commands. He swung his legs over the edge, a tangible connection between the weight of the world on his shoulders and the solid wood beneath him. Elbows on his knees, he cradled his face in calloused hands, fingers tracing the contours of a beard now restored to a well-trimmed state.
The raven curls spilled over his hands, a cascade of dark strands that framed the weariness etched on his face. The unevenness, remnants of a ritualistic shearing by Melisandre during his resurrection, lingered as a visible reminder of the otherworldly ordeal he had endured. Jon's hand, a map of roughened skin and worn edges, navigated the familiar terrain, his fingertips grazing the strands that framed his face.
A sigh escaped from his lips, a release of pent-up tension carried on the exhale. The room, bathed in the soft glow of firelight, witnessed the Lord Commander's silent contemplation. The walls, adorned with shadows, stood as silent witnesses to the internal struggles etched in the lines of Jon's brow.
Once, a practice dummy had served as an outlet for the stress that clung to his shoulders. The rhythmic dance of blade against straw, a cathartic release for a mind haunted by the ghosts of battles past. But that avenue, like so many others, had been closed off since his resurrection. The world felt different, and Jon sought a new way to untangle the knots that coiled within him.
The alternative, a path not tread since his return, lingered in the recesses of his mind. The intimate act of self-soothing, a solitary ritual of physical release, beckoned as a distant echo from a time before resurrection. A complex mixture of reluctance and need tugged at Jon's thoughts.
Jon Snow had yet to indulge in personal pleasures since his return from the dead, the tumultuous circumstances denying him the privacy for such matters. Apprehension, a lingering shadow in his thoughts, whispering concerns he might not have returned fully himself. Despite waking with morning wood, the act of releasing his seed had eluded him since his resurrection, leaving an unsettling disquiet within.
His body, a vessel scarred by the touch of death and rebirth, felt out of sync. A dissonance lingered, and Jon grappled with the uncertainty of whether it was his physical form or the labyrinth of his mind that troubled him. In the stillness of his chamber, shadows cast by the flickering fire danced across the walls, mirroring the internal conflicts that played out within him.
The air, tinged with the scent of wood smoke, hung heavy in the room. The cold, an unwelcome companion, seemed to intensify rather than soothe, conflicting with the warmth that should have accompanied such a moment. Jon, standing in solitude, contemplated the intricacies of his being.
With a deliberateness born from both curiosity and a desire for self-assurance, Jon unfastened his breeches. The chill of the air, contrary to the warmth he sought, had an unexpected effect on his body. In the wavering glow of the fire, he moved towards it, a hesitant silhouette against the stone walls.
Taking himself in hand, Jon sought a connection with his own physicality, a test of whether certain aspects of his body still functioned in the manner they once had.
Sansa
Sansa's return to Castle Black happened sooner than she expected. The rendezvous with Petyr had been brief, and the market even more so. The choices were limited, a single stall offering goods, yet Sansa was able to secure some soap and two oils for her bath. One, claiming the scent of lemon, and the other of cedar. Jon would follow her into the bath, and the cedar's masculine fragrance would seamlessly meld with the lemon. A subtle balance to avoid stark contrasts in aroma. In her shopping expedition, she also found dark green velvet fabric and coloured cottons for embroidery, a reminder of the needlework she once practiced in the halls of Winterfell.
As the horse trotted to a halt in Castle Black's courtyard, Sansa surveyed the surroundings. The brevity of her meeting and the scarcity of goods meant she had been away for a shorter duration than expected. Time had proved a surprising ally. Her skills as a horsewoman, honed during the month-long journey after fleeing Ramsay Bolton, had undergone a marked improvement.
Dismounting gracefully, Sansa felt the ground beneath her boots—a tangible connection to the present and a stark contrast to the treacherous paths she had traversed. The courtyard, enclosed by the stone walls of Castle Black, resonated with a sense of stark austerity. The air carried a whiff of winter, a familiar bite that seemed less harsh after the gruelling months she spent on the road.
Sansa's gaze shifted to the bundle of goods she carried, a triumph in the face of limited options. The dark green velvet, a luxurious fabric, cradled against her. The promise of a bath with scented oils and the prospect of embroidery offered a respite from the weight of the world she carried.
Brienne, bearing an assortment of fabrics, soaps, oils, and beauty products, accompanied Sansa as they made their way to the allocated room, situated alongside Jon's. Despite having ceded the role of Lord Commander to Dolorous Edd Tollett, Jon continued to occupy the chambers, a testament to the complexities that lingered in the aftermath of his resurrection.
As they passed Jon's door, Sansa's gaze fell upon Ghost, the imposing direwolf, stationed faithfully as a vigilant guardian. This nightly ritual, a silent watch over Jon's chambers, had become a constant in the wake of his return, a testament to the unrest that haunted his nights.
Sansa's knees bent gracefully as she approached Ghost, her fingers gently tracing the fur under his chin. "Hello, boy. Is he in there?" Her voice, a soft murmur, carried a blend of familiarity and inquiry.
The direwolf, a majestic creature with eyes that glowed like rubies, responded to her touch with an affectionate nuzzle. Red eyes met Sansa's Tully blue gaze. Ghost's tongue lolled out in a display of contentment, an acknowledgment of the solace found in Sansa's presence.
Sansa rose gracefully, relieving Brienne of the shopping burden. "Do you mind opening the door for me?" she asked, her voice carrying the soft cadence of noble upbringing.
"Of course, my Lady." Brienne responded with her characteristic stoicism, opening the door. Once inside, her towering figure loomed as Sansa navigated the room.
"Is there anything else I can do?" Brienne said, her loyalty in both words and stance.
"You go rest for the day." Sansa insisted, her gaze meeting Brienne's with a reassuring warmth.
Brienne, ever the vigilant protector, voiced her concern. "And who will guard your room?"
"I'll be taking a bath in Jon's bedchamber. He will guard the solar. And outside will be a great white sentinel with teeth so large, no one will dare duel with." Sansa explained, her words painting a vivid picture of Ghost's formidable presence.
A shadow of discomfort passed over Brienne's features. "It isn't proper, you being in his bedchamber while he is in his solar."
Sansa, undeterred, met Brienne's gaze with a calm resolve. "Proper or not, Brienne, these are not times for strict adherence to propriety. We do what we must, to survive and find moments of solace in this world."
Sansa's laughter, a melodic cascade, filled the room. "The only private baths in Castle Black are in his bedchamber and that of the Maester's. Jon will stay in the solar. He is my brother. I trust him."
Brienne, standing tall in her armour, responded respectfully, "I wasn't saying he isn't trustworthy, my Lady. He's broods a bit, which seems natural, considering. I just think people might see it as improper."
Sansa, her expression a blend of defiance and pragmatism, countered, "I don't think the people here in Castle Black will care much for propriety." With a deliberate grace, she placed the shopping on her bed, the fabrics and scented oils creating a tableau of luxury against the backdrop of the austere surroundings.
"I'll take the oils and soaps to his rooms. If he is asleep, I shall leave them on the vanity table in his bedchamber." Sansa said, her movements purposeful and resolute. The air in the room, heavy with the scent of new wares. They held the promise of a brief interlude of comfort within the confines of Jon's quarters.
Brienne bowed respectfully, her departure acknowledged with a curt nod. "Goodnight, Brienne. I shall see you in the morning." Sansa's voice, both regal and warm, carried a hint of jest.
As Brienne turned to leave, Sansa couldn't resist a parting remark, her tone teasing. "Be wary of Tormund." The giantess responded with a growl, and the room echoed with the sound of her departure.
Sansa, left alone, gathered the oils and soap, a tangible reminder of the small luxuries in an otherwise harsh world. Stepping into the corridor, the stone walls of Castle Black whispered with the echoes of footsteps as Sansa made her way to the room next door. Ghost, the white sentinel, stood guard, his presence a reassurance that all remained undisturbed within.
Fingers traced the fur of the direwolf, a familiar gesture that spoke of unspoken bonds. As she entered Jon's solar, Ghost allowed her passage, a silent understanding forged through shared history. The room, dimly lit by the glow of a single candle, held an air of solitude. Sansa, acutely aware of the separation from Lady, felt a pang in her heart and a lump rising in her throat.
In the quiet confines of Jon's solar, memories of Lady, lost but not forgotten, surfaced like ripples on a still pond. The direwolf, a symbol of the past, lingered in Sansa's thoughts as she prepared to find a moment of solace in the presence of another loyal companion. Ghost, guardian of Jon's privacy, stood as a silent sentinel, a living reminder of the direwolf-shaped void that would forever mark Sansa's heart.
The fleeting shadow of sadness crossed Sansa's features as she quietly closed the door behind her. The weight of memories lingered, an unspoken ache for a direwolf lost in the annals of time. A stark reality of Lady's absence, a wound that never truly healed, cast a momentary gloom over Sansa's heart.
Yet, Sansa, resilient in the face of past sorrows, knew the delicate balance of solitude and companionship that defined Castle Black. The decision to leave Jon to his rest tugged at her thoughts, a logical course of action dictated by reason. The oils and soaps, intended for his use, should have found their place on the desk in his solar. Practicality urged her to adhere to the norms of propriety.
However, Sansa's intuition, a whisper of familial connection, told a different story. A desire to be present, to offer comfort in the quiet recesses of Jon's chambers, swayed her judgment. If he slept, she would wait; the warmth of his bedchamber offering solace as the night unfolded.
With the gentlest of touches, Sansa turned the handle and eased the door to Jon's bedchamber open. A breath held in anticipation, she stepped inside, her movements orchestrated with a careful precision born from familiarity. The room, bathed in a soft glow, revealed the intimate sanctuary that belonged to Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.