.

.

There's no King of Winterfell and all surrounding their lands. Wardens, rulers, princes — that's gone. Jon never wanted a title, other than being called the trueborn son of Ned Stark. Even that now is unattainable by right of Jon's own Targaryen blood.

Last he remembers, Jon was heading up towards the ruins of Castle Black, finding a pony and carrying a small bag of rations. It may not be his duty, but Jon wanted to consider what is best to do about the Wall. He remembers, and then Jon doesn't remember much afterwards. Footsteps approaching. His skull ringing with pain. Blackness.

The next thing he knows, Jon stirs awake, sitting up from the bear-pelts underneath him. White as frost.

He flinches at the echo of a strike to the back of his head. The hut-walls made of unmortered stone. A long strip of dried animal skins serve as a entrance blowing in chilly, snowy wind. Tormund greets him, cheerfully, offering a horn of ale.

Jon slowly takes the drink, regardless of his confusion, gulping a mouthful.

"… Did you knock me out?"

"Aye," Tormund proclaims, his teeth grinning through his bushy, red beard. "Took you Beyond-The-Wall. It's where you belong."

"I'm not a woman," Jon says, smiling. His fingers rub over the irritated lump where Tormund must have hit him. He can't find it in him to be dismissive or upset about getting his unconscious body dragged out to Whitetree. They're in one of the tumbledowns, where the sod roofs leak and the packed-dirt floors never warm, despite having a smoke hole for their fires.

Tormund grunts, cradling the horn to himself.

"You're prettier than one."

He wags his eyebrows and Jon snorts, looking at Ghost waiting patiently beside him.

He's still no bigger than a larger wolf, his ear half-missed but healed over. His pearly-white fur matted. Jon clicks his tongue sharply, and Ghost responds, as if nothing has gone amiss, padding over and nuzzling against Jon's hand. Those bright red eyes shutting. as Jon shuts his, contently.

"Did you really think he wants to be without you?" Tormund's voice rises.

"I thought he would be safer…"

"Both of you are safe up here. With me." Jon opens his eyes, watching as the other man gruffly hugs an arm to him. Some nights have been darker and lonelier, and Jon remembers — he remembers the taste of strongwine on Tormund's wind-chapped lips, their tongues slippery and damp, Jon's bare arse speared open by thick, heavily oiled fingers. Being smaller than him, Jon found himself often pinned beneath him, or lifted, squirming down on the hot length of cock. Tormund never bragged about his salacious urges or anything they may have done together. Jon knew he never would. "You won't be safer anywhere else."

Jon nods, smiling harder and gazing up to Tormund's overly pleased expression.

The North lives in him.

"Suppose so."

"That's my little crow," Tormund murmurs, pushing a hand roughly inside Jon's tunic, breathing into Jon's ear and laughing.

.

.

GoT isn't mine. I'm wholeheartedly rejecting the idea that Jon would leave Ghost and I have a newfound love of JonTormund so this is HAPPENING. PLEASE ENJOY MY NONSENSE ONCE MORE. HI. PLEASE KEEP YOURSELVES HEALTHY AND RESIST THE PATRIARCHY AND VACCINATE YOUR CHILDREN. BLESS YOU.

((Want a request for GoT? I'm doing 100-500 word drabbles of any ship + any prompt until S8 ends. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a ship and prompt, as well if you want NSFW or SFW. The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you just read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))