"Will He Howl For Me When I'm Dead, As Bran's Wolf Howled When He Fell?" Jon Wondered."

"Will he howl for me when I'm dead, as Bran's wolf howled when he fell?" Jon wondered."

"Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold … "

"Off in the distance, a wolf howled. The sound made her feel sad and lonely, but no less hungry. As the moon rose above the grasslands, Dany slipped at last into a restless sleep."

ugh my most fave account in the whole WORLD can I ask for bathing w Jon??? Doesn’t even have to be smutty (tho I wouldn’t complain) just like spending time with him after a stressful day, maybe a massage, maybe some ogling idk 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

most fave account in the world… you’re just saying that… [batting my lashes] absolutely u can!! thank u for the ask <3

jon snow x fem!reader, set after the battle of the bastards

jon’s not sure who’s blood he’s covered in anymore. dirt & grime cling to him like moths to a flame, and he’s exhausted — in all senses.

it’s emotional, being back in winterfell. it’s halls echo with the haunted laughter of the ghosts that once roamed them, and jon can almost feel the memories etched onto the bricks under his fingertips. how many feet have walked these halls?

he knows winterfell it’s just a castle, a place that’s been here & will remain here long after he dies. he knows it’s the people that make a place a home — knows the castle doesn’t take sides or have favorites of its inhabitants, but he can’t help the feeling of possession that licks up his spine. a strange sense of family, like the castle itself has been waiting to hold them all in its walls once more.

and, he feels a sense of pride. accomplishment. finally does he have back that which was taken from him and his family when the realm fell apart. he’s been guarding the wall for years, and he vows to guard winterfell with the same ferocity.

he thinks all this while he stands at the window of his old room, watching the banners of flayed men be cut down & replaced with direwolves. bolton’s, cut down. replaced by starks. a hot bath awaits behind him, waiting to wash his sins clean, but he hasn’t so much as looked at it yet. he feels so much, all of it all at once. grief, shock, pain, nostalgia — all which make his head spin.

the adrenaline of battle quickly disappears from his system, making his knees buckle as he leans against the windowsill. little black spots dance in his vision as he tries to regain his balance. rickon chipped a tooth on this sill, he thinks. the memory uncomfortably squeezes at his heart.

as his brain assesses he’s not in danger anymore, various injuries now come to light. the ache of his knuckles, bruised & wet with blood. whether it’s his or ramsays, he can’t be entirely certain. his legs hurt, his arms hurt; the cuts on his face scream as dirt mixes with the open wound. he can feel the plethora of grime in his scalp, and the strain of his hair being pulled back. he should- needs to be back out there, checking on his men, surveying winterfells grounds, helping with the cleanup — but he can’t do that until he gives his body some respite. he needs relief, but where does he even start?

he’s smoothing a hand over his jaw when the door opens, and he turns to see you. you exhale, visibly relaxing at the sight of him as you close the door. your eyes rake up and down his body, seemingly checking for any mortal wounds. he understands, you lost sight of each other as soon as the battle started. well, you lost sight of him as the entirety of the bolton army ran at him full speed.

“Sansa said you’d be here.”

albeit less than him, you’re covered in the aftermath of battle yourself. while relieved to see you, jon doesn’t have the energy to respond, meeting your eyes with a tired look & nodding. you smile at the sight of what he’s leaning against, moving to join him at the sanctuary of his window.

“Rickon chipped a tooth on this sill.”

when he thought of it, it hurt. but when you mention it, it only makes him smile — huffing out a breath of laughter.

“Aye. He did.”

you look out the window for a moment, relishing in seeing the stark banners hang once more, before reaching a hand up to cradle his cheek. you have it angled to not touch any of his cuts, and the small gesture makes him only fall more in love with you, if even possible.

you look at him for a moment, and then move to reach for jon’s gloved hand. he almost pulls back at the thought of sullying your clean hands with his own, caked with blood both metaphorically & physically — but he fails to realize you took lives today too. your hands are just as sullied as his own, but never in his mind will they be equal. either way, you don’t seem to mind, eager to reaffirm the idea that he’s okay by feeling him under your hands.

you begin to slide off his glove, and he winces at the exposure of his bloody knuckles. they’re bruised, skin partially cracked from the force he used to have a conversation with the bolton bastard. your brows pinch, muttering an apology as you toss the glove on the floor & move to take off the other.

he looks at you as you work, and he suddenly feels a surge of emotion. how lucky is he to have someone that understands him so? you know what he needs even when jon himself doesn’t, and he has to resist the urge to interrupt you by pressing a kiss to your temple. he settles on allowing the corners of his lips to quirk up in a small smile.

even in his gratefulness, he can’t help the thought that lingers in the back of his mind. the thought that he should be out there, tending to the wounded or helping in some other way (as if he wasn’t part of the fight to win back winterfell). anything other than remaining warm in the castle halls while there’s still work to be done. he can’t help himself, and eventually voices as much.

“I should be out there.”

“Sansa has it.” you say, not even glancing at him as you begin to fiddle with the buckles of his outer layer.

sansa. he thinks back to the spoiled princess that left winterfell, and now to the politically-savvy ruler that’s been left in her wake. from what he’s seen, she’s become strong, and if you say she has it — she has it. he selfishly relishes in letting someone else take the lead, even if only for a moment.

he feels exhaustion beginning to settle in, taking root deep in his bones. the prospect of you, a bed, and warm furs currently entice him more than any offer of gold or jewelry, but he knows it’ll be long before he can get what he desires. he decides to compromise, settling for the present until time calls for sleep.

once you get his outer layer off, he begins to strip himself bare. he has no care for you seeing him, you’ve both been as naked as your name day before the other countless times — who is he to hide from you now?

as the dirt, sweat, and blood that were trapped underneath his clothing get released, the reprieve is palpable. his skin appreciates its liberation from the suffocating fabric, beginning to assuage its protest.

eventually, he steps in, sinking into the bath & letting the hot water turn his mind off. his eyes flutter shut at the instant soothe it provides, and he’s thankful to have all his uncomfortable clothing off. his injuries sting at first, making him grimace, but they eventually calm down. he’s vaguely aware of you approaching behind him, moving to sit on the stool handmaidens usually use to assist their lord or lady.

your hands come to fuss with his hair, untying the portion of it that’s held back. the tension that snaps free from his head has his brows knitting, a shaky exhale falling from his lips. your hands run through his curls, lightly scratching at his scalp. the ache of it is delicious, and goosebumps litter his body at the feeling.

you look down at jon, a light smile adorning your face at the sight of his relief. watching the bolton army swarm him had your chest tightening, uncomfortably compromising any hope of air entering your lungs. you watched as ramsay paid his debt for his transgressions, as jon lost himself in his anger, and as sansa snapped him out of it. and truthfully, horribly, you’re just glad he’s alright.

you lean forward, resting a hand on the edge of the tub as your head leans against his own, tipped back. your other hand comes over his shoulder, finding purchase on any skin available to you. you’ve done this dance before — almost losing him, and then having to convince yourself he’s okay again. you can only do that by feeling him through your fingertips, greedily soaking up his touch like vultures during winter.

you both don’t need words. you became fluent in the language of your comfortable silence long ago.

you sit there for a moment, relishing in his presence, his touch, being in winterfell again. you look to the window, thinking of all there is to be done, and sigh. you need to get back out there. you press a kiss to his temple, then retract, moving to stand up. the water lightly sloshes around as jon looks at you.

you lightly caress the back of his neck, looking down at him. “I should return. Offer assistance where it’s needed.”

you move to walk off, but jon catches your hand. “You could join me,” he says. “If you like.”

you look to him, your gaze accidentally flickering to his chest. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you look away. you never did have any resolve when it came to jon.

you squeeze his hand, then turn to start undressing. you didn’t even realize how uncomfortable you were until you started shedding your layers, freeing your irritated skin. your head drops down, and you run your hands through your hair. gods. how long had you been fighting?

you don’t notice how jon’s gaze is trapped on you, mapping the expanse of your body. if he’s ever doubted the existence of the gods, your presence reaffirms that belief. you were hand crafted, created with the intention to embody beauty in human form. if you asked of him absolution, jon would pray — kneeling before you as his altar.

you discard your clothes, moving to step in opposite from him. you’re fairly unharmed, other than the few small bruises that litter your body. the hot water enveloping you is everything and more, and you mutter a “Gods..” as you sink in. jon’s gaze hasn’t left you once.

you sigh. “It’s strange. Being back.”

jon only nods, looking out the window, expression becoming distant as he recounts the experiences had in the safety of these walls. hide and seek games that lasted well into the night. sneaking into the kitchens. archery and sword training. nan’s old ghost stories. your shared first kiss.

the last thought has his lips quirking up in a smile, returning his sight to you only to find you already looking at him. he leans forward, arm outstretching for you.

“Come here.”

he reaches for you, and you oblige — letting him turn you around & pull you to his chest. the water sloshes as you both move, getting more comfortable than you’ve been in weeks.

his touch has always been grounding, anchoring you in a way you weren’t made to understand. right now, it’s just you and jon in your own world. no sickness, no death, no cruelty. only serenity, and you think you could stay in this moment forever. still, you know you can’t, and that the aftermath of battle awaits just outside the old wooden door.

but, for now, you both lay against the other — gaze trapped on rickons’ sill as the banner of the wolf flies once more.

baby agot jon is actually something that can be so personal

You guys really love toxic yaoi huh

the best thing about jon and sam's friendship is that aside from their core shared identity of being alienated within a classist patriarchal society, they have Nothing in common. sam spends the whole first jon chapter of acok nerding out over the sociopolitical signifance of a bunch of old maps and jon's response is "litcherally why does it matter as long as the rivers are in the same place, you sweet fool" they're like the medieval equivalent of nerd who likes lotr and jock who likes evanescence forming a deep affection on the basis of no one else understanding them.

Game of Funko Pops