.

and high above the world below
it seems we left our mark
take my hand tonight
we'll leave our troubles in the dark
josh healey, when the wind blows

They lasted the summer.

By the time the leafs turned red and brown and yellow, Ygritte began to squirm in his arms at night, moved away from him instead of seeking warmth. She suddenly grew quiet and weary, and when she did talk to him, her usual mockery was filled with a venom Jon did not recognize. She made up more and more excuses not to spend time with him, ignored his calls and messages. When he kissed her, she ended it quickly.

The right moment had come and gone, Jon knew it deep down. But he held on, anyway. Fought his way through each minute, each day. Fought for them, because the fear of losing her, losing another person he loved, was, even in theory, much more than he could handle.

But everything was different. She was different, and with that, he changed, as well.

Suddenly, it seemed to matter that he was a Stark. In a last attempt to win back the affection he seemed to have lost for a shadowy reason he could not uncover, he invited her to Arya's birthday, remembering how much they had liked each other, and the night ended with smashed plates and hateful screams.

What are you even doing? she yelled at him, not even waiting for an answer as she furiously scrubbed a plate. You grew up in that big ass castle of yours and you're going to that posh school and what am I doing? What do you even want from me?

Somehow, she seemed to accuse him and Jon choked on his words, clueless to what had happened between them. That night, he grabbed his clothes and what little other possessions he kept in her flat and carried them out the door with tears gathering in his eyes. This was what he had been afraid of all along.

He sat by the side of the road for a long time, wondering if he made the wrong decision. But he could still feel the dull ache where the plate had smashed against his back and the agonizing burn of holding back tears.

He loved her. And now it filled him only with pain. He loved her. And she never even knew.

.:.

He had always been a miserable, poor excuse for a guy his age. A loner who spent more time with his freak dog than with the few friends he did have. A motherless boy who had never really belonged anywhere. A virgin, the quiet, sullen guy in the corner who would rather bury his head in the sand than talk to anyone. Awkward, shy, stubborn and jealous. Eddard Stark's bastard son, privileged and spoiled, a loser who was best friends with someone like Sam Tarly.

And then Ygritte had come along.

He changed with her. Laughed with her, let her open his eyes. She taught him, more than he ever really understood while they were together. He had touched her, kissed her in places that flushed his cheeks when he remembered. She was his key to a whole different world. He had never belonged there, either - in Ygritte's world. Only alone with her by his side did he feel like he finally belonged somewhere. Now she was gone, and he was lost.

Life without her was even more miserable than life before her had been.

He did not want to leave his room, skipped school more and more because the thought of crawling out of bed and walking through the rain seemed impossible. Robb called him almost every day after finding out that he had left Ygritte, and for a few days, Jon ignored his brother. The last thing he needed was to hear Robb tell him how stupid he was - neither did he want to explain what went wrong. He still had no clue.

She was everywhere. The pictures of her on his phone which he could not bring himself to delete. The scattered clothes he found all over his room - they smelled like her, smoky and warm and sweet and he washed and ironed them, folded them gently into a package and scribbled her name and address on top. He could not bring them to her. He could not see her, had not been to the coffee shop in weeks - or anywhere, really.

Only when Sam sat him down one night did Jon realize how pathetic he really was. Quiet, shy and cowardly Sam was the one to tell him that he needed to get over Ygritte, go out and get going with his life. Jon wanted to be angry - Sam just didn't understand, nobody understood what Ygritte had been to him - but he couldn't. Sam only wanted to help, was genuinely worried and knew enough of broken hearts.

I loved her. It was the first time he had said it out loud, and the words left a bitter sweet taste on his tongue. A taste so different from her own.

What was it like?

They sat there for a while, Jon and Sam, and after he stuttered an explanation of what it had felt like to love Ygritte, to have her love him back - because that was what he drilled into his aching heart night after night to both ease and worsen the pain, that she did love him - Jon began to think that maybe Sam was beginning to understand.

The next day, he called Robb and suggested they meet up. It felt odd to walk down the streets and watch the world pass by the windows of the train - when had all this snow covered the world, how had he missed the beginning of winter? Winter had always been his season, grey and cold.

Winterfell towered grandly above the world, just as Jon remembered it. But he could not help but feel the sting in his chest when he walked down the familiar corridors. He had wanted to take her here, show her all the hidden corners and share secrets only he knew.

Robb hugged him tightly. They did not talk about Ygritte, and Jon was grateful for it. He knew he needed to get over her. Still, he longed to keep her close, lock all the memories - good and bad and perfect and infuriating - away. Keep them all for himself.

.:.

When he saw Sansa's name on his phone's screen, he knew something was wrong.

Jon could not recall ever having talked to his sister on the phone - had not even been sure she actually had his number - and now it was late at night and the rain was drumming violently against his window. When he picked up, Sansa's words were barely even understandable. She was sobbing, choking on her words and it took Jon a while to understand.

Robb. Talisa. Car bomb. Dead.

He understood her rambling, but he could not grasp what it meant. When he hung up, the last thing he heard was a suppressed wail, and for the first time ever, he longed to take Sansa's hand the way he always took Arya's and tell her everything would be alright. He loved his sister, and there had never been bad blood between them. But with Sansa, there had always been a tense quietness. Ever since she had been old enough to understand that Jon was only her brother by half, she had been the only one of his siblings to whom it seemed to matter.

Rickon was still a little too young to really understand what it meant, Arya was more his own flesh and blood than even his father had been. Bran had always looked up to him, admired him, followed after him. And Robb...

Robb was dead.

.:.

You know nothing. Ygritte's words echoed in his mind sharply.

He really knew nothing in this moment. Knew not what to do, whether to cry or scream or stare silently at a wall. Whether to smash something or tear down all the pictures on the wall or fall asleep in tears.

He could not stay in his room. Not when Robb was smiling at him from the wall, not when the sweater he had gotten him for his birthday four years ago was lying on top of the laundry pile. Jon stormed out of his room, not even bothering to be quiet. He did not want to talk to Sam right now, but if he woke up, so be it.

The couch was a mess, littered with books and plates, and the floor was scattered with papers and empty soda cans.

Robb is dead. Talisa is dead. Robb is dead. He just told me she was pregnant last week. He is gone, they are dead. They blew up. Someone blew them up. I would have been an uncle. Maybe a godfather. They're dead now. All three of them. Robb is gone.

Jon grabbed a half-empty glass from the table and smashed it against the wall, watching the dark lines of coke run down the white wall. Not bothering to put on a coat, not even taking his keys, he grabbed his boots and stormed out of the flat, tears burning in his eyes.

It was raining even harder now, the wind driving the icy drops deeply into his skin. Jon wrapped his arms around his quickly soaked sweater, keeping his head down. The moon was hidden, the street lights dimmed by the rain. Occasionally, a car drove past him, splashing water against his rapidly soaking jeans, but he barely felt the cold. He just kept walking, brisk steps that burned in his thighs after a while. Still, he pushed forward. There was nothing behind him, nowhere to hide. He could not run from the pain, but he could drown it in rain and icy cold.

It was not until he stood in front of her door that Jon realized he must have been walking for well over an hour. There was not a piece of fabric on his body left dry, his hair was plastered to his face and the cold start to seep into his bones. His fingers felt numb when he knocked harshly on her door.

What am I even doing here? The small voice in his head repeated the question over and over, but something about this must have been right. Why else had he come here?

The door flung open after the third knock, and he looked down at Ygritte, her phone clutched in her hand, eyes watery with unshed tears. Over her shoulder, he saw the lights flickering from the television, news footage of a burning ruin that was once a car. The image felt like a stab in the guts, and he looked back at Ygritte to escape the haunting scene. Her hair was longer than the last time he had seen her, cascading over her shoulders. She wore only a long-sleeved shirt, bottomed up wrong as she always did. Her face seemed fuller, the circles under her eyes darker. She was still as beautiful as he remembered, and everything he had tried so hard to lock away came rushing back.

Jon was pulled back into reality when she flung her phone at his chest. You complete arse, why aren't you picking up your phone? Then she had her arms around him and did not seem to mind that he was soaking wet and cold. She grasped at him, burying her head in his chest, and Jon felt a weight crumbling into dust that he had carried for too long. Finally allowing the tears to run free, he pulled her closer. Together, they stumbled back into her flat, the front door falling shut as they sank to the floor.

His tears were captured by her soft hair – he could smell her shampoo and buried his face deeply in her curls. I'm so sorry. She whispered the words over and over again, looking up at him. Her palm cupped his cheeks, wiping away some of the tears that were leaving a salty trail on his cold cheek.

Eventually, they untangled themselves from one another, and Ygritte switched off the television. She ushered him into the small bathroom, still littered with clothes and empty shampoo bottles, and when Jon pulled his soaked sweater over his head, she hesitated. Her palm found his heart, and the weary smile she gave him reminding him of times long gone. She left him after that, pointing to a stack of clothes on the heater that belonged to him.

He stayed under the hot shower until his skin was red and raw. The mirror was fogged, and he pressed his hand against it, watching his hand print slowly disappear. The tears had stopped, but the throbbing pain in his heart only grew worse.

Pulling on the sweat pants he found in the stack of clothes he must have forgotten here when he had left her so suddenly all those months ago (he had turned his room upside down looking for that one red shirt) and combing his hair numbly with his fingers, he stepped out of the bathroom. Ygritte was sitting on the floor with her legs crossed beneath her, still wearing her now damp shirt, fingers curling around a cup of tea.

There's one for you by the sink.

It was hot and burned his tongue when he gulped it down, but he needed all the heat he could get to burn away the pain. Heat or cold, either was both good and not good enough.

He called Sam later, someone else who called him names for not answering his phone, the phone that was still where he had dropped it after Sansa's call – it looked like fucking blood on the wall and then Pyp calls and tells me to look at the news and you're nowhere to be found, never do that again what were you thinking?

It was almost four in the morning by the time he fell asleep, his head in Ygritte's lap and her fingers soothing through his drying hair. He could feel her lips pressing softly against his forehead when she thought he was asleep, but perhaps it was all just a dream.

.:.

When she did see Winterfell, he did not have the heart to show her anything. During the entire drive, they had sat in her car in silence, the black of their clothes drowning any thirst for conversation.

The morning after Robb and Talisa's death, when Jon had woken with his head still in Ygritte's lap, he had asked her to come to the funeral with him. She had nodded with such sadness in her eyes, and Jon nearly laughed at the wrongness of it all. Months before, he had begged and pleaded with her to come to Winterfell with him so he could show her the place he had spent his childhood, share all the happy memories with her. Now, she had agreed. Now that he could find no happiness left in the stone walls.

Too many people were gathered around the two graves in the ground, people Jon had never known, people he had never wanted to see again. He stood next to Sansa, her eyes glassy and lacking all of their usual spirit. A sight so frightful he only dared to look at her twice. From the side, he could see Catelyn, a stoic expression on her pale face. Her arms were wrapped around Rickon and Arya, their faces hidden in her long, black coat, and Jon wanted to scream into the loaded silence, scream at all the injustice in the world.

Beside him, Ygritte rested her hand on his arm, a chaste and almost polite touch. It was all there was between them, the comfort she could give him and the darkness he gave her in return.

He almost skipped the reception at Winterfell's great hall, but Ygritte ushered him through the heavy gates. They need you. It felt as though he shook hundreds of hands, listened to endless claims of condolences. They were all lies, all fake, all so hollow and pointless he wanted to smack them all against the stone walls. In the crowd, Ygritte was lost.

When he found her again, she stood outside the castle gates, arms wrapped around herself. For the longest moment, they stood in silence, gazing off into the distance where the castle grounds began to awaken from their winter sleep. You were right, she murmured, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. I would have liked it here.

The words rang with all the bitterness they had buried over the last few days, unwilling to bring them up with Robb's death looming over them. All the things they should have done, all the things he should have said. He shook his head when she offered him the cigarettes, watching her instead as she touched the white paper to her pale lips.

Back inside, he introduced her to Bran, Rickon and Sansa. He was glad when neither of them asked who exactly Ygritte was, not even Sansa, whose smile never reached her eyes and whose kind words were thick with grief. Who was she now? He would have had no answer. Not his girlfriend any more, and could they ever be friends? Did she want to be his friend? Was he ready to be her friend?

No conversation lasted long, no one able to muster enough strength for even the slightest curtsey. Jon stayed clear of Catelyn, had not spoken to her all day. Sansa had just excused herself, disappearing into the crowd in her black dress until even the red of her hair was lost to him, when his eyes met Catelyn's. She held the gaze for a mere breath before turning away, but Arya did not miss him, untangling herself from her mother's embrace.

Arya wrapped her arms tightly around Ygritte after Jon had finally sat her feet back on the ground. Her innocent eyes were red with tears, and the grip of her hands was so tight that he could see the white of her knuckles.

I looked up explosions, you know. I think they didn't even know what was happening. They just died. Just like that. Her words twisted sharply in Jon's guts, and he looked helplessly at Ygritte. The tears glistening in her eyes took him by surprise. He didn't have the heart to speak up when Arya proclaimed how happy she was that they were back together, a soft smile lightening up her face, and when Ygritte took his hand in her own, fingers intertwining, her thumb pressing gently into the scars on his palm, he wanted so badly to believe in it all.

Arya pleaded with him, but he could not stay. The walls of Winterfell were howling at him through the storm that raged inside his chest, each stone reminding him of his lost brother.

So, by the time Ygritte pulled up her car in front of his apartment building, the night was dark around them. She killed the engine, the yellow glow of the street lights outside illuminating the car. For a few minutes, they sat in complete silence, neither of them sure what to say. The tension was so thick Jon felt as though he might reach out and touch it, just like the invisible question that danced around them in bloody circles.

What went wrong? He had spoken so little today that the words felt unfamiliar as they spilled from his mouth, bitter and resentful, quiet but so loud in the silence of the night.

A car passed by them, the headlights almost blinding, but Jon stared right into them, glad for the few moments it took his eyes to readjust. What? When he could see again, he just saw her lips form the short question, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Us. He noticed how her fingers were still curled around the key in the ignition, index finger toying with the key he knew opened the door to her flat. What went wrong? All of it came rushing back, the shouts and turned heads, the coldness and the wall that had stood between them like ice, built out of nowhere. One day everything was great and then... Then it was so bad you made me leave.

He recalled that day with terrifying precision, no matter how hard he had fought to bury it beneath the good memories. Jon... Ygritte whispered his name, eyes falling shut despite the suffocating darkness. Not now.

When then? He sounded a lot angrier than he had intended. There was no strength left in him to fight, but he knew he deserved an answer, and if he did not get one now, he feared he never would. Taking a deep breath, never taking his eyes off her, he continued, lowering his voice but demanding an answer all the same. I never asked. But I still want to know.

She must have known the question would eventually arise, but her sigh spoke of how much she wanted to avoid the subject, bury it the way they had done for weeks until all the heat had coiled so tightly that it erupted and ended all the good things they had shared in one stroke. This isn't the right time. Her voice was shaky, crumbling in the darkness. Jon watched as her hand fell limply into her lap, the fingers kneading nervously.

Anger began to burn inside of him, anger at her, at the world, at the faceless shadow that had suffocated all the light between them, the shadow he had been so helpless against. He deserved to know, he needed to know and she had no right. No right at all to keep him in the darkness any longer, to keep the secret that she carried locked away. Just as he had no right to do the same. I loved you, he spat out, red hot words that shot through the silence like bullets. Did you even know that? In the end, it had been so easy to say the words, but all she did was stare at him, eyes hidden in the darkness, too far away for him to read. His voice softened then, despair and sadness finally grabbing a hold, the burning of tears in his eyes like acid in a wound. Did you not care about me at all?

A shaky breath escaped Ygritte's lips, the sort of breath that was rendered broken by tears that could not be shed. Oh, you really know nothing, she said with a fiery edge to her voice, and then her hands were wrapped tightly in his hair and her lips warm and urgent against his own, and Jon remembered just how much he loved her, and how deep and endless the void inside of him was where she had changed him, filled him, shaped him. For a few second, his hands pulling her to him until he felt her breath inside his mouth and her warmth against every inch of him, it was him and her, and nothing else. No secrets, no lies, no differences.

It was simple again, just for a moment.

.:.

Jon was not entirely sure if he was avoiding her, or if Ygritte was avoiding him. But the next few days came and went without a word exchanged, and the insecurity grew exponentially inside of him. He knew there was no real way in the world for them to go back to how things had once been, but returning to a life without her was out of the question now. At least for him.

When she opened the yellow door of her flat to him, Jon felt as nervous as the first time he had been here, when she had been a mystery to uncover, a riddle to solve. She looked at him with eyes widened in surprise, but the smile that greeted him after a few seconds was genuine, lightening up her blue eyes.

The place looked different from how he remembered it from their time together, and he only realized it now. Days ago, after he had run through the rain without a destination until his feet had carried him back into her arms, he had been dazed and unfocused. Only now, as he kicked his shoes off and really took in the room did he notice that one red wall was now painted a bright yellow, and that the piles of clothes that had always lined the floor like a trail were gone. It seemed tidier, less chaotic. In one of the corners, Ygritte had squeezed a desk, apparently no longer working on her laptop while sitting on the floor.

He leaned against one of the counters, watching silently as Ygritte poured him a cup of tea. Faintly, he heard her words, chatting about the weather, school and nothing in particular, but his eyes got caught at the sight of his own face smiling back at him.

There, on the fridge that had always been littered with notes, receipts and pictures, was a photograph of him and Ygritte, pinned to the door with a magnet the shape of wolf. In the picture, Ygritte's freckled shoulders were exposed beneath the thin straps of her dress, and her pink lips were stretched into a wide smile. His own hands were slung around her, smiling into the camera with his chin pressed against the top of her head. Strands of red hair were drawn over the picture, and he recalled exactly how windy it had been the day. They had spent it in the park with Sam and Gilly, who had taken the picture much to Ygritte's complaints. He had never even known she owned a copy of it.

That was a nice day. Her voice pulled him out of the deep and vivid memories – the sound of her laughter, the lingering taste of ice cream on her lips, the way her hands had been warmed by the sun and how delicately they had circled around his neck.

Ygritte smiled, following his gaze towards the photograph. He gladly took the steaming cup of tea she held out towards him. It was. Thanks. For a moment, they stood there in silence, both lost in the imagery and memories of a summer's day long gone, of an effortlessness they must have lost somewhere along the way. He remembered carrying her on his shoulders that day, her arms reaching for the tree under which they had spread out their blanket, cursing when he almost lost his balance. The playfulness they had shared, it seemed all gone now. Drained away and forgotten. The silence between them was sincere and serious, both of them carefully stepping around shards of broken glass and splinters of ice that were all that was left of them.

How are you holding up? The pain caused by the hot tea stung less than the hesitation in her question. That wall between them was still there, and whatever had happened that night after Robb's funeral had changed little about it.

Fine, I suppose. He shrugged, setting down the cup next to a bowl of porridge she had not finished. Have to be.

No, you don't. It was the sudden tenderness in her voice that caught Jon's attention, the way her features unexpectedly softened. She reached out her hand to rest it upon his forearm, squeezing lightly before dropping her hand again as if the touch had burned her palm the way his had been burned. You've got every right not to be fine.

Perhaps he did. Inside of him, everything was constantly on fire, burning, screaming, tearing at him, numbing him – so much he could hardly remember how it felt to be at peace, to be happy or content. I will be. The wish to talk about it all was small, for what good could words do? They had never changed anything. How are you doing? We never really got a chance to talk. He still saw the lights of her car disappearing around the corner that night, red glowing in the dark, the warmth of her kiss lingering on his lips. Gilly says there's some trouble at the shop?

Perhaps staying away from all the things that really mattered was what they needed to break the ice. Half an hour later, as the world outside was beginning to darken, the sky turning from pale blue to a greyish colour, they were sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Ygritte laughed heartily as he finished the story of how Robb and Theon had once found Jon in a room with Theon's naked girlfriend Ros.

I can't believe you never told me that, she gasped, tears glistening in her eyes. The sight of her took his breath away and lightened the weight that rested on his shoulders. Two days ago, the mere thought of Robb had pained like a stab in the back, but now he talked about him freely, all the good memories conjuring a smile upon his face.

He nudged her knee playfully with his fist. I never would've heard the end of it. She raised her eyebrows at his words, but he could see that she knew exactly how right he was.

Slowly, their laughter died down. Jon could feel it in his stomach, muscles he had not used for a long time, a dull ache and a sharp pain in his cheeks, uncomfortable but welcome. Ygritte was taking him in, her eyes lingering on his, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.

I'm glad you came. She seemed uncharacteristically nervous, drumming her fingers against her knee – the same place he had touched her just a minute ago, he noticed. It made him wonder if she could feel the echo of his touch the same way he still tasted her on his lips. I wasn't sure what to say.

I still don't know what to say. The admission was painful – whether it hurt to admit it out loud to himself or to admit it in front of her, he was not sure. It was audible in his voice, the way the words broke towards the end, it was visible in his posture, the way his shoulders hunched and his eyes dropped to the ground. Between them, the fuzzy wool of a new rug stood out in bright purple and orange, and his fingers ran over the rough texture, feeling every ridge.

Her hand appeared out of nowhere, for quite a while doing nothing but mirroring his own movements, fingers trailing along the ruffles of the rug, and he noticed the chipped blue nail polish, how dry the skin on her knuckles was and how slow her movements were. He felt it, too, when she slowly slipped her hand into his own, cold skin against the scars of his palm, and when she spoke, her voice was a trembling whisper. I missed you.

Looking up, he realized how much closer to him she was than he had expected. Still, even as he reached out to cup her cheek, feel her skin fluster beneath the chaste touch, even as he leaned in closer until her breath was damp against his cheek and the tears turned to crystals in her eyes, he could still see the wall between them, sparkling like ice, radiating cold and distance. I missed you, too. He knew she could feel his words rather than hear them, his lips brushing over hers, trembling from both the chill and the fear. I miss you so much.

.:.

It was a losing battle, and they both knew, but they both tried to take things back to the way they both remembered them to be. He sat in his window seat in the coffee shop and watched her as she worked, smiled when she brought him another cup of tea, entangled his fingers gently with hers when he took the cup from her hand. She took him home sometimes, loud music blaring from the speakers in her car as the stuffed bear danced wildly and the wind ruffled Jon's hair.

Most nights, though, she pulled him through her own front door, fingers sweaty and needy when they sifted through his hair and her voice crumbling as she whispered his name like a broken chant.

It was the same today, their clothes leaving a colourful trail through her living room, the bedroom door kicked wide open, and the afternoon sun leaving speckles of light on the white sheets beneath them. Ygritte's naked body pressed into his side, her fingers dancing along his stomach, tickling him. Their breathing had notably slowed down, and Jon felt dozy and calm, drawing his fingers up and down Ygritte's spine.

She was warm against him, sighing softly at his touch, pressing a kiss against his shoulder. It felt as though he was drowning in one of his memories, amplified and so much more vivid than they ever had been.

They had not spoken since she had pushed him onto her bed – unmade as usual, the countless cushions scattered all over the place - but lately, words had seemed to lose their importance, all the weight they had once carried. The silence between them was growing as rapidly as their dependence on one another, the need to be close, as close as possible. Jon knew is was a bad thing, that instead of pulling her closer into his side and entangling his legs with hers, they should talk, open up about why, no matter how hard they tried, things simply were nothing like they remembered them to be.

Jon felt the need for a hot shower creeping up, but to just lay here with Ygritte in his arms was too wonderful a moment to end. She was still in his arms now, her palm resting flat against his stomach as it rose and sank with each steady breath he took.

I was pregnant. Her words cut through the silence like lightning, unexpected, voice crumbling as it struggled to form the words. Jon heard them, heard their echo in his mind, felt the way she was suddenly stiffened in his arms.

He heard, but he did not understand. What?

For a few breaths, breaths that burned in his throat like the fire that had scarred his hand, nothing happened. Ygritte stayed immobile in his arms, and he himself felt petrified, unable to move or speak any more than the one dull question. Then she sighed, a quiet sigh filled with sadness. Slowly, she sat up, the sun shining brightly against her bare skin. Her face was turned away from him, so that all he could see was the bridge of her nose and her trembling lips, the rest of her face hidden beneath cascading waves of red hair.

I found out a few weeks before... before you left. Took a whole bunch of tests and the whole damn lot of them was positive. She sounded as though she had thought about these words for a long time, perhaps since the night he had stumbled back into her life, grieving and cold. Perhaps even before that. But she also sounded angry, the quiver of it running through her entire body. He saw it in the way she pulled her knees against her chest and in the white of her knuckle when she pressed her fists against her shins. I was so fucking scared. That wasn't supposed to happen and we'd just been going out for a few months and we're just kids, Jon, we're not...

He could feel the weight of her words, the realization dawning on him slowly, like a cold rush of water down his back. It was the answer to all his questions, but he still could not understand. She had been pregnant. She had carried his child. Carried. Past tense. His mind ran wild, and he sat up straight against the wall behind her bed, suddenly feeling cold and restless, when just minutes before he had felt warm and at peace.

I know I should've told you. Finally, she turned to look at him, her eyes red but dry, fear and anger and defeat written plainly across her suddenly sickly pale face. I wanted to, but that freaked me out even more. He stared, it was all he could do as her voice broke down to a hesitant whisper. I was scared you'd be mad and leave and I was scared you'd be happy and get all excited and I didn't know what I even wanted. Desperately, Jon tried to remember, to fish for any clue he could find in those dark memories that accompanied the last days of their relationship, the last summer he had both longed to forget and engrave into his heart. How she had slipped away from him, how everything had suddenly changed. I was awful to you, and I'm sorry. But I was so... Her fingers fell limply down onto the sheet, his eyes following the sad motion. He had never known, he had been angry at her, and he had run away. And then you left.

There was not the slightest tone of accusation in her voice, she simply stated the sad fact. He could not have known, but now his decision cut through him like knifes. Hastily, he leaned forward and grabbed her hands, shocked at how cold they suddenly felt, how small and fragile, how she wanted to pull away. But he would not let her, not this time. I never would have left had I known-

I know, she interrupted him, suddenly grasping his hand so tightly it hurt. After, I knew I needed to tell you, but I... She seemed as though she had no idea how to put into words the turmoil of emotions that must have gone through her head back then, and he cursed all the gods for not giving him more strength, more common sense, for not having been there to carry the weight with her. I just wanted to get things sorted out. With work and classes, and I was looking for a bigger flat cause – I needed a plan, something to... Before I told you. He heard the words she did not speak. The lack of money she did not mention, the broken pipes in her bathroom she left out, everything that had always stood between them, always.

Nobody knew. And then... The breath she took was a shuddering one, and pain shot like poison through his veins when she wiped away a tear that had fought its way from her eye. Despite the utter storm inside of him – a mixture of confusion (because how could she have been pregnant and how could he have not known?) and sadness (because she was crying, and there was nothing he could do) and anger (what right did she have to keep this from him, no matter how scared she had been?) – he reached out with his free hand, fingers trailing soothingly up her arm until they sank into the thick curls of her hair.

The stairs at work, the ones out to the yard... She leaned into his touch, but he felt the way her shoulders stiffened, and deep down, he knew what she was about to say.

He had walked those stairs a hundred times, the last time just a few hours ago, and each pebble, each step, was engraved into his memory. It was so cold and they were icy and there's nothing to hold on to there and it was dark and the fucking light is broken and then I... It was hard to understand anything of what she stuttered, voice quiet and too fast, and he pulled her against him when she suddenly grew silent, leaving the finality of her secret unspoken.

Ygritte sank into his embrace, her hands clinging to his shoulders. The warmth of her tears felt sick and wrong against his bare chest, but he held her tightly to him, anyway. And I couldn't tell you then, she murmured, her lips moving lightly against his skin. Her voice was steadier now, but the tears kept flowing. I just couldn't. He spread the fingers of his burned hand against her back, splaying them like a star against her spine, and she shuddered. I'm so sorry.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Ygritte seemed to have lost her voice, growing quiet and still in his arms once more. Jon, on the other hand, felt his heart and brain threatening to burst, attempting to process everything she had just told him. He felt angrier at her than ever before, but all the white hot heat of it was wiped away by the unbearable feeling of loss. It rested heavily in his chest, the realization that he had lost a child without ever knowing of its existence. Without ever having looked forward to meeting his son or daughter, without having whispered against Ygritte's swollen belly how much he loved the little creature in there. He felt cheated out of it all, even the pain of losing the child. Their child.

Still, as large a part the anger and grief took up in him, he only held Ygritte tighter when he had to accept that she had gone through all of it herself, all alone without anyone there to hold her hand. He remembered Tormund's words, and in this moment, when she was so vulnerable and broken in his arms, he realized, for the first time, how true they had been. She was not as strong as she wanted him to believe, and he should have been there to help her, to share the pain. He should have been given at least the chance to make things right.

When? His question filled the silence around them. It was a dull one, for what good did it bring to know? But he needed to know, and Ygritte seemed grateful for the quiet tone of his voice.

Christmas. Bright and colourful lights flickered behind his closed eyes, mingling there with tears he fought so hard not to shed.

Ygritte, he whispered, pressing a kiss against her temple that was much more urgent than he felt he still had the strength for. The warmth of his tears as they finally spilled and raced down his cheeks was all-consuming. The idea of a child had seldom crossed his mind (and if it had, only the decisive knowledge that he would never bring a child into this world the way his father had), but the loss of one was more than he felt he could take.

Tormund wanted to kill you, Ygritte said quietly, adjusting her position in his arms, the cold tips of her fingers trailing down to grip his arms. I was in the hospital for a few days, so I couldn't really hide it from him any more. He thought you'd left me cause I was pregnant. Jon finally gathered the courage to look down, saw her eyes glistening with tears when she looked up in return. Her words were almost stoic, lacking all emotion, and he wanted to shake her awake, find the girl he had loved and lost. She must still be in there somewhere, he needed to believe that. Said he'd pull your guts out through your throat. Took me a while to calm him down.

The words rang familiar in Jon's memory, and the thanks he muttered was more of a husky murmur. But as soon as the simple word made room for silence, their eyes met again, and for no reason they could grasp, they started laughing. It was a laughter so unlike them, too loud and too shrill, but after the tears and the silence, the months of longing, pain and forgetting, what else was left for them to do? They laughed until their stomach ached, more tears spilling over and covering skin in salty tracks, but eventually, as the sun outside began to glow orange, their breathing slowed down, and silence took over once more.

Jon looked down at Ygritte, his hand brushing through her hair until it cupped her cheek. She fought to keep her eyes fixed upon his, the lids flickering nervously, long lashes casting slight shadows. But she responded to his touch the way she always had, leaning into it, exhaling with a soft sigh.

How far along were you? The question hurt as much as any thought on the matter, but he asked it anyway, brushing his thumb quickly across her upper lip, along the line of her jaw, following her cheekbone until he stopped, simply feeling her soft skin, imagining a time when looking at her alone had filled his heart with happiness.

Six months. Deep in her eyes, he saw everything that could have been, everything she had refused to share, everything the world had taken from them, and he wondered if there was even the slightest chance for them now. A chance for forgiveness and redemption, for overcoming all the barriers they had ignored for too long.

Ygritte leaned forward to press her lips against his, a touch so chaste he felt she might be afraid of his rejection. But he could never lean away, not any more, so he kissed her back with equal softness, until she pulled away far enough for her lips to form words, quivering against his as she took his face in her hands. It was a boy.

.:.

Ygritte could not seem to forget, and Jon was not sure he could ever forgive her, but he could not blame her, either, for any choices she had made, and so the odd and unfamiliar thing between them continued quietly, eating him up from the inside.

They saw each other more often than not, and when Gilly moved into Sam's room (some ugly business with her father, but Sam told him it was a tricky subject and so Jon never asked any further), Jon began to feel as if he'd moved into Ygritte's flat permanently. He was there even when she was gone for one of her classes, making dinner, cleaning, doing anything to pass the time when he was not studying himself. But the small flat was suffocating him, drowning him in her, and when she was there, he felt the way she dug her nails into him, just as scared to lose him, just as exhausted by his presence.

Sam asked him once if they were back together. Jon wanted to know the answer more than anything, but he simply did not know. He knew nothing, only that he loved her. But for some reason, he also knew it still was not enough.

It had not been enough to make him realize what went wrong, had not been enough for her to trust him enough to open up, to share her secret. It had not been enough to make him stay.

Their son had a name, but Jon did not have the heart to hear it, and so Ygritte kept it to herself. Their son had a grave, but the thought of visiting was too much for Jon to bear. It felt as if the world was falling apart around him, and not even Ygritte could hold it together any more.

After a few days, neither of them brought up their dead son again, the strain of guilt and blame too heavy on the bond they only just now were beginning to form again. But with the burden of past mistakes and an uncertain future looming above them, Jon wondered if it was a futile attempt.

Most nights, he lay awake with Ygritte curled into his side. For a fleeting moment, he was able to pretend that everything was right again. It almost felt the way it had last year, but when he closed his eyes and listened to his heart, he knew that it was not, that it was a lie they told themselves.

Once, Jon had thought that being with Ygritte was not difficult. That it was easy, comfortable, like breathing. That it was him and Ygritte, and everything else faded away when he was with her. That there was no rich and poor, high and low, good and bad.

He had been wrong. It was what they tried to tell themselves, what they both so desperately wanted, why Ygritte kissed him so fiercely, whispering in his ear you are mine and I am yours. It was why they kept clashing and fighting.

One night, as she was propped up against the side of her bed with a book in one hand while the other rubbed lazy circles on Ghost's belly, Jon considered ending it all for good. The future he had once imagined for them – shy pictures his mind had painted in those lovely hours when she'd smile at him and kiss him softly, crawled under his skin and whispered huskily in his ear, discussed and yelled and thrown things at him only to burst out laughing a minute later – that future was gone. He could see it no more when he watched her study, could hear it no more when she told him things, could feel it no more when he touched her.

He had been brave enough to walk away once before - or had it been cowardice? He was not so sure any more. What would it take to do it again? To leave behind the shattered remains that had once been alive and vivid and beautiful?

It was Ygritte that held him back. Between them, the spite and exhaustion grew and grew, but she was still the girl he had dragged through the snow and went looking for in the hospital although he had barely known her. Even back then, she had touched something buried deep down inside of him, and she still clung to that vulnerable spot.

He clearly remembered his life before he had met her, his life without her after he had walked away. Neither was better than life right now, treading on eggshells until they fell into each other's arms to forget the ruins of their relationship for a little while.

She still made him a better person, and he could not let that go.

So, he stayed. He sank down onto the floor next to her, patting Ghost's head before sliding his hands around Ygritte's waist, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear. I love you. In that moment, when he felt her smile against his cheek and gladly met her lips in a soft kiss, he decided he would never leave her again, not until she told him to.

.:.

When he got the call, he had already been asleep, the buzzing of his phone next to his head stirring him awake, and he frowned at the unknown number. One glance at the alarm clock told him it was past one in the morning, and he briefly considered ignoring the call.

It kept ringing, however, and so Jon sat up in bed, the sheets dropping down to his waist, and picked up the phone. Ygritte's voice sounded annoyed as she matter-of-factly explained to him what had happened, why he now had to climb out of bed to fumble for his jeans and shirt in the dark of her bedroom (he had wanted to buy new light bulbs days ago) and drive her car down to the police station.

The drive took him almost an hour, night time repair works blocking the street, and so he steered Ygritte's car towards the edge of town, through a dark stretch of forest, until the lights of the apartment buildings came back into view.

As he scrambled out of the car, his head pounding and vaguely registering that he put his shirt on the wrong way, Jon crossed the parking lot in front of the police station, anger flaring up inside of him.

Only hours before, Ygritte had told him that she would spend the night at her friend Val's place, studying for the test they both knew they'd fail, and that he should not expect her to be back before morning. Instead, and he wanted to curse himself for believing her, she had gotten herself arrested. On the phone, she had given him only a few answers, and so Jon's eyes widened in disbelief when the tired-looking police officer with the pale moustache told him what kind of trouble she had gotten herself into.

You seriously broke into our library and trashed the place? He asked as he watched the officer take off her handcuffs. Her face barely reacted to his words, hair tied back, exposing an ugly bruise forming around her left eye.

I didn't trash nothing, she replied with a shrug, massaging her wrists where the handcuffs had left behind ugly red lines. That was Orell.

It took nearly another hour for the papers to be worked through, and Jon felt the bright white lights of the station burning holes into his head. All the while, Ygritte sat in one of the ugly green chairs in the hallway, legs and arms crossed, face stoic. His eyes flickered towards her over and over as the officer talked, and he could see clearly how little she cared.

That's some girlfriend you've got there, son, the officer with the moustache told him when they were finally making their way to the front door. Better keep an eye on her.

She got into the car without a comment, turning away from him the moment he started the engine. It was still dark outside, the stars hidden from their sight by the clouds and the bright lights of the city. Empty bottles rattled against the floor when Jon backed out of the parking lot, and for the longest time, it was the only sound that could be heard.

They quickly left the mostly empty streets behind them, and darkness took over when the forest surrounding the city came into view. The street was narrow, the car's headlights throwing long and blinding rays of light. Jon felt the heaviness of the silence wearing him out, and he turned briefly to look at Ygritte.

She still sat there with her arms crossed, looking out of the window into the darkness of the night. Her face looked tired, but the expression of disappointment was hard to cover up.

Jon sighed, turning his gaze back towards the empty road. One of these days, it's going to escalate. You're just going to get hurt. He tried hard not to pass any judgement – he knew how important the matter was to her, had tried hard to support her and see the issue through her eyes. But now she had taken a step too far, and to maintain a neutral edge to his voice was a fight Jon was almost too tired to take on.

From his peripheral vision, Jon could see Ygritte turning to look at him. When she finally spoke, her voice was as indifferent as it had been back at the station, as though she blatantly ignored the implications and consequences of what she had done. Well, if that's what it takes to finally get what we deserve-

Ygritte, can you even hear yourself? The words tumbled out of Jon's mouth, due to a fatal mixture of fatigue, anger and fear. She was brave, and he admired her strength to stand up and fight for her cause, a cause she and her friends had every right to fight for. But he started to see just how far she was willing to go, what sacrifices she was willing to make, and the realization scared him.

I can hear just fine, Jon, she spit back, his name like venom as it echoed in the car. You're the one who isn't listening. Who does nothing.

Once more, they seemed to have circled back to this, to the fact that he had privileges that should not be privileges but everyone's right, and Jon angrily gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles pressing painfully against taut skin. Is it so hard to understand that I don't want you to get hurt? He thought it was an easy concept to understand, hoped that she cared about him enough to be scared for his safety, as well. But when he looked at her, he saw nothing in her eyes but resentment. Everything is fucked up enough.

And what are we supposed to do about that? Ygritte asked, voice suddenly more quiet. The words were lined with blame and accusation, and Jon knew that this was the one fight they had avoided for months now. The one that mattered. She dropped her hands into her lap, fingers curling into fists. Get married and have kids and buy a fucking house?

Jon allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm the rage that was beginning to boil inside of him. I'd do all that if I knew it could fix things. His words were louder than he intended, but he was sick and tired of fighting for them, of watching them crumble into dust, and her words – the mockery, as if the mere thought of spending her future with him was a hilarity – cut deep. But I don't know how to fix us. So, please. Tell me. He knew she did not actually mean to hurt him, because he had seen the way she looked whenever they fought, had seen the tears she would not shed, had heard the stumble in her voice, had felt the way she kissed him more fiercely and grasped his hand more tightly. She wanted this to end as little as he did, and it made her words all the more painful to him. How do we fix it?

She was quiet for a while, and slowly, Jon could see the familiar sadness creeping back into her eyes. It was hard to see in the darkness of the car, but he knew it was there, could feel the chill of it even before she spoke. I don't know what got broken.

You should have told me, he said quietly, dreading to say the words, but it was the truth. She sat up straight in her seat, and when Jon saw her hair fall down over her shoulder – her hair long since pulled out of the pony tail – and her lower lip disappearing between her crooked teeth, he wondered briefly if their son would have had red hair like hers. He never thought about it before, and it surprised him now that the images danced through his mind in a sick and morbid formation.

Now it all comes back to this? She sounded almost afraid.

Of course it does, Jon said too loudly, but it was all too late now anyway, and what was the point of holding back his frustration? His pain? You were bloody pregnant and didn't tell me. He could see her flinching, turning her face away from him. We have a son, Ygritte. A son.

She swallowed, her throat moving delicately when she did, and when she turned to look at him, he saw what she tried so hard to hide. Her own regrets, her own pain. We don't, she whispered, as if saying it somehow made it true when it was not.

Yes, we do. He saw him now, so clearly, the little boy with the flaming red hair and his own grey eyes. He was laughing in Jon's imagination, happy in a way he himself had never been. Somehow, the thought did not hurt as much as he had expected.

I said I'm sorry, Ygritte spat out, not ready. Not ready to talk about the loss she had not allowed him to share with her, not ready to paint pictures of what could have been. She might not ever be ready, and Jon began to wonder what that meant for them. For their future.

Bloody hell, I know you are, he said, fed up with excuses. More than enough excuses he was already making up by himself, whenever he told himself that they still had a chance or that he was not angry. The last thing he needed was for Ygritte to keep apologizing when it changed nothing about anything. Not any more.

You know nothing. The old words sounded different now, and Jon felt her slipping away from him. It was all fucked up before I even told you. It was always fucked up. You're a crow just like the rest of them, and you never stopped being one.

The silence was deafening. I do know some things, Jon murmured, the feeling of everything falling apart, slipping through his fingers like ash, throbbing painfully in his chest. He looked at her then, really looked, searched for the spirit he had once found in her blue eyes, for the fire burning inside of her that had enlightened him. I know I love you. I know you-

Neither of them saw the car coming towards them until the headlights were so bright that all the world around them disappeared in a flash.

.:.

White. Everything was white before everything turned black.

Jon barely felt the pain of his broken leg or the dull throbbing of the wound on the back of his head. He did not realize that the other car was long gone, either. Nothing hurt when he wrenched open the car's door. It had flipped, laying on its side, and when Jon pulled Ygritte out onto the street, all he noticed was the warm stickiness of her blood coating his palm.

In that moment, when he dragged himself away from the wrecked car, pressing Ygritte's immobile body against his own, he did not even spend a moment's thought on how long he had been unconscious. Nothing passed his mind, and he heard nothing except for a dull throbbing sound that drove him mad.

Jon did not even really know what had happened. All he remembered was sad eyes and a bright light, a noise so deafening he could still feel the vibrations of it under his skin.

Too exhausted to crawl any further, he cradled her in his arms, supporting her head, feeling his heart drumming so violently against his ribcage that he thought the bones might shatter. Slowly, her eyes flickered open, her ragged breathing amplified in the dead quiet of the night.

Jon, she murmured, almost smiling, but all Jon could see was the blood that coated her teeth and ran across her lips. All he could feel was the way she shivered in his arms. All he could hear was the sound of her breathing, slow and aching.

With trembling fingers, he wiped away the blood that trickled from her mouth, searching her body for any harm, but he saw nothing, found nothing broken, but still felt her shattered in his arms.

Hush, don't talk. It was a silly thing to tell her, as if she had ever shut her mouth. But he heard the way her lungs fought for air, and even though his mind was still circling and fighting to grasp what was happening, something told Jon that she was slipping away, that she needed to be quiet now.

Ygritte coughed, more blood coating her lips, and Jon pressed her more tightly into his chest. Dimly, somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered the phone he had left on his bed after she had called him to pick her up from the police station. That moment now seemed centuries ago. Just as long a go as that trip up North, when her lips had been blue instead of crimson, when he had held her just as tightly.

Do you remember that cave? Her voice sounded so much softer than he had ever heard her speak before, and all echoes of their fight in the car that were slowly coming back to him suddenly seemed foolish and utterly meaningless. What did it all matter now? When had it all ever mattered?He nodded, the memories of that weekend so vivid in his mind as if it had been yesterday. How happy she had been, the utter peace that had warmed him from the inside, how he had realized that he loved her back then. Everything had been perfect, one last time, before it had all burned into ash. We should have stayed in that cave.

We'll go back there, he said quietly, the few words full of promise. He meant every single one of them, saw themselves up there in the warmth and dim light of the cave, all the happiness they had left behind there ready to light up this darkness.

A true smile curled Ygritte's lips, sad but peaceful, and for that brief moment before she spoke, Jon forgot all about the blood and the ugly sound of the air fighting its way into her lungs. Slowly, she raised her hand, cold and delicate, fingers pressing softly against his cheek. You know nothing, Jon Stark.

Her arm dropped limply into the small space between them before her words had truly faded into silence, and Jon still felt the echo of her touch on his skin when he looked into her empty blue eyes.

When they found him by the side of the road an hour later, it was still dark and cold, the stars hidden under heavy clouds. He was cradling Ygritte's dead body in his arms, lips pressed against her cold forehead, muttering the same words over and over. You were right. You were right. You were right.

They tried to pry her away from him, but his fingers only held on tighter, silent tears dripping onto her pale skin.

.:.

Tormund's eyes were strangely dull, no hints of tears or redness as he sat down a cup of tea on the table.

Jon could barely breathe, his tie strangling him. He knew Ygritte would not have cared if he'd come to her funeral in pyjamas, but it felt right. Something about wearing the black suit he had worn to Robb's funeral, and his father's before that felt right.

His crutches were propped up against the chair, and Jon nearly knocked them down when he reached for the tea. The white cup was painfully hot, but the feeling of it against his palm was soothing. It was a distraction he was grateful for.

He could neither look at Tormund for too long nor risk his eyes dropping down to the stuffed bear on the table between them. Everything would come rushing back if he did look. The blood, the pain, the cold.

A large part of him wanted to get out of this house as quickly as his ruined leg allowed him. Sam was at home with Arya and Gilly, and while all Jon really wanted was to be alone, he preferred their company to Tormund's. The man had been dead quiet all day, had stood next to Ygritte's grave in his worn suit like a statue, not muttering a word. He did not know the man well enough to understand him, but what Jon did understand was his loss. It was a loss larger and more profound than his own, and even his own Jon could barely take.

Did you love her? Tormund's deep voice broke through the silence, and Jon still could not look up, especially not when he finally heard the tremble of grief behind the few spoken words. Had he loved her? Of course he had. He still loved her, but he could not say the words now, not when she was dead and gone and buried beneath the cold earth. He could not say the words when he could never speak them to her again. She loved you.

At this, Jon finally looked up. When he took in Tormund's face, all the softness Ygritte had always seen in the man's harsh features suddenly dawned on him, and he wondered why he had never understood it before. She told you? She had never told him, had smiled at him and kissed him whenever he spoke the words, and he knew, deep down, that she had loved him as much as he loved her. But still, he had never heard those three words slip past her lips, and it filled him with an uncertainty almost larger than his grief.

No. Tormund gave him a sad smile, twisted and chilling Jon to the core. Over the man's shoulder, he could see the various pictures on the wall. The biggest of them all, framed and in the centre of all others, was the same Ygritte had kept in her purse. The tiny red-haired girl on Tormund's lap with the six candles of her birthday cake glowing brightly, a smile so wide on both of their faces that it lit up the picture. But she never shut up about you. That's how I know.

Jon wanted to believe it more than anything.

.:.

She is still here, in everything he sees. She is the red of the sun when it sets and rises. She is the warmth of the flame on the birthday cake Arya makes him a year later. She is the blue of the ocean when he sits on the beach and stares at the horizon.

She is the pride he feels when he graduates. She is the white of the dress that Gilly wears when she marries Sam. She is the joy when Jon holds their baby boy – his godson – for the first time. She is the laughter of his friends. She is the sense of accomplishment when Castle Black's library is opened for the public.

She is everywhere, and very slowly, it stops being painful.

In his dreams he can see her sometimes, hair replaced by flickering flames against the blue horizon. She burns before his eyes every time and there is nothing he can do, hands frozen and helpless, but she always smiles. A soft smile that lights up her face, as if everything is alright and happening the way it was meant to.

Snow crunches beneath him when Jon kneels down in front of her grave, the stone shimmering as the sun reflects from the icy, frozen surface, like diamonds. He quietly rests the blue flower against the pale stone, just as he does every Friday. The blue petals stand out against the white snow, and when Jon stands up again, he finds it the brightest colour around.

He never talks to her, has never believed that the dead can hear the living. He never stays long, either, only brings her the flower he hopes she would have liked. Most likely, she'd have laughed at him, asked him to call her his lady. But even that thought makes him smile now.

His fingers are cold, and he can still feel the sudden drop of temperature in his bad leg. It is the only token he has from that night when the stars had faded along with her. A dull ache when the weather changes, a pinch when he walks too many steps or marches down the street too briskly.

Steam forms in front of his lips when he exhales, and Jon's eyes wander away towards a line of trees in the distance, covered with glistening snow, sheltering more graves.

There is one there he still has not dared to visit. But today, he brushes his fingers across the delicate and soft petals of the second flower in his hand, and slowly walks towards the trees, listening to the melody of crunching snow and ice beneath his feet.

. : the end : .