I have been working on this for pretty much exactly a month, and it was originally meant to be just a short one shot to cheer up Annie - because I made her sad with my last J/Y fic. Then it exploded in a rainbow of fluff, and this is the result.

This is one hundred percent dedicated to Annie, because she was a trooper and kept me writing, as well as using this fic to spawn the most ridiculously elaborate headcanon about modern AU Starks and their potential offspring. You're a sweetheart, Annie!

as sunshine glows

I'm looking for a place to start,
But everything feels so different now.
Just grab a hold of my hand,
I will lead you through this wonderland.
Water up to my knees,
But sharks are swimming in the sea.
Just follow my yellow light

Yellow Light, Of Monsters and Men

I think you knocked me up. Ygritte blurts it out over breakfast one morning, and Jon nearly chokes on his toast. It takes him a minute to gather himself, gulping down his too hot tea and coughing so hard his chest begins to burn.

Eventually, he can breathe just enough to speak, but his voice is high-pitched and raspy when he does. What?

I think I'm pregnant, she replies casually, almost as if she told him she was going to buy new shoes. He watches her for a few moments as she sets her bowl down in the sink (he knows most of the milk is still in there, and the discussion about wasting it will never end, he knows). Nothing about her gives away any sign that she is as shocked or deeply frightened as Jon feels in this moment. His toast is long forgotten.

How do you know? His eyes immediately flicker down to her stomach, covered by his own shirt, which she had picked up from their bedroom floor and put on just a half hour ago. When he sees nothing, he wants to shake himself awake. Last night, he had kissed down the flat plane of her stomach, pale and smooth skin stretched tautly.

There is a loud clatter when Ygritte drops her spoon into the sink, and in the dim light of the kitchen, and with sleep still clinging to him, Jon nearly jumps out of his chair at the sound. I said I think. Just a feeling. She wipes her hands on his shirt, looking at him with an expression he can not read. Her face looks calm, too calm, but Jon does not miss the slight tremor in her hands and the brief moment her lower lip slips between her teeth. And I'm late.

He wonders how long she has been suspecting this, goes over the last few days in all their details in his head. Nothing stands out, nothing screams at him. But how... His voice fails him, and he feels the blood tinting his cheeks a deep crimson, heat crawling under his skin. We always-

When she laughs loud and clear, but rolls her eyes at the same time, Jon is taken aback. He stares at her, wonders if perhaps she is only joking with him. Then again, he knows she might joke about a great deal of things, but never this. Gods, you knock me up and still can't talk about it without blushing, she says exasperated, grabbing his cup to take a sip of his tea. I'll pick up some tests tonight. Then we'll know.

.:.

When Ygritte dumps a plastic bag with ten pregnancy tests and six large bottles of apple juice on the table that night, Jon begins to wonder if she might not be much more nervous about this whole situation than she wants him to believe.

She gulps down an entire bottle of apple juice, ignoring the tall glass he has taken out of the cupboard for her, and her fingers fumble almost angrily with one of the boxes. He grabs one, too, and for a few minutes they stand side by side in the kitchen, reading the instructions. Jon feels as though his head is about to burst, the tiny letters blurring in front of him.

All day at work, his mind has been preoccupied. Unable to focus, he wasted nearly a hundred sheets of paper when he copied the wrong file (only to endure a twenty minute lecture from Alliser Thorne about wasting resources), forgot his gun in his desk drawer when he left for patrol (only to have Grenn nagging him about it all day), and nearly drove the car into a ditch late on their way back to the station (which was why his neck was now sore and stiff).

With a groan, Ygritte throws the instruction next to the still closed boxes on the counter. If any of these are positive and you ask me to marry you cause of your daddy issues, I'll use one to stab you, do you hear me? She looks up at him with fire burning in her eyes before marching off to the bathroom, but he can see the fear beneath it now, bright and clear.

Every single one of them is positive.

.:.

When he was thirteen years old, Jon decided he would never make the same mistake as his father. That, should he ever have children one day, he would do it properly. Get married, then have kids. The word bastard followed him wherever he went, whispered behind his back or spat in his face. His father loved him, yes. His siblings did, too. But he was never anyone but Ned Stark's illegitimate son.

Now, Jon is twenty four and he sits on the bathroom floor with trembling hands, combing his fingers through Ygritte's hair. She is crying, face buried in his chest, her body heaving with each ragged sob, and he tries very hard to push back the excitement that has bubbled inside of him from the moment the first test showed a pink plus sign.

He does not understand why he is not as afraid as he always thought he would be, why he is not more angry at the world for making this happen. He is scared out of his mind, yes. But deep down, something else calms down that fear, something so bright and warm that he feels it glowing.

Whispering her name, he kisses the top of Ygritte's head, the smell of her overwhelming, and after a while, she calms down, hands wrapped around his stomach, fingers curling into his shirt.

He kisses her softly when they finally crawl into their bed that night, and against his lips, he can feel her hesitant smile.

.:.

For the next few weeks, it remains their little secret, and Jon wishes it could stay like that forever. It becomes the most precious thing, to keep the idea locked away in his heart, to share it only with Ygritte.

The changes are slow and sudden all the same, and he notices them all, cherishes them all, holds on to them and smiles whenever he discovers something new.

The way her hair feels softer and thicker to the touch. How her skin glows even in the ugly white light of the kitchen. It is the deeper blue of her eyes that draws him in, as well as the flush on her cheeks.

She starts to feel nauseous a few days after they find out, and he has to talk her into eating most of the time now, even makes her lunch to take to work because he knows otherwise she won't eat anything until he makes dinner.

Somehow, he wants to tie her to him, wrap her in cotton and never let her out of his sight. He has never felt this protective, and he has to hold himself back. She'd claw his eyes out if he even tried to look after her more than he already is (and he has not missed the groans when he shoves the lunch box in her bag or the scoffs when he insists on carrying all the groceries up to their flat himself).

The nausea is worst in the evenings, and it puts a damper on their movie marathons, but she never storms off to the bathroom, only sits quietly on the sofa next to him, squirming away from his touch with a pale and anxious face.

It does not take long before her belly begins to swell, just a tiny minuscule bit, but Jon feathers kisses over her skin, draws his fingers along the slight bump, worships it like the most golden of treasures. At night, he pulls her into him, wraps his arms around her so his palm rests flat against her belly, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face most of those nights.

The first time she goes to the doctor, he finds nobody to take over his shift for him, so he drives around in the car with Grenn all day, fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, hoping for some idiot to rob a bank or get shot or anything at all to take his mind off things.

When he basically runs through their door that night, Ygritte waits for him with a broad smile on her face and a blurry black and white picture that looks like absolutely nothing at all, but Jon is so ridiculously excited that he scoops her up in his arms, and the kiss he gives her is as sloppy as their very first.

She has to skip Robb's birthday party – she always drinks more than Robb and Theon combined, so turning down the alcohol would give them away in a heartbeat. So, she stays home with a faked stomach flu, and Jon drives down to Winterfell on his own. He is gone for two days, but they stretch on for an eternity. When Talisa hands him little baby Ned, so much taller now than the last time he has seen his godson, all brown hair and grey eyes, Jon feels his heart skipping a beat.

.:.

He orders a dozen books online, because it does not matter that he has four younger siblings - Jon has not the slightest clue what to expect, and neither does Ygritte. She can laugh at him all she wants when he reads three of the books within a week, highlights passages he doesn't quite understand and litters the books with post-its, but he does not miss the endless amounts of pages on pregnancy and motherhood in the browser history when he secretly tries to delete one particular page (he would never hear the end of it if she found out he googled the potential dangers of sex during the first trimester).

.:.

They tell Tormund first. He sits there quietly in his ridiculous armchair, looking them both over with that intense glare of his, and Jon is, for the first time in a long time, a little afraid of the man. But then he smiles and nods, and continues talking about the upcoming election. Ygritte grabs Jon's hand, and smiles when she feels how sweaty it is.

Robb claps him on his back so hard Jon nearly falls over, the pride in his brother's eyes shining brighter than the chandelier in the great hall of Winterfell. Ygritte looks as lost as she always does when she is here, sitting in her chair with her hands folded over the swell of her belly that is still hard to make out beneath her sweater.

Arya shrieks and hugs him as tightly as she used to when they were younger, those lonely days when lifting her off her feet would be the only thing to make him smile. Sansa smiles kindly, Rickon shrugs and eats the rest of his dessert, but it is Catelyn's reaction that Jon fears the most. But then she stands in front of him with something on her lips that resembles a smile, and when she carefully hugs him - for the first time in his life - Jon can feel everyone else's eyes on them.

It is a small step, and perhaps the only one she is capable or willing to take, but it is enough for Jon. When he sits back down, Ygritte smiles softly, and his hand quickly finds hers under the table.

.:.

The first time Jon is really, truly afraid - so scared that he can feel his stomach twisting and turning - is when Pyp finally agrees to take over his shift so he can join Ygritte for the doctor's appointment.

He holds his breath for much too long as he stands there next to her, when the blurry picture appears on the screen. Everything is much clearer now, there is a head he can clearly make out, and legs and arms and even tiny hands and feet. With a shudder, he grasps for Ygritte's hand, and when their eyes meet briefly, he can see the same wonder in her eyes.

It is not until he can hear the soft drumming of a heart so unbelievably small that the fear creeps sharply under his skin, runs through his veins until it fills his heart with a heaviness he can hardly bear. Evenly, the rhythm beats on, so quiet and fragile, and it is then that Jon realizes what all of this means. They have created a human being, a tiny, innocent person. A real person who will be their responsibility. A son or daughter that will look up to him, hold on to him, trust him. A child he must protect and love and cherish until his last breath.

All of it is too much. Suddenly, worry begins to fill him up, worry that he will not be able to protect their child, to care for it. What if it does not love him or does not feel loved? He remembers his own father, dead and buried and turning into a faint memory in his mind, and how he had always struggled to make Jon feel as loved as his true-born siblings.

He feels Ygritte's fingers tighten around his own.

They drive back to their flat in silence, the world outside passing by in a blur, and it is not until Ygritte curls into his side on the sofa later that night that the silence is truly broken. She sinks into his embrace, warm hands smoothing down his back, kissing the side of his neck so he can feel the warm dampness of her breath when she speaks. You're afraid.

In his head, Jon can still hear their child's heartbeat, and there, right in front of him on the coffee table, is the small picture they have brought home (head and arms and legs, a person, a real person and he shudders all over again). He holds on to Ygritte, feels the swell of her stomach nudging his side, and it is all so real in this moment, so overwhelming. Aren't you?

Ygritte nods quietly into the crook of his neck.

It is all right, though, he decides. There is no lesson to be a parent, to raise a child, to ever be enough. He can hardly find the words to prove to Ygritte how much she means to him, how deeply his love for her has taken roots, so how can he ever even attempt to find the right words or the right actions when it comes to their unborn child? They will have to wait and see, figure everything out along the way.

Just as they always have.

.:.

Jon! It takes Jon a long moment to stir from his sleep and realize that the earthquake in his dreams is actually Ygritte shaking him awake. Jon! Her hand is quite urgent against his shoulder, and when he finally recognizes her voice, he bolts into an upright position in their bed.

What? He asks breathlessly, looking at her in the scarce light cast by the moon. She looks tired, the circles under her eyes darkening every day, and he knows she barely sleeps these days, kept awake by her nervous bladder and the back pain even his massages can not fix. It makes him feel guilty for usually passing out as soon as his head hits the pillow, but the double shifts he is working are tearing at his seams. Nothing about her seems distressed, though, and Jon rubs his swollen eyes. What's wrong?

Her face lights up when she smiles excitedly, and reaches out to grab his hand. Her own hands are cold, and he wonders if she has been sitting on the roof again, watching the stars and passing the time. Over and over he has told her to wake him when she can not sleep, but she never does. Not until now. Here, she whispers in the quiet darkness of their bedroom, pressing his palm against the curve of her belly.

What- Jon begins, wondering what is going on until he feels it. Oh. It is only a slight tremor, so soft he nearly misses it, but then he feels it again. With big eyes, suddenly wide awake, he meets Ygritte's smile, gently presses his other palm against her stomach. There it is again, slight and gone in a heartbeat, but in this moment it means everything.

All the envy Jon has been harbouring for weeks dissolves in an instant. Envy over the feather-light flutters Ygritte has described but he has never felt. Now it is fading away until only his excitement remains.

He nearly tackles Ygritte to the bed when he grabs a gentle but urgent hold of her neck and kisses her, nearly missing her lips because he is smiling so broadly, and she laughs when they fall back onto the mattress. With roaming hands, Jon pulls the shirt over Ygritte's head, throwing it off into the darkness, and his lips scatter kisses down between her breast and over her stomach, his fingers splayed over the smooth skin.

Ygritte eventually has to pull him up to meet her eager lips, his own unwilling to stop painting invisible patterns on her stomach, but when her hand slips between them to push down his shorts and she nudges his shoulder until he is flat on his back, Jon drowns in her, allows the joy of the moment to take over. It seems to glow between them, and after, when Ygritte scoots closer until her back is pressed into his chest, he moves to splay his fingers over where their unborn child is safe and sheltered. He feels nothing now, but the memory of it still draws a smile upon his lips.

.:.

Jon wants to marry her, he'd marry her right now if only she let him. He knows she has nothing against marriage, but he knows very well that she does not want to get married because they're having a baby. She has made that quite clear the night she bought all those tests, and he has not brought up the subject since then.

But sometimes he finds himself wondering, wishing, imagining, and he can not deny that all his childhood nightmares are haunting him more and more the bigger Ygritte's belly grows, the more real it becomes that he will be a father soon. His old promise of never making his father's mistake is ever present, and he finds it harder and harder to be denied this wish.

Still, he wants to do it all properly (when have we ever done things properly, Jon? she asks him one night, and he chuckles because, as usual, she is right). He'd buy her a ring and give her the kind of wedding she deserves, and neither of those things fit into their budget at the moment, not when they are looking for a bigger flat to live in.

He brings up the idea of buying a house once over dinner (a proper house with a garden to play in and a fireplace to sit in front of), but Ygritte only calls him mad and nearly throws the dishcloth at him when he mentions the trust fund he has had access to for years but never ever used for anything. Money is a delicate subject, especially his family's money. The two of them earn enough to afford a decent flat, but Jon knows that Ygritte easily feels overwhelmed by the fortune his family hoards behind closed doors.

(Jon gives in that evening, kissing the swell of her belly and murmuring hushed words to their unborn child, but he never deletes the bookmarks of houses that are on sale in the area from his laptop.)

It takes them two months, but finally they find a flat that Jon thinks is almost as good as the house he sometimes sees in his dreams. It has big windows and a balcony, and out of the bedroom window, you can see nothing but trees.

They fight over what colour the nursery should be for so long that they eventually decide to keep the damn walls white, and Jon gets Sansa to help him paint a tree on the wall over the crib he has set up with Grenn. The leafs are five different shades of green, and when Ygritte comes home that night, she has tears in her eyes and kisses him so fiercely it almost knocks Jon off his feet.

.:.

Somehow, they have started fighting about absolutely everything. It is nothing compared to the usual bickering, the mocking remarks, or the actual fights that sometimes result in screams and thrown objects. Those fights, although they have become rare over the past few years, are usually substantial, born from the vast difference between them that both of them sometimes like to pretend does not exists. Whenever they hit that wall, though, it ends in an explosion, and the fire usually takes its time to give way to ashes and coals.

But now, they stumble every turn they take. What cereal Jon bought, the colour of the new bed sheets, the smell of his deodorant, the suddenly ugly closet they bought together, the long hours at work, how he laughs, when he laughs, that he laughs, her growing stack of pregnancy jeans, the shirts she is growing out of, how he does not support her enough, how he needs to make more time for the class she has signed them up for, the music that is too loud, the food that he cooks all wrong.

For two weeks, the tension between them grows, but the explosion that Jon is used to and dreads never comes. He waits for it, is careful and hesitant about everything he says or does.

When the moment comes, it is different from what he has expected in every way. Ghost wails in front of the bathroom door, and he finds Ygritte sitting naked in the shower, arms wrapped around her knees, wet hair plastered to her face, and her eyes are so red from the tears she must have cried for much longer than he has been back home from work.

Ygritte, he whispers with eyes wide open, and he is sitting down on the shower floor next to her in a heartbeat, not caring for the water that pours down and soaks his clothes. She almost instantly buries her head in his chest, grasps his shoulder so tightly he can feel where her nails are biting his skin. Through the pouring of the water and the violence of her sobs, he can hardly make out what she is saying, her voice muffled also by her lips being pressed against his chest. But he can clearly hear the word sorry, over and over, no matter how gently he rocks her in his arms, no matter how many times he kisses the top of her head and runs his fingers through her hair.

You do know I love you, right? she whispers that night as she straddles his thighs in the dark, the swell of her belly pressing into him. His hands come up to slip under her shirt and smooth across her soft skin. Beneath his touch, their baby moves, and Jon sits up to kiss Ygritte's forehead.

I know, he murmurs against her skin, shuddering when she draws her blunt nails up his spine. I love you, too. So much. Both of you. He can hardly express the depth of his feelings, can only kiss her and pull her into him as close as possible, and when his name becomes a raspy chant, he prays to all the gods that she understands.

.:.

Something smells odd, Jon knows it. It doesn't smell burnt, though, so he ignores it, angrily stirring the yellow sauce that he is sure should not be this lumpy. He hears the front door opening and closing, the thud of a bag being thrown on the floor and the shuffling of feet against the rug.

I'm home! Ygritte's voice carries in from the hallway, and Jon mutters a curse under his breath before abandoning the lumpy sauce. He'll have to give it a second try anyway. Throwing the spoon into the sink – he has no clue why he has used so many bowls - and turns just in time to see Ygritte walking into the kitchen.

She shrugs out of her coat, throwing it over the back of one of the mismatched chairs. Meeting her halfway, Jon wraps his arms around her waist, feels the swell of her stomach pressing into his when he leans down to kiss her.

Everything all right? He mutters against her lips, hands roaming from her back to her stomach.

Her own hands curl around his neck, sifting through his hair. Yeah, she whispers softly, brushing her lips over his again. Healthy little nugget. Jon sighs when she massages his neck, leaning his forehead against her own. Did you sort things out with Thorne?

He groans. The man is the reason he has missed another one of her doctor's appointments, not allowing him to switch shifts, and the mere thought of him makes him want to punch a hole into the wall. Let's not talk about it, he says, untangling himself from Ygritte - not without pressing a kiss to her forehead. Not now. I'd like to enjoy what little time I get to spend without him. The odd smell somehow seems to have vanished, and so Jon pulls open the fridge for more butter, ignoring one of the magnets that drop noisily to the floor.

I'm sorry, Ygritte says, her hand cradling her stomach. It's a sight that makes his chest flutter every time. He fumbles with the greasy foil around the butter, watching Ygritte as she peeks into the large pot with tomato sauce. You're making lasagne?

Her question is a little redundant as she points to the packet of lasagne sheets next to the kettle, but he nods anyway. Needed to take my mind off things.

You don't know how to make lasagne. His eyes roll into the back of his head when she grabs the dirty spoon from the sink to probe around the lumpy mess that was meant to be a béchamel sauce.

Neither do you, he mutters against her cheek, running his hand down her spine.

She laughs, twisting in his arms. That's true. Untangling from their sort-of-embrace, she moves to grab the kettle.

For a while, they work in silence, Ygritte pouring herself a cup of tea and stirring the bubbling tomato sauce. Jon?

Her voice breaks through the comfortable silence, the sound of his name almost shy. Hmm? he murmurs, busily stirring the flour into the butter, determined to make it work this time.

Suddenly, her hand is grabbing his, entangling their fingers and pulling him closer to her, close enough that her lips touch the shell of his ear. It's a girl.

.:.

The man's head is severed cleanly by the flying piece of debris, and Jon flinches a little at the nauseating sound. The panicked screams that follow hurt his ears, and he silently curses Ygritte for turning the volume up so high (what's the point when you can't hear them scream?)

It's not that he doesn't like these kind of movie - although he is sure he does not like them even half as much as Ygritte does - but his hands are sprawled over Ygritte's exposed stomach, shirt pulled up to bunch just underneath her bra, and their repetitive banter echoes in his memory. The baby can hear. She doesn't understand. You'll get an adrenaline rush and she'll know something's wrong. Nothing's wrong.

Perhaps he is worrying a little too much, and Ygritte seems just fine propped up on the couch with her bare feet hovering just over the floor and a tub of chocolate ice cream balancing on one hand, the other buried in his hair. But Jon's hands are still protectively splayed over her belly.

It seems to grow every day now, much to Ygritte's annoyance, but to Jon it is the most beautiful sight in the world. He never wants to stop touching her, drawing the shape of a sun around her belly button to avoid the gushes of blood greeting him on the television screen.

His head is resting comfortably on Ygritte's lap, and nothing in the world could ever be more perfect, he is sure of it. With light movements of his finger, he adds rays to the invisible sun he is painting, imaging bright yellow lines instead.

I look like a balloon, Ygritte mumbles suddenly, and when Jon looks up, he is surprised to see her watching him. The television seems forgotten, the characters arguing nonsense about some sort of pattern Jon has next to no interest in.

He stops moving his fingers, instead pressing his palms gently against the curve of her belly, lips brushing lightly over the sensitive skin. You're beautiful, he whispers, words muffled but he knows she can hear them when her fingers sift through the hair at the base of his skull.

For weeks he has watched her staring at herself in the large bedroom mirror, hiding her stomach beneath billowing clothes and wide sweaters, running her palms over the swell that shelters her child, cupping her larger breast with furrowed brows, groaning at her legs and swollen feet. Jon could not care less about any of it, and it makes him sad that no matter how many times he kisses her and tells her how beautiful she is to him, she never quite believes him.

You're an idiot, she scoffs, but the shy smile that curls the corners of her mouth is more than enough for Jon. When she turns her attention back to the movie, Jon presses another kiss just below her belly button, deciding that a flower would work just as well as a sun.

What do you think she'll look like? he asks after a few minutes, drawing invisible petals on Ygritte's pale skin. She looks down at him with a curious expression, as if she has not really thought about it yet. Jon imagines it all the time, sees different faces smiling at him in his dreams every night. Sometimes they are crying, but he does not want to think about that now.

I hope she has your hair, Ygritte finally says, quietly, almost lost in thought. Her fingers are still buried in his hair, and he sighs at the soft touch.

I hope she has your hair, he replies, remembering the little red-haired girl that had danced in his dreams with a bright smile on her face. Leaning down a little further, so close his lips are brushing against the skin beneath her belly button, Jon murmurs softly. Do you hear me? I hope you have your mummy's hair.

Ygritte chuckles, twisting a little beneath him. He knows how ticklish she is, but she still allows his touch, never turns him away. That's weird, she says, resting her own hand on top of her stomach.

What? Jon asks, propping his head up on his fists. That I'm talking to her?

She shakes her head softly, eyes staring off into the distance. He has seen this look a few times over the past few days. It comes out of nowhere, triggered by nothing in particular. From one minute to the other, she seems utterly lost in thought, a chill running through her which he does not know how to soothe. No, not that, she eventually replies, finding his hand to entangle their fingers. That's sweet. And she moves when you do it, you know? The smile on her lips seems to melt the fear he knows she feels as much as he does, and he moves to sit up, pulling her into his side. I think she knows it's you.

He wants to believe that, cherishes every light flicker of their daughter's movement he can feel. Every night, his hands come to rest on Ygritte's stomach, smiling when their daughter responds with a gentle kick (nothing's gentle about it you idiot, she's doing karate moves in there, you know?). What's weird then? he whispers into the crook of her neck, lips brushing across the sensitive skin where shoulder meets neck, and he can feel her shuddering in his arms.

Ygritte hesitates for a minute, the noise from the television drowning out her soft sigh when he nudges his nose against the shell of her ear. Calling me mummy. I just... I haven't really gotten to that part yet.

It is the first time she has admitted it out loud, the same fear he shares. He is glad to hear the words, glad that she is finally ready to open up. For weeks, both of them have buried their fear. His fingers curl tighter around hers, silently reassuring her that they are in this together. Whatever challenges might come their way - and he knows they will - they will face them together. Deep in his heart, he knows she will be a wonderful mother, just as she seems to have more faith in his abilities as a father than he can muster. It seems such a foreign thought, and neither of them are quite able to grasp the reality of it, yet.

His free hand finds her flushed cheek, gently pulling her to face him. We'll get there, he murmurs, his eyes meeting hers, deep and blue, before his lips find hers and everything around them, all the fears and worries, even the exaggerated screams from the long forgotten movie begin to disappear.

.:.

Aemma... Alerie... Anya... Beth... Brea... Ghost nudges his knee for the tenth time in the last five minutes, but Jon only strokes the soft fur behind his ears. His legs are beginning to feel tired as he sits with them crossed beneath him on the bed, the book of baby names open on his lap and a large number of other books scattered around him.

Ygritte stretches out her legs, yawning as she does while her fingers flicker through a large history book about the Long Night. He knows she is neither really looking for names in there nor listening to him as he reads out loud all names that do not sound entirely terrible from the book he has ordered. For weeks, they have avoided the subject of giving their daughter a name. Now Jon understands exactly why. Dacey... Daena... Elia... Elinor... Frenya... Holly...

Ghost nudges his knee again, his wet nuzzle cold against the skin left exposed by his shorts. Rain is drumming heavily against the window, and it's times like these that Jon wishes the dog could just take himself for a walk. Soon, boy, he murmurs absent-mindedly, eyes never leaving the seemingly endless list of names before him. Jayne... Jyanna... Kyra... Lia... Lyra...

Rather ungraciously, and with a noisy thud, Ygritte flings the heavy history book across the bed. It lands just a few inches away from Ghost's tail, and he grumbles, curling up against Jon's side with an annoyed huff. Jon watches Ygritte as she splays the fingers of her left hand over the ever growing swell of her stomach - he knows this look on her face, slightly wondrous, scared and overwhelmed. It is the look she has much more often recently, when their daughter moves inside her. He longs to cross the distance and rest his own hand next to hers, but all he can reach are her feet, and so focusses back on the book. Maerie... Marya... Mya... Rhea... Sarya... Talea... Willow-

That's a tree, not a name. It's the first time Ygritte has spoken since her complaints about the lack of decent names in one of his copies of 'Dragons and Mythical Creatures'. Part of him had wanted to chuckle, not really expecting to find a name for their daughter in that book, but he had kept his mouth shut. It had been another sleepless night for Ygritte, he had felt her twist and turn and sigh next to him for hours until she had curled into his side.

I didn't come up with it, he replies, meeting her annoyed gaze. The circles under her eyes have darkened, and he wishes he could just wipe them away with a soft brush of his thumb.

A Weeping Willow, that's your tree, Ygritte mumbles, leaning forward as far as her belly allows to grab the book from Jon's lap. I don't like any of these, how do people do this?

Jon sighs, leaning backwards until his back lands flatly on the soft mattress. Ghost jolts awake from the sudden movement, curiously nudging his nose against Jon's neck. It is cold and wet, but he laughs softly nonetheless, staring up at the white ceiling of their bedroom. I have no idea.

Let's just name her after someone in your family, Ygritte suggests, an exhausted huff of breath more than actual words, and Jon looks up at her with furrowed brows.

Why? Her feet nudge his own, cold against his skin. Over her shoulder, he can see the raindrops running down the window, dark grey clouds covering the sky, and he feels a lot more miserable about it than he should.

Cause I feel lazy and I'm tired and this is getting on my nerves, she says quickly, the words shooting out of her mouth like arrows, and it takes her longer than before to crawl out of bed. He worries briefly about her bare feet on the cold floor, but she strides over to the where she left behind her sweater with determination. And I don't have a family, and we're not going to call our daughter Tormunda.

Jon laughs at that, watching her as she struggles to pull the sweater over her stomach. He can imagine the look on Tormund's face, a mix of horror and honour. Still, he agrees that it is definitely not an option, and they do need to find a name. Who would we name her after? he asks, mentally flicking through the thick photo albums kept in the library at Winterfell. No name, no person stands out.

Out of all his siblings, he loves Arya the most, but it does not seem right no name his daughter after her, such a final act of honouring a loved one. He has never known his aunt Lyanna, dead around the time he was born, nor his grandmother Lyarra. The memory of more names is blurry, and he fails to grasp a single one that appears right.

Oh, I've no idea, Ygritte moans in annoyance, sitting down on the edge of the bed. I'm hungry.

Smiling softly to himself, Jon sits up and moves to kneel behind her. As soon as his fingers come to rest on her shoulders, her soft sigh echoes through the room, and she leans gratefully into his touch when he applies soft pressure, gently moving his thumbs in circles over the stiff flesh. You're always hungry, he whispers into her ear, nudging the shell with his nose, making sure she can feel the grin on his lips.

She snorts, the vibrations sending shivers down his spine, slapping his arm so lightly he can barely feel it. Shut up.

.:.

Jon nearly lands right on his face. The vividly printed cardboard box had been hiding just behind the front door of the apartment, and, busy with the keys and the bag of groceries, Jon does not see it until it is too late. Just barely finding his balance, he groans when he takes a closer look at the box - and the four others stacked against the wall. Seven Hells. Ygritte!

The shuffle that follows carries in from the open door of the nursery, and Jon crosses his arms over his chest after putting down the bag of groceries. Yes? Ygritte asks, walking into the living room with a wide smile on her face. Her hair is in a bun, although most of it now curls loosely around her face, barefoot, and Jon has to fight the smile when he takes in the sight of her in his own sweater, barely long enough to cover her ever growing stomach.

What's all this? He points at the ripped-open boxes around his feet.

There's a splash of paint on Ygritte's flushed cheek, and Jon wonders what she is up to now. Ever since she has stopped working the week before, she has bought more things for the baby than they would ever need, decorated the nursery and the apartment and watched and read everything she could get her hands on.

She bites her lower lip, trapping it beneath her slightly crooked teeth just as she leans against the white door frame. Well, we needed a mat for the changing table, and they had these cute pyjamas with frogs on them and a mobile with cute little monsters that's perfect and-

I wanted to buy a house, Jon interrupts her, dropping his hands.

Ygritte scoffs at his words, turning on her heels. It wasn't that expensive.

Rolling his eyes, Jon navigates trough the mess of boxes and wrapping paper. He has every intention of sulking for the rest of the evening - or at least until the spaghetti are cooked and Ygritte stops painting flowers next to his tree.

In the end, it takes less than ten minutes for him to give in. With a groan, he pulls the mobile out of Ygritte's hands when she tries to manoeuvre herself onto a ladder, and after he has put it into its place above the crib, he kisses away the smug grin on her face.

She giggles, grasping onto his arms, shivering when he pushes his hands under the sweater she has claimed for herself, feeling the gentle movement of their daughter - so close, but still too far away.

.:.

Lemon cakes are for posh people. Jon clearly recalls Ygritte's words, never spoken directly in front of Sansa, but whispered in his ear at pretty much every event or birthday hosted by his sister.

The echo of them tickles a laugh that he struggles to hide as he watches Ygritte devour the fourth lemon cake. He can practically see how sticky her lips must be by now, and the scent of lemons lingers sweetly in the kitchen.

Refusing to let Ygritte carry anything up the stairs to their flat any more, Jon is the only one responsible for grocery shopping these days, and after Sansa's birthday party last month, his most important weekly mission has been to supply Ygritte with her fix of lemon cakes.

I can't believe I never tried them before, she had said, hovering by the buffet with two lemon cakes in her hand and another in her mouth, disfiguring her words.

Now, every Wednesday and Friday morning after the end of his night shift, Jon stops by the bakery Sansa has recommended. By now, the woman behind the counter knows exactly what he wants, and this morning, had presented him with a card box of already packed lemon cakes when he had walked up to the counter.

Should I still make lunch or are you done? he asks with a grin as Ygritte reaches for the next lemon cake, licking her fingers before taking a large bite. Her answer is delayed until she has swallowed, looking at him with her eyebrows almost disappearing underneath some loose strands of flaming red hair.

Course you have to make lunch, she replies with a shrug. You know nothing, Jon Stark. His smile only grows, and when he walks to stand behind her, kissing her cheek where it tastes like lemon and sugar, she falls into his embrace.

.:.

Ygritte is curled into his side on the sofa, Jon's eyes fixed on the swell of her stomach where their daughter's every movement is now visible in a grotesquely beautiful way.

His fingers try to follow her, but she seems to be dancing, quicker than him, escaping his touch. Ygritte laughs softly when he finally resigns and rests his palm just above her belly button.

I love you, she murmurs into the side of his neck, voice tired and raspy. The long wait for their daughter, the past months, sleepless nights, aching limbs and constant headaches are starting to leave their marks on her. Every day, Jon can see the changes, fights to make life as easy and as comfortable for her as possible. But he is still working double shifts, all to be able to take more time off when their daughter is finally born.

But, despite the fatigue in her voice and the way her body slumps against his, the sincerity in her words is bright and clear. Love you, too. His lips finds the top of her head, planting a kiss there. Strands of her hair that have escaped the ponytail are tickling his jaw, but he cherishes the sensation.

Their now empty plates are sitting on the coffee table, a soft tune Jon doesn't recognise echoing from the stereo. Outside, the world is slowly fading into darkness, a soft orange glow illuminating the dimly lit living room. In this moment, Jon feels more peaceful than ever before, every even breath Ygritte takes, every twist and turn of their daughter - it all adds to the perfection of the moment, and Jon never wants to let it slip through his fingers.

You know, if you asked me right now, I might say yes. Jon's brows furrow at her words, and when she moves to sit back, he finds her eyes bright and clear, the smile dancing on her lips radiating across her glowing face.

What? he asks, a small flicker of hope suddenly gleaming inside of him as warm as the spring sunlight.

Ygritte's smile widens, her hand finding his. He watches breathlessly as she intertwines their fingers. You know what I'm talking about.

I thought I knew nothing? They both laugh at that, the countless memories of her saying exactly those words like a mantra between them, the red line weaving itself through their story, from the day he had run into her until this night.

Are you serious? he asks when their laughter has died down, the tremble in his voice a sign of fear that he can not hide.

Ygritte meets his unsteady gaze, her blue eyes shining, and she nods so softly that he would never have noticed had he not been so focussed on every minuscule feature of her face. But don't expect me to squeeze into a fancy dress when I don't even fit into your sweatpants any more.

Jon grins, his heart suddenly growing wings and shivers coursing through his body like butterflies. His finger pokes the soft flesh of her bare thigh - she has stopped wearing trousers of any kind around the flat days ago, and he can not say that he minds very much.

She catches his hand, but keeps his warm, calloused palm pressed against her thigh. The gentle circling of her fingers against the back of his hand draws his attention back to her face, and he searches desperately for any sign of hesitation. He wants this badly, but has never brought it up again in the last few months. He wants this, but he wants her to want it, too - and not because she feels like it is an obligation. Why now?

I don't know, Ygritte replies honestly, and Jon breaches the silence by capturing her lips with his. The kiss is more heated than any they have shared in the last few weeks, her body too tired, his own too careful. Now, she curls her fingers around his neck, sifting through his hair, and the soft moan that he swallows only spurs him on to pull her closer to him. It proves a difficult task, but his hands roam her back, and he knows she can feel the vibrations of his groan as much as he can feel every single one of her shivers.

When his hands slips beneath the hemline of her shirt, feeling her warm, soft skin under his touch, Ygritte gently parts. Their breathing is heavy and warm between them, and Jon can not hide the smile that creeps into his lips.

You still haven't asked, Ygritte states breathlessly, pressing a chaste and quick kiss at the corner of his mouth where his grin is widest. You really don't know how this works.

Catching her in another kiss, not as heated, but just as deep as the one before, Jon silences her. When they part again, he blindly searches for her hand, presses her palm against where his heart beats violently against his ribs. Will you marry me?

She rests her forehead against his, their noses bumping clumsily against each other's, but none of it matters, only the husky whisper than Jon can feel rather than hear. Yes.

.:.

They get married nine days later. It is small and quiet, the rings chosen in a rush only the day before. Nothing about it is very traditional - they spend the night before together, curled into each other for the short moments before Ygritte crawls out of bed to walk around, her back aching. Jon helps her into the white dress before they leave, the one she has bought with Arya only days before. It is plain, flowing enough to fit her large belly, but there is a delicate embroidery around the sleeves and the neck, and Ygritte chuckles when Jon runs his fingers over the pearls and stones.

He has to help her with her shoes - green ballerina flat, which are the only shoes despite her dirty and worn boots that still feel comfortable on her swollen feet. With a smile on his lips, he leans against the door frame of their bathroom and watches her as she pulls back her hair, delicate fingers twisting it at the back. He steps behind her, rests his hands on her stomach where their daughter seems as excited as he is. I love you, he whispers into the thick curls that cascade down Ygritte's back, and she leans into his chest in return, closing her eyes with a soft hum.

With their hands entwined, they walk down to the city hall - The only time I'm squeezing myself into the car will be when your kid finally decides she wants out. Tormund is the only one already there, kicking away a cigarette stump when he spots them across the street. He's wearing the brown suit he always wears for any sort of formal occasion (Jon vaguely remembers him wearing it for a funeral years ago, and the thought makes him a little uneasy), and he ruffles Jon's hair before slapping his shoulder. Underneath the roughness, Jon can see something else, a softness that the man knows how to hide well. Still, Ygritte kisses him on the cheek covered by a wild, red beard, and Jon pretends not to hear the whispered thank you.

Talisa and Robb come running down the street only a few minutes later, red-faced and cursing about a lack of parking spaces. In her hand, Talisa holds a bouquet of bright red and yellow flowers, and Ygritte only shortly attempts to complain about the gesture before taking it. With the sky slowly turning from bright blue to bleak grey, they decide to wait for Arya inside, and just as he is about to turn and follow Ygritte through the wide, golden-framed door, Jon catches the proud and happy grin on his brother's face.

Arya eventually pops in through the door ten minutes later, her hair plastered to her face just as her shirt is to her body, and she hisses a whole string of curses that cause an old lady to turn and shoot her a lethal look. Arya only smiles sweetly at the woman before marching across the carpeted floor, leaving behind a trail of rainwater, and within the minute, she is chasing Jon through the long room.

Jon barely hears a words of what the stiff man in the blue suits says - he only hears the throbbing of his own blood in his ears, feels his stomach doing somersaults, grips Ygritte's hands so tightly she nudges him in the side, and stares at her in absolute awe. He has seen it all a thousand times before, the red of her hair, the white of her skin, the pattern of her freckles, the bridge of her nose, the deep blue of her eyes, the black of her lashes, the way the white fabric of her dress causes her to glow, the swell where their daughter rests - as much a part of this as they are. But in this moment, as she says the two words that he nearly choked on just a few seconds before, everything about her seems more beautiful, amplified by the impact of the moment. I do.

Jon finally feels home when she slides the ring onto his finger, when he loses himself in her grin and sinks into the soft kiss.

Later, when the sun slowly sets, everybody sits on the thick carpet in their living room, scattered boxes with takeaway food and empty plates all around them. The smell of spices is heavy and thick, as pungent as the hearty sound of laughter. Jon, for the fifth time, nudges Ghost away from his plate of noodles, but he knows exactly that Arya is secretly feeding him some of her rice.

The hours pass by in a blur, Arya dramatically re-enacting one of Jon's less fabulous childhood attempts at sword-fighting with Robb as a helpful partner, Tormund roaring with laughter as he pulls out a photo album Ygritte has never seen before. When the first picture of herself with a bra around her head and her pigtails tied together with shoe laces is held up, everyone understands why Tormund has kept this weapon a secret until now. She tries and fails to tear it out of his hands, barely able to move, and Jon pulls her back into his side, kisses her temple while ignoring the sharp pain where her elbow meets his ribs. Stop laughing, it's not funny.

All night, Jon catches Ygritte as her eyes drift towards Talisa. She can not really hide the slight swell of her belly any more, not even under the billowing brown dress she wears. Even after weeks of speculation on Jon and Ygritte's part, curiously, nothing is confirmed. Jon trusts his brother with his life, and accepts whatever reason they have for keeping this a secret for so long. But he can not deny the excitement at another nephew or a niece, a second cousin for his unborn daughter.

It is dark outside when Robb and Talisa say goodbye, the closing door leaving the flat in serene silence. Ygritte drops herself onto the sofa with an exhausted huff that makes Jon grin, and he piles up the empty plates and boxes to carry them into the kitchen.

When he walks back into the living room, he discovers that Ghost has claimed his usual spot on the sofa next to Ygritte, yawing widely, one white paw resting protectively on Ygritte's stomach. The first time he had found them like this, three weeks ago after the end of a particularly draining late shift, they had been sleeping on the bed. In the dark, Jon had made his way into the bedroom, eyes swollen from fatigue, only to find his side of the bed occupied by a massive ball of white fur, curled into Ygritte's side. Even back then, one paw had protectively shielded their unborn baby from the outside world.

Running his fingers through the thick, warm fur behind Ghost's ears, Jon squeezes himself into what little space remains on the sofa. Holding out his hand against the light of the lamp, he marvels at the ring at his finger. You're so soppy, it makes me gag, Ygritte mumbles, but he catches her own eyes flickering down to her hand just before she looks up at him, sticking out her tongue.

He quickly crosses the distance between them, resulting in an annoying whelp from Ghost. But all that matters is Ygritte's soft sigh when their lips meet. Her hair has been a mess ever since they rushed out of the civil hall and towards Robb's car in the pouring rain, but he could not care less as he runs his fingers through the long strands.

Eventually, they break apart, and it is Ygritte who grasps his hand tightly now, pulling him up and into their bedroom. Ghost stays on the sofa, still yawning when Jon casts him a last glance before Ygritte claims his lips again.

His fingers tremble when he opens one button of her dress after the other until it falls to the ground, and it seems as if everything he feels is suddenly new and fresh, a new chapter with new impressions. He decides to make as many as possible that night, feels and touches and cherishes whatever she offers, and it is the content smile on her face when she gently kisses him afterwards that is all the reassurance he needs. They fall asleep naked but for the rings on their fingers, and in the early hours of the morning, Jon catches himself intertwining their fingers.

She wakes up a few minutes later, crawling out of bed with a chant of curses at her feet and back and legs and head, and everything is just the way it has always been.

.:.

Jon does not have a clue what to do with himself, and so he hovers. Decides to clean the sink while Ygritte is taking a shower, makes himself a sandwich when she pours herself a cup of tea, absent-mindedly strokes the soft fur behind Ghost's ears while Ygritte watches television.

Her contractions have started hours ago, and yet she is as calm as he has ever seen her. Wet hair wrapped in a towel, fingers curled around her cup, laughing at a cat food commercial. He, on the other hand, has checked her hospital bag three times in the last hour, and hardly ever takes his eyes off her. It had all started with a dull back pain she had been eager to hide, wincing when she thought he did not notice. Now, every now and then, she stops laughing, seems suddenly far far away, pressing her palm into the swell of her belly, eyes closing, forehead wrinkled in pain.

Jon already feels helpless, and he takes note of every single one of her movements, massages her shoulders, helps her put on her clothes, takes her hand, kisses her softly.

Calm down, you're making me nervous, she says when he stumbles into the bedroom to check the bag one last time, and she holds out her hand, silently calling him to join her. The reluctance is immense - after all the months, Jon suddenly feels terribly unprepared. The small part of his brain that can still think rationally knows that it is all too late now, anyway.

Later, Jon remembers only fragments of what happened that day.

The seemingly endless ride to the hospital, Ygritte grasping his hand on the stick shift when another contraction hits her unexpectedly. All the red lights on the way, the way his fingers go white around the steering wheel. Resisting the nausea that is fighting its way up his throat, determined to free him off his breakfast.

The sterile scent of the hospital, sickly green walls and a rush of people crowding the entry hall when they walk in, the bag slung over his shoulder and his free hand pressed into Ygritte's back. Her hands grasping his arm, brows furrowing, but still joking about the green tint of his face. Don't you dare faint, Jon. I'll find something to stab you with.

Hours upon hours waiting by the side of Ygritte's bed, watching her carefully as she drifts off into an uneasy sleep between contractions, fingers entwined. Listening to her breathing, helping her turn around in bed. The way his stomach flips at the sight of the nurse furrowing her brows, checking their daughter's heartbeat before rushing off. Laughing off his worries.

The sun setting outside. Ygritte's growing impatience, the words slipping from her mouth so breathlessly growing angrier with each contraction. The tears gathering in her eyes at the pain. Holding on to her hand tighter.

The way she begs and pleads with him, with the concerned doctor, with the kind midwife, with everyone who can hear her sobbing, the choked breaths that break his heart. The c-section she fights against like a tigress, grasping Jon's hand so tightly he can feel his fingers turning cold.

Kissing her forehead softly, pressing a cold cloth against the flushed skin, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb, whispering into her ear how much he loves her, that it will all be over soon. Feeling more useless than ever before, unable to share the pain, to lighten the burden she has to carry all alone. He does feel like fainting, like running. But he never does.

The screams, the blood, the way her hand grips his so tightly the silver of his wedding ring digs deeply into his palm. Time passing too achingly slowly. And finally, a high-pitched cry.

Like the most beautiful song.

The tears in Ygritte's glowing eyes. Her hand reaching out.

The warmth that spreads so violently and all-consumingly through his veins.

He might only remember fragments, but the sharpest memory he has ever had is that of his daughter in his arms for the first time, tiny and fragile, warm and soft, the love inside him swelling so largely it threatens to burst through his chest. The burn of his tears as they break free, and Ygritte's soft fingers ghosting over his when he rests their daughter on her chest. His lips finding hers, a kiss purer and deeper than any they have ever shared before.

In this moment, none of the countless worries seem to matter, the pain forgotten when Ygritte smiles with so much warmth. All that matters suddenly becomes tangible, just in front of him, sinking so deeply into his skin that he knows he will never be able to let any of it go.

They are a part of him now, entangled too tightly, engraved on his heart.

I love you so much, he whispers, lips brushing ever so slightly across Ygritte's temple, and she reaches out to grasp his hand, pulls him onto the bed next to her, neither of their eyes straying but a little from the sight of their daughter.

.:.

Jon knows he is tired. He can feel it in his bones. But what he doesn't feel is the weight of his eyelids making it hard to see, or the tremor in his arms when he gently rocks his daughter, wrapped tightly in a hospital blanket. He can't feel anything but the buzz that is still running through his veins, that has done so for hours.

She is perfect. Absolutely breathtakingly perfect, and Jon does not understand how he is ever supposed to take his eyes off her. Her eyes - only just beginning to open to the bright light of the afternoon sun streaming in brought the window - have the same shape as Ygritte's, but he can already make out speckles of dark grey in the misty blue irises.

There is a soft tuft of red hair covering her small head, and the sight makes Jon's heart ache even more. It is a good ache, resting sweetly but heavily on his heart.

He tucks tiny bare feet back into the swaddled blanket, gently presses the pad of his thumb into his daughter's palm. Short chubby fingers with the tiniest of fingernails instinctively curl around his.

She's got you wrapped around her finger already, Ygritte muses, and Jon is happy to see the tired but serene smile on her face. He moves to sit closer to her on the bed, her hand still pressing gently into his back.

I don't mind. His eyes stray from Ygritte back to their daughter's fingers wrapped surprisingly tight around his.

You're a lost cause, just admit it. They share a quiet laugh, and Jon carefully leans down to feather a kiss across Ygritte's forehead. She has something else in mind, though, catching his lips in a short but deep kiss just as he starts to pull back.

When they part, Jon looks deeply into her eyes, so close to his, and sees them flickering to the bundle between them. She never has to say anything. With slow and careful movements - she is so fragile, so tiny and vulnerable, and he is afraid of everything and nothing all at the same time - Jon gently rests their daughter in Ygritte's arms.

She cradles her there against her breast, cups the small head in her delicate fingers, running the tip of her index finger along the shell of a tiny ear, over a perfect pair of pink lips and across unbearably soft cheeks. All Jon can do is sit there and watch them, take in the peaceful moment, take a deep breath.

How are you feeling? he asks quietly, intently focussed on the smile Ygritte puts on to try and hide her fatigue. For the longest moment, she doesn't look up, only cradles their daughter closer to her, her free hand entangling with his as it rests limply on the hospital bed.

Like someone cut me in half with a chainsaw, then sew me back together and ran me over with a car, she finally chuckles, the words spoken with truth, but he can not help the huff of laughter when she looks at him with a grin.

He does feel guilty, has not forgotten the helplessness and horror of watching her in so much pain without being able to help. His thumb draws circles on the back of her hand, watching as their daughter's eyes flicker against the light and she starts to squirm in Ygritte's arms. That great?

It's all right. The sight of Ygritte's mouth opening in awe when their daughter is finally awake is mesmerizing, and Jon has to concentrate to even pay attention to her murmured words. It was worth it. With soft movements that seem to come to her seamlessly and fluidly like a dance, Ygritte slightly lifts their daughter, changing her position against her chest for Jon to have a better look. But I'm not doing that again.

He chuckles, resting his hand on top of hers where it covers their daughter's belly. Every breath causes the slightest of movements, and the rhythm is as soothing as nothing has ever been before.

In his ears, Jon can still hear Arya's delighted squeal. Her and Robb had visited a few hours before, with beaming faces and well hidden tears. The memory of Arya sitting crossed-legged on the hospital bed with her niece cradled in her arms, softly murmuring secret words into the baby's ear, would remain forever in Jon's memory. Just as Robb, taking the small bundle from Arya's hands, practised arms resting the little one against his chest as he walked up and down the room. Jon remembered well the day little Ned had been born, Ygritte dragging him into the hospital on quick feet. He's your godson, you idiot, nobody cares if you're afraid of hospitals.

He feels no fear now, not even when his siblings are gone, taking with them smiles and blurry pictures and the promise to send everyone else to come and visit as soon as possible. There are already countless messages and missed calls on Jon's phone, and he wonders how half of those people even know of his daughter's birth, when not even a whole day has passed.

You should get some rest, he suggests carefully when a violent yawn grips Ygritte, but she never has the time to agree to or, more likely, deny his offer. The rapid knock on the door silences her words before they can leave her lips, and neither of them has time to say anything before a rough face framed by wild red hair peeks through the opening door.

I heard there was someone here I needed to meet.

Ygritte's face lights up as Tormund marches through the room with booming steps, leaving the door open behind him. Jon does not know for sure - and surely would never risk any body part and ask - but he is quite certain that the man really was born in a barn.

You're late, Ygritte complains, struggling to sit up a bit more in the plain bed just as Jon stands. Tormund claps his hand on his shoulder so hard that it nearly knocks Jon off his feet, and the man only chuckles.

Stuff to do, you know, he says, eyes falling down onto the bundle in Ygritte's arms. Jon thinks that he sees Tormund's hard mask crumble a little, his eyes shining oddly bright, and he is suddenly very quiet.

Stuff more important than meeting your first grandkid? Jon suppresses his laughter, quickly walking over to close the door, the sound of footsteps from the hallway already biting at his tired nerves.

I'm no grandpa, kid, Tormund defends himself, arms crossed over this thick jacket, and Jon stands a few feet behind him, observing. The softness on Ygritte's face has only grown, and it tears at Jon's heart to see how much this means to her. For years, he has struggled to understand the relationship between Ygritte and the man who had raised her, who was not her father, but more of a parent than he had ever had, really.

Jon loves his father, the memory of him. But what he had with him had all been so different.

Tell that to her, Ygritte fires back, a bright smile stretching her lips, and she carefully reaches out her arms. Tormund takes a step back almost instinctively.

Oh, no. You keep that little bean, he says quickly.

As quick as lightning, her usual fierceness is back, burning in Ygritte's eyes like flames. Don't even try.

Eventually, Tormund stands no chance against Ygritte. Nobody really does, Jon thinks as he sits down next to her again, silently watching as Tormund hesitantly cradles his granddaughter - she is, truly, no matter how hard he tries to deny it - against his massive chest. She becomes almost invisible, so incredibly tiny in his thick arms.

Well, hello little bugger. Hope you're more like your dad than your mother, she's a pain in the ass, Tormund murmurs quietly as he lifts the baby a little higher, and just like that, all the roughness Jon has always associated with him washes away. Ygritte never speaks up in her own defence, and when Jon's eyes fall down to her face, he sees the silent tear that runs down her still flushed cheek. For a second, he hesitates, but then he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, meeting her overwhelmed smile with one of his own.

They spend the next half hour in silence like this, his one hands entangled with Ygritte's, and he runs his free hand through her knotted hair when she exhaustedly rests her head against his shoulder.

Eventually, just as the sun is beginning to lose its force outside, Tormund has to leave, more important stuff that needs to be done, one way or the other.

Jon fumbles with the strap on Ygritte's still only half-unpacked hospital bag as Tormund gives the yawning baby back to her, gently tucking her into Ygritte's arms. He feels like an intruder when Tormund drops a rare kiss on the top of Ygritte's head, where her hair is the same colour of fire as Tormund's, as the baby's. All three of them kissed by fire. Lucky.

The room is small, and so Jon pretends not to hear it when Tormund quietly speaks, the words meant for Ygritte's ears only. Your mother would be out of her mind.

Tormund-

No, kid. I mean it.

.:.

Jon kicks open the front door of their flat with the tip of his boots, and the creaking sound of the swinging door announces their arrival as much as the thump when he dumps the heavy hospital bag on the floor.

The living room is spotlessly clean and tidy - the result of two days of hard work - and he turns to see Ygritte's reaction. She is standing just behind him, their daughter in her arms, wrapped securely in the pale blue blanket given to them by a beaming Sansa. The sight of the unusually tidy space conjures a grin on Ygritte's face, glowing despite the dark circles under her eyes.

She opens her mouth to speak - most likely a mocking remark, but Jon doesn't care, he wants things to be as perfect as possible, and he knows her well enough to understand the gratefulness and appreciation she refuses to show sometimes - but before any words slip past her lips, Jon is nearly knocked off his feet. Just barely, he keeps his balance, grinning down at Ghost who nuzzles his neck into his stomach now.

Hello, boy, he murmurs, stroking deftly behind Ghost's ears. Jon has spend very little time in the flat over the last three days, most of those rare hours spend cleaning, and he has not missed the anxiousness in Ghost's every move. There was worry in his piercing red eyes, and he kept wandering through the rooms, as if searching for Ygritte, for a missing piece.

Eventually, Ghost drops his paws back onto the ground, and Jon watches as he slowly pads over towards Ygritte. He is slow and careful, not jumping up at her as he usually would have done. Instead, his large head rubs against her knee, sniffing, inspecting, before he lifts it to gently nudge at the quiet, immobile bundle in her arms. With a smile that Jon feels is contagious, Ygritte slowly kneels down.

Everything is very still for a moment, Ygritte face to face with Ghost, whose red eyes are focussed on the sleeping baby in her arms. Quietly, Jon takes a step closer, kneeling down himself, resting one hand softly on Ygritte's shoulder. She meets his gaze briefly, smiling contently.

Jon still vividly remembers the day he, Robb, Bran and their father had stumbled upon the litter of abandoned pups. All his adolescence, all the past years, Ghost had been such an important part of his life, a friend as dear as any human one he has. In this moment, kneeling in front of him with his wife and daughter by his side, just by the open front door of their flat with the blaring of their neighbour's television echoing through the hallway, everything seems to come full circle and fall into place.

Carefully, Ghost sniffs at the bundle that Ygritte has cradled against her chest. Their daughter's face is just barely peeking out of the fluffy blanket, eyes closes, lips slightly parted.

Good boy, Jon whispers, reaching out his free hand to pat Ghost's head, just as he leans down to gently nudge the baby's cheek with his wet nuzzle. He is gentle with her, flinching back in surprise when she begins to stir at the cold touch, and Ygritte laughs softly.

She meets Jon's eyes just as Ghost plops down onto the ground by her feet, never taking his eyes off the tiny creature wrapped up so tightly. Without a word, Jon meets her halfway, their lips brushing softly against each other. His fingers sink into her hair, pulling her a little closer, his other hand resting on top of hers where she cradles their daughter.

They sit like this for a while, entangled and silent, and when Ygritte tucks her head into the crook of Jon's neck, he feels the prickling of tears in his eyes. Sure, they are already tired, and he won't be able to stay home for as long as he would like, and they haven't really got a clue what to do once Ygritte wants to go back to work. Everything is a mess, but it is a beautiful mess, just as it has always been.

It is Ygritte who eventually scrambles back onto her feet, and Ghosts does not stray from her side when the walks back to shut the door. She laughs at her companion, ruffling his ears, earning an appreciative yawn.

Come, Jon says excitedly, grabbing Ygritte's free hand. Their fingers almost automatically fall into place, and he marvels at the look of surprise that washes over her features. I have a surprise for you. Both of you.

With slow but excited steps, Jon gently pulls Ygritte after him, steers her and their sleeping daughter towards the closed door that leads to the nursery. Ghost is right there with them, large paws padding softly on the carpeted floor.

Just in front of the door, his hand already hovering above the doorknob, Jon turns. With a smile, he presses a kiss to Ygritte's sceptical forehead, not allowing her any time to disapprove of a surprise - she hates them, has always hated them, but it never once before stopped him - before leaning down a little further, pressing a feathering kiss to their daughter's cheek. I love you, Alys, he whispers. The buzz in his veins is still not showing any signs of dying down. The warmth he feels is all consuming.

You're making me gag, Ygritte chuckles, deftly ruffling his hair, but he only smiles wider.

Alys stirs just slightly, one small hand fighting its way out of the blanket and into freedom. He takes it with his finger, taking a deep breath before opening the door.

. the end .