Work Text:
Jon’s getting a bit cold, specially his feet. He courses under his breath. “These old boots are cracking open again,” he murmurs. Theon ignores him and keeps on whistling, pacing slowly under the weight of his catch. The Greyjoy boy is a bit taller than him, but thin and pale, blond whiskers barely showing while Jon’s growing beard is a deep black that matches his hair. He spots the gate with relief, the snow hares heavy on his shoulders.
He feels the mud and snow soaking his leggings through the cracks in his boots. He would have to tell Harrold, father’s steward. He hates it. It makes him feel like a beggar. Robb and him are the same age but he grows taller already and Jon always gets his boots when he overgrows them. And tunics, and cloaks, and even breeches. He supposes nothing can be done. He’s a bastard and father will not concern himself with minor issues like boots. He lets these matters to his lady wife and well...he should be grateful he’s not walking around barefoot.
Him and Theon and two kitchen lads are done with skinning the animals and they are already in a huge bowl by the fire. The Greyjoy boy smiles widely, “so Snow, what do you say we go to Wintertown, eh? Some ale, a couple of girls,” he pats him in the arm, “come on, I’ll pay for the girls, you can have the one with the big breasts,” Theon winks. Jon remembers the girl, plump, porcelain skin, she sat on his lap and told him he was a handsome boy, he felt bad at first but then she let him see under her blouse and he felt something warm inside him. He liked that. Jon feels his guts twist. Whether desire or shame he can’t tell. Maybe both. “No, thanks.” Theon shrugs and leaves.
The chill of the evening air takes him by surprise after leaving the comfy kitchen. He passes by Sansa and Septa Mordane sitting by the fire in her mother’s solar. Arya is in a corner frowning at the sewing in her hands. She lifts her eyes and sticks her tongue to Jon who does the same to her. She giggles. Sansa doesn’t seem to notice him, deep in her stitches, a fox fur in her lap. It looks new. And warm.
After talking to Harald he goes into his dark room. He lights a candle and sits on his bed. He takes off the ragged boots and lays on his back, legs hanging to the side of the bed. The room is frigid, he should get the fire going but he doesn’t want to move, his muscles sore from the hunt. He dozes off until a soft knock wakes him up. He opens the door and Sansa is standing right there. She smiles, her arms stretched out, “here, I made it for you.” He wants to say something but the stubborn words refuse to leave his mouth.
Sansa is still, her voice a river, “the other day in the kitchen I noticed, hmmm.” A pause. “Your cloak is too worn out.” “Aye,” words finally come out in a rush, “it’s very old.” “Well, you won’t be cold with this one.” She smiles again and leaves, her thick auburn braids bouncing on her back. He notices he’s not cold anymore. He stands there with the shiny fox fur carefully folded in his arms looking at the space where she used to be, her flowery scent in his nose. He whispers stupidly to the empty hall, “thank you, Sansa.”