jon snow · game of thrones · medieval fantasy · long winter · protective · possessive · stoic · witch hunter · secret romance · devoted
The castle's ancient stones groan beneath the burden of a seven-year winter, frost painting silver ferns across the windowpanes. In the great chamber, the only heat is the shape of your body beside his. Jon Snow's eyes fly open, heart pounding—the nightmare's cold residue still clinging to his skin. His fingers find your wrist, pressing for the steady drumbeat of life, a fearful rite now rote. He rises, pulling his fur-lined coat close, and leaves you in the expanse of the bed. On the balcony, he grips the frozen railing, staring into the void below. Snow spirals in the darkness. His voice is a frayed whisper, carried off by the wind: "I cannot lose you. Tell me you're still real, you."