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Tormund wiped his beard after he took a long draught from his drinking horn and eyed Jon thoughtfully. For his part, Jon was just sitting next to him, staring into the closest fire. Ghost was sprawled out next to him, where Jon’s hand could play in his fur. Today had been a long day of hunting reindeer, now that the rut was over and spring was leaning into summer. They left the females and young ones, just looking for males cocksure enough that it was worth testing themselves against them. Jon said it was good husbandry but Tormund just thought it was right; let the beasts get their fuck on, then kill them. The other way and they just died wretched, this way at least Tormund knew they went out satisfied.

Of course a big hunt meant big work and everyone had been skinning, tanning and rendering. Now the fires were lit to smoke as much of the meat as they couldn’t eat, which meant no sleep, which meant a lot of drinking.

And a lot of drinking meant a lot of fucking.

Free folk had peeled off from the group, some retreating back into their tents, some not making that far, coupling on any nearby patch of grass. Tormund could hear the sounds of sex without straining, the grunts, groans, and sighs. If he tried he thought maybe he could smell the sharp tang of it, but that was just him wanting it, he knew that all he could smell was smoke, clinging inside his nose, blurring his eyes.

So Tormund couldn’t figure why Jon was just sitting next to him, staring at the fire like he was some sort of Red Woman.

Tormund took another swig. “What the fuck are you doing here, Jon?”

Jon flinched a little, pulling his cloak around him almost like he was hunching his shoulders. But Jon’s voice came out bone dry when he said, “I was banished up here, remember?” Jon turned to him, a twist to his mouth.

Tormund’s mouth smiled back all on its own. “You know what the fuck I mean.” Tormund gestured at the happy piles of Free Folk with his horn and a little drink sloshed out. Damn, drink wasted. “Any woman here would be happy to ride you ‘til your cock falls off and you’re sitting here with me like a man who doesn’t know how to sharpen his own spear.” The Free Folk were too proud to fall over themselves like Southernerns, but Tormund caught the glances of the women, and most of the men around Jon. Jon was gods-touched, twice born, rode a dragon. Everyone wanted to know how a man like that swung his cod.

The smile fell off of Jon’s face and he turned back to the fire. Tormund huffed a breath. Jon was damn moody. It fell to Tormund to break him out of it.

Jon said, “I took the Black.”

Tormund’s brows knit together. “So?” He asked.

“I shall take no wife, father no children.” Jon sounded sad. Tormund hadn’t known he wanted children so much.

“The wall got blown up but a dead fucking dragon, take as many wives as you want, have a thousand babies, I’m not going to turn you over.” Tormund nodded to himself, pleased. Sometimes Jon crawled too far up his ass he couldn’t see daylight and Tormund just had to tell him the facts.

“I can’t have children,” Jon squinted and Tormund flipped some of the deer strips hanging on the sticks above the flame to tamp down the smoke. The key was to dry the meat enough that it wouldn’t rot when they packed it. These pieces would last a while, but the ones smoking inside a tent would last for longer. Some of the coastal tribes used salt pulled out of the kelp to cure their fish, but Tormund’s people smoked it ‘til they had jerky. That’s why their teeth were so strong.

“Your swimmers don’t know where to go?” Tormund wondered how Jon knew.

Jon was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, it sounded as if the words were being pulled out of him from deep inside. “My father wasn’t my father.” That didn’t make sense to Tormund but it was probably some sort of Southern word puzzle. “My true father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

So it was politics. Tormund had spent enough time in the South now that he knew Targaryen meant kneeling, and banners, and a lot of people killing each other for the right to get more people to kneel.

Tormund whistled. “So you came up here so they couldn’t make you sit on some stupid big chair somewhere, eh?”

Jon’s head snapped up and he searched Tormund’s face. Tormund wasn’t sure what he was looking for, so he just held Jon’s eyes and eventually Jon nodded.

“That’s actually...correct, yeah.”

Tormund was almost insulted. Southern ways were stupid, that’s why Free Folk didn’t pay attention to them, not because they were hard to figure out.

“Still doesn’t explain why you aren’t fucking.” Tormund decided it was time to get them talking seriously again.

Jon didn’t look away as he explained, “They say that whenever a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin to decide if they will be mad or not. I can’t bring more of that into the world.”

Fair enough, Tormund thought. He went over what Jon said. Tormund had one or two young ones still running around, he could hand one over to Jon, at least for a while, burn off some of his baby craving. Tormund wasn’t useful to them until he could start to teach them to trap and track, but maybe Jon would have something to share with them now.

He’d suggest it to Jon tomorrow.

Jon was smiling again and Tormund knew the conversation was over. For now. “What about you?” Jon asked. “What’s your excuse for sitting here like a lump on a log?”

Tormund bared his teeth.

Truth be told, things weren’t working for him the way they used to.

When Jon first came up, he tried to bunk down with one of the spearwives, Embla. Amazing woman, he’d taken her into his tent many times before; she had tits that swung like axes and thighs that could crush a man’s head -- everything you’d want in a woman. She was wrestling him out of his clothes, and it should have set his spirit on fire but he wasn’t catching the spark She was quiet. That had never bothered him before, but it gnawed on him like a suckling dog, annoying and not going to get anywhere. When she pulled out his manhood, it was soft and she frowned. He tried to work into it, but he couldn’t quiet his mind.

He’d never had to push himself into sex before. As a rule, he just let his body do what it wanted, when it wanted and didn’t worry about it.

Embla wasn’t who his body wanted. He wanted someone to challenge him, but not in a fight. He wanted something complicated, which he’d never wanted before and didn’t know how to get.

The South had ruined him.

So until he could remind himself that he was a free man who fucked like this might be his last night and didn’t think much beyond that, he was taking a bit of a break.

Tormund couldn’t tell Jon that, so he said, “Some of us have a job to do,” and gestured at the fires. Here and there you could make out another solitary figure tending the flames. Most of them had lost a bedmate to the white walkers or the crows; they were taking the chance to honour their memory. Tormund decided to talk with them tomorrow, remind them of their place in the tribe.

“Fair enough,” Jon said, and reached for Tormund’s horn. Tormund passed it over, grinning wildly. This was a good night.

***

They left camp a few days after the smoking, leaving the reindeer and moving on to look for areas with better berries.

Jon walked without complaint, helped set up camp, ate his share and no more. He moved with the rhythm of the tribe.

Some days, though.

Some days the wind would blow from the south and Jon’s chin would pick up and Tormund would think, he’s going to leave.

As much as Jon moved with them, he was not of them, he kept himself apart. His harsh black clothes marked him out, tied him to places south of a border that didn’t even exist anymore.

***

They still went out on the hunt and Tormund made sure to set aside some treats for Jon, afterwards. So Tormund waited to Jon to start to droop during the long walks before stomping up next to him with the food. It was deer fat, deer meat, and berries mixed together. This particular set was made from the meat Tormund had tended. The next day after they’d smoked it Tormund had bashed it with a rock ‘til it was in pieces, mixed it with the fat and berries and shaped it.

“Here,” Tormund said and held out his hand.

Jon eyed him suspiciously, but reached out and took it, no complaints. He chewed for a second and said, “It’s good,” his eyes lit up and he smiled. Tormund ignored the spreading warmth in his own chest as a result of the bite he himself had taken. The food was pure energy, fire held in your hand. It would harden over time and then would be better served warm, but now it was a walking food.

“You think so little of us Jon, that we don’t know how to feed ourselves?” He teased, softening his words with a smile. Tormund passed a regular piece of meat to Ghost who took it delicately from his fingers.

The corner of Jon’s eyes wrinkled as he said, “In fairness, you tried to feed me rancid meat.”

“Fermented, Jon,” Tormund replied, in the now traditional joke, “or is that word too fancy for you.” When Jon had first arrived it was newly spring. Not wanting to waste meat they were travelling around digging up caches of meat. His people knew how to prepare for winter; you bury meat in the autumn, it ferments, it freezes in the winter and you can eat it any time. Those caches make the difference between starving and surviving in a long winter. None of that knowledge helped Jon when he was first offered some to eat. Some of the tribe were still doing a Jon-tries-to-eat-meat impression to amuse the children.

Jon just laughed, short, and sharp, and loud. Tormund clapped his shoulder as he moved down the line, pressing some more meat into his hand.

He walked ‘til he caught up with Thorgerd who was leading the group. He hummed a little as he walked, a dirty song that Podrick had taught him. Fifteen maidens all in a roll, a fol-de-rol-di.

Thorgerd angled her eyes at him. And again. Tormund stopped humming.

“Speak,” he demanded.

“You spend too much time with the dragon rider.”

Tormund frowned. “He has not chosen to take a legend-mark, Thorgerd. He is not one of our people.” Tormund had heard some of the tribe call Jon ‘Jon Twice-Born.’ Many in the South believed that Free Folk did not care about last names, but they took the idea of your legend-name very seriously. You had your every day name and if you did something truly special the tribe would gift you a second name. It replaced any other name you had before. When Tormund became Giantsbane was the day he stopped belonging to himself and started belonging to the tribe. He wasn’t sure Jon was ready for that.

She gave him a hard stare. “He lives with us, he makes camp with us. Either he is one of us and you are treating him like a child, running after him, hand-feeding him, shielding him from danger. Or, he is a Southern crow and you are treating him like a Lady and you should move him into your tent and share your fire with him.” Tormund fought a blush, let the breeze help him. No one knock him down like Thorgerd could, ever since they were children and first learning to use a spear.

She wasn’t done. “The others don’t know how to recognise courting,” Thorgerd spit the foreign word like she was trying to get the poison out, “They think you are playing favourites. They will resent him.”

He thought about trying to pretend he didn’t know what she meant but he’d never been able to lie worth shit and he was even worse at hiding anything from Thorgerd. “He doesn’t think of me that way.”

She fully turned sideways to stare at him, it made her walking look uncanny, like a spirit was wearing her flesh. He bugged his eyes out and she turned to face forwards. “Did you ask him?”

Tormund let his silence speak.

“Then how do you know what he thinks?” She punched him in the shoulder, hard.

Thorgerd was smart, and she knew Tormund, and she’d spent the same amount of time in the South that he had but she didn’t understand Southerners. Most of the tribe had spent their time with other Free Folk, Tormund had been in war councils with them, had eaten with them, even bedded a few. And he thought he knew how they worked.

Because it was so warm in the South, there was so much food. This meant they could be selfish; they kept things only for themselves. And they didn’t just keep food and jewels for themselves, they kept secrets. They kept their feelings tucked close against their hearts so others didn’t steal them.

It made them hard to understand, but Tormund knew Jon. Jon smiled when Tormund talked with him, fed him, knocked into him, but he wasn’t happy here. When no one was looking at him he stared at nothing. He slept late in the morning and wouldn’t go to sleep ‘til Ghost whined. Jon was heart-sick. If Jon was one of his, he would send him to sweat it out.

The type of sadness Jon had couldn’t be fixed without the sweat because it was in the blood. Tormund had only seen improvement when someone went into the lodge, filled it with the hot rocks and smoke from the right flower and breathed. The gods would come to them and show them how to draw the disease out of their blood.

And then they usually had a good cry for a while after that, but that was just making sure they got all the last bits out of their body.

Tormund had helped Hakon set up his own sweat after his woman was killed at Winterfell. Now the man was walking faster every day and started hugging his kids again.

Tormund didn’t know how to do that for Jon, so he’d been doing what he could with the extra food and extra time spent together.

Now Thorgerd was telling him that it was playing favourites. Favourites was dangerous. Jealousy ripped tribes apart and Jon wouldn’t survive.

***

Tormund backed off. He treated Jon the same as anyone. He got Embla and Thorgerd to teach Jon what berries were good and ripe so he could feed himself. Even if he would never be a good hunter, he wouldn’t starve now that Tormund stopped feeding him.

Every day Jon’s fingers got more sure of themselves, and Jon unbent. Unbent himself far enough to play kickball with the children. Tormund stopped to watch, smiled when he saw Jon get knocked over by the herd, and laughed when it happened again not two passes later. It didn’t hurt that Jon was laughing as well, playing up his clumsiness to the delight of the children. The camp echoed with their shrieks, like they had been visited by a flock of terns. No one could keep a glower on their face through that.

Tormund busied himself setting up their long-term camp. The quick spring had turned some of the land to moss-covered bog, but they found a place up-river. They could fish there, there was ample fruit, and sometimes an animal would wander close, lured by the promise of sweet water.

They settled, as much as their people could settle.

One night the sky was dancing in pinks and greens. Tormund was on fire watch, and he’d let it burn low, so that it seemed like the sky was alive all around him.

Jon sat down next to him. Tormund knew it was Jon because of the way he moved, still so loud, but with his black cloak he was invisible, just a part of the sky.

Neither of them said anything, but the silence was good, comfortable.

Out of the darkness, Ghost picked up the howl.

“You should quiet him,” Tormund said.

“Why?” Jon asked, curious.

“Whistling at the lights can call down the spirits. They might take him away.”

“I think he’ll take his chances.” A pause. “What type of spirits are up there?”

“The ancestors, the Gods, who can say?” Tormund shrugged. “Different tribes say different things. Some say it’s the pathway for the dead to follow, so they can go to where they belong. Some say it’s the ancestors dancing.”

Jon was silent for a long moment. Tormund suddenly needed to see his face and stoked the fire, stirring air over the coals. In the flicker of the sparks the lines in Jon’s face were etched in shadow.

“I want them to be dancing. I like the idea that up there...they’re free.” It might have been a trick of the shadows, but it seemed as if the deepest crags in his face eased a little, smoothing him out.

“Tormund?” Jon asked.

Tormund grunted.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

Tormund made a show of looking around.

Jon rolled his eyes. “During the day. Why do you ignore me during the day?” Tormund didn’t say anything. There was a war going on in his mind; there had been ever since he hugged Jon goodbye at Winterfell.

Jon’s voice got quiet. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Tormund yelled and Ghost whined, mid-howl. The silence echoed. Tormund put up a hand, struggling. “I...want you to stay. I--”

Jon was biting his lip. Tormund had a suspicion. “Thorgerd put you up to this didn’t she?”

Jon was shaking now. “Not just Thorgerd,” he managed, voice slightly strangled. “I’ve been given several suggestions.” Tormund thought about this. When he had backed off from Jon, it was possible that it had put the rest of his behaviour into a context the rest of the tribe had better understood. “I didn’t believe them.”

That stopped Tormund short. “Why not?”

Jon shrugged. “I thought you pitied me,” Jon said, trying to be casual but the words were too small to be anything other than serious.

Jon was the most confusing man alive.

“How could I pity you,” Tormund wondered, “After everything you’ve done, and now you’ve gotten what no man of the South can ever have, real freedom with us up here.” Tormund thought for a moment, deciding if this was worth it, but if Jon was a free man, he needed to be able to make free choices. “Anyone in the tribe would go for you, I’m not special.” He’d told Jon that before, but Jon could be a little slow and sometimes had to be told multiple times.

Jon looked up at Tormund without blinking and said, “I don’t want just anyone.” Tormund wondered.

Fuck it, he thought.

Testing, Tormund leaned in and Jon took in a breath.

Tormund grinned, all teeth. This changed things. Jon could hide his true feelings because of duty or some other bullshit, but he couldn’t hide real desire.

“Did anyone give you any ideas you thought were good?”

Jon paused. “Yes. Bolli told me to hit you over the head and drag you to my tent. I think that’s how he thinks Southerners do it.” Tormund wasn’t sure what pleased him more, Jon getting along with the tribe or Jon referring to his people as Southerners.

“I’m a little heavy for that.” Tormund leaned in a little more.

“I know,” Jon said, and matched him. “Also your tent is bigger than mine.”

Abruptly Tormund leaned back and Jon swayed towards him. “You want me, then use your words.”

“I thought the Free Folk were people of action?”

“Turns out I like words, every once in a while. If they’re the right ones.” Tormund raised his eyebrow.

“How about these, then: take me to bed, Tormund.” It was Tormund’s turn to shiver.

“Aye, that’ll do it.”

They leaned in and pressed their noses together, sharing the same breath. For a moment Tormund felt perfect, complete.

It wasn’t enough. “Hold,” Tormund sighed, “Hold this thought.”

He lunged to his feet and stumbled to Thorgerd’s tent. He tripped on one kid, kicked her man, eventually made his way over to her and shook her awake. “Mruh,” she said, pushing him away weakly.

“Wake the fuck up, woman,” Tormund was feeling pretty hasty.

“This better be an emergency.” Her voice was groggy so he could probably block any stab.

“Jon wants to go back to my tent.” Her eyes were open now, “I need you to tend the fire.”

“Fine, go,” she said and started levering herself up.

Tormund almost ran back out. He didn’t stop when he got back to Jon either, just scooped him up in his arms, ignoring Jon’s noise of surprise, and carried him back to his tent.

When he put him down, he didn’t let go, he just draped his own body over Jon’s. Jon leaned up and took his mouth, pressing his hot mouth against Tormund’s and reaching up his hands to cup Tormund’s cheeks. His fingers were just as cold as his tongue was hot when Jon pressed them against the fire in Tormund’s cheeks.

Tormund groaned and pushed down against Jon through his furs. Tormund inhaled the puff of air that Jon let out when Tormund pressed against him, pulling it inside his body.

Jon pushed at him a little and Tormund lifted a little, which turned out to be a mistake because Jon took the advantage to flip them.

Jon’s hands were greedy, taking and untying all his furs, and even the soft reindeer underneath. Tormund’s chest was bared to the air and he shivered and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold or because of the look in Jon’s eyes. Jon’s eyes were dark and Tormund felt held down by them. Jon licked his lips and Tormund shivered again.

Jon lifted his hands, but Tormund wasn’t even thinking about moving, he was just waiting to see what Jon would do. Which apparently was pulling his hands down Tormund’s chest, starting at his neck and going as far down as he could get to, which wasn’t quite as far as Tormund wanted. Tormund almost shoved Jon’s hands down when they started to work their way back up but he could be patient, let Jon do what he wanted. Jon tweaked Tormund’s nipple and then darted his head down to suck on it and Tormund grunted in surprise.

“I’m not a woman,” Tormund said.

“I know that,” Jon said, lifting up his head. “I just…” Jon shook his head and Tormund had a suspicion and two working hands. He used them to wrestle with Jon’s clothing, vowing to make him wear something more reasonable. His heavy Southern fabrics were just stupid. Instead of helping him out, Jon continued to pet at Tormund.

Eventually Tormund got in and his hands knew where to go, immediately seeking out and brushing over Jon’s nipples. Jon made a high pitched noise, jerking against Tormund and Tormund smiled. Just like he thought. Did it again, a little bit harder, got the same reaction. Turned out Jon was a bit sensitive. Tormund would show Jon the best parts for him to touch later, when Tormund was done making a mess of him.

Tormund kept it up until Jon was a shivering mess, more panting against Tormund’s mouth then kissing him.

Then, Tormund couldn’t stand it anymore. He pulled and shifted and tugged until he got their cocks out, again Jon was useless, this time because his arms were shaking, a sign of just how good Tormund had got him. Once he finally got Jon’s out, he couldn’t resist a stroke. Jon was hot and hard and his skin was soft in Tormund’s hand, softer than the finest tanned reindeer hide. He pulled, pulled long until he almost let go and Jon chased him, crashing his hips towards Tormund’s fist, putting Jon’s hips just where Tormund wanted them, flush against his own.

Tormund let go and Jon whined, his pink lips coming together in a pout. Tormund shushed him, biting savagely at Jon’s lower lip as he took both of his hands, placed them on Jon’s ass and pulled, lining their cocks up together. Tormund groaned. The friction was good, just enough sweat between their bodies to give some slide. Tormund kept them close, which mostly meant trying to hold Jon down as he bucked against Tormund, grinding against his dick.

Jon was a wild thing, making noises like they were being punched out of him, biting and scratching and Tormund’s chest, his jaw, his mouth.

For his part, Tormund was just enjoying the ride, the general build of pleasure every time Jon pressed against him, when Jon started to grunt and jerked against him once, twice, a third time and Tormund felt him spill between them, sticky and warm in the shelter they made between their bodies.

Luckily, Jon wasn’t one of those men who fell asleep immediately. He stilled for a moment, sticking them together before hesitating and pulling back, just a little, seeming to realise that too far and it got fucking cold.

“Tormund?” Jon asked, and Tormund had to kiss him.

“Just grab me,” Tormund said and Jon didn’t hesitate, reaching between them for Tormund’s cock and grabbing it in a firm grip.

Tormund tried to thrust up into Jon’s fist but Jon was sitting on his thighs and had all the leverage.

“Come on,” Tormund complained, but Jon didn’t move, just smiled down at him and twisted his wrist. Pleasure sparked along Tormund’s spine but he was powerless to do anything about it and Jon knew it. Tormund just had to take what Jon was giving him and Jon was giving him hard, steady strokes. Tormund grunted with each one, straining and flexing against where Jon had him pinned.

Eventually his body just gave up and spurted into Jon’s hand.

Unfortunately for Jon, Tormund was one of those men who collapsed immediately after. Tormund thought he heard Jon mutter, “Unbelievable,” at him, but he was already pulling Jon against him and settling in to sleep.

***

The next morning Tormund was walking around. The sun was out, the ground was crunching, the soup was good, and his chest was stinging with the reminders of Jon’s naips. He splashed some water on his face and neck, letting the burn of the cold let him know he was still alive. Lifting his clothes, he splashed some water on his stomach, making sure to get clean and that was a bit more of a shock, but worth it.

They all crouched down to eat, get some fat in them before the day’s tasks. When Jon emerged, Tormund waved him over and the people next to him made a space. He pulled Jon in against his side, nuzzling his cheek, before going back to grabbing food. Jon blushed. Everyone knew where Jon was last night, there was no point in Jon pretending and Tormund wasn’t going to let him try.

If he regretted it, he’d have to tell Tormund to his face.

As they were eating, Tormund kept his eye on a group of young hunters, who seemed to be having a serious discussion. If they had an issue with his bunk mate, it would be better to handle it now.

Hakon got up and Tormund braced himself but Hakon came towards Jon instead. If they decided to test Jon, it would go badly for them. Jon was a good fighter and besides they’d have Tormund’s wrath to deal with afterwards. But Hakon just shifted on his feet, nervous, and Tormund relaxed, there was no violence coming.

“Jon Twice-Born,” Hakon opened formally and Tormund winced. But Jon didn’t react to the name. Tormund would have to ask him about that later. “If you haven’t promised it to anyone else, can I have your tent?”

Jon looked completely confused and Tormund burst out laughing, joined by half of the elders. Tormund stood up, clapped Hakon on the arm, and pulled him slightly aside.

“Asking shows good spirit, but you should wait to do it when he’s alone.” Hakon collapsed a little and Tormund took pity. “Try again later.”

Tormund assumed he was successful because when Tormund came back to his tent after fishing to see a pile of furs added to his, an extra cup tucked next to Tormund’s. His heart swelled.

Jon came up behind him. “Is this all right?” he asked. “Hakon told me this was the right set-up, but he seems rather --”

“Young?” Tormund interjected.

“Foolish,” Jon said. Tormund shrugged. So are all youths.

He pulled Jon towards him, letting the covering of their tent close behind them. “This is perfect.”

***

Jon still stared to the South, and Tormund knew it was only a matter of time until Jon scooped up his cup and furs and left nothing but the space in Tormund’s life where they used to be.

Tormund never let thoughts like that slow him down. A man might fall into a crevasse and be lost to the ice, a woman may get gored by reindeer. Life was full of dangers, and just as many things that made it worth living. Getting to fuck Jon was one of those things that made life worth it.

But just as much as Jon stared at the South, he was beginning to turn inwards to the group. He spent more time with the children, volunteering to watch them when he could.

The children loved Jon. Even as he was guarded with the adults, he was open and affectionate with the children, infinitely patient with their attempts to carve wood into the vague shape of a wolf. He kept every one, lined up against the wall of their tent.

Sometimes he talked to them, when he thought Tormund was asleep. Rickon, he would say, Robb, Father, and Tormund wouldn’t listen any more. Jon wasn’t going to call out to the sky lights, or sweat with the ancestors, he had found his own way to speak to the past.

***

Then one day the riders came.

Two of the hunters who had been out checking traps ran into the camp, sounding the alarm. Tormund pulled his axe out, weighing it in his hands. Jon strapped his sword to his waist, loosening the scabbard.

Tormund looked at him out of the corner of his eye, debated setting him to guard the camp. Odds were that the Southerners were here for him, either wishing him good or ill, either way trying to take Jon away.

But Tormund couldn’t bury Jon under the snow like he was meat, couldn’t set him aside for Tormund’s convenience.

So Jon stood next to him when they stepped out to meet them.

Tormund noticed the wolf banners, so this was friends then. Tormund didn’t relax.

One of the riders dismounted, furs covering their face. Once on the ground, they threw back to their hood and Tormund saw the golden head of hair that belonged to the giant woman.

“Ser Brienne,” Tormund called out, putting out a hand to stop her approach. Jon said nothing. Tormund glanced at him and it seemed like he was in shock. Surely, he must have expected this.

Tormund took a step forward. “Why are you here?”

Brienne’s voice was clear and carried. “I have a letter here for Jon Stark from his sister, Queen Sansa of the Northern Kingdom.” Tormund rubbed his chin. That sentence alone was a piece of work. Without doing anything, Brienne had claimed Jon for house Stark and announced that the North was not acknowledging any Targaryen claim to Jon. Tormund was exhausted already.

“Give it here,” Tormund said, putting out his hand, just in case it works.

Brienne wasn’t so easy to put off. “This letter is for Jon’s hand only.” Jon stepped forward, Brienne’s guards parting to let him approach. He took the letter, and came back. Walking past Tormund without a glance, he went back into camp.

They all stood there. Tormund cleared his throat. “If you give up your weapons -- except you Brienne, just tie yours up -- you can come in and have some soup.” The looks on some of her men’s faces were nakedly yearning, so even though Brienne’s face was stone, he knew she’d come.

They all trudged in through camp, some of the tribe waving, some glaring in suspicion. You could see who exactly agreed with the peace after the war against the dead and who was mistrustful. All of this told Jon that if Brienne tried to take Jon out of the camp by force, it would end in violence.

He crouched down next to Brienne with his own bowl of soup. “So Sansa wants to bring Jon home?”

Brienne glared at him. “Queen Sansa,” Brienne said and Tormund rolled his eyes. “And I couldn’t say.”

“I don’t know the Queen Lady Sansa, but she didn’t seem like the type who would let anyone take what was hers. So let’s just assume I know what’s going on and talk about it, eh?” She just looked at him stonily and Tormund gave up on that for a while.

“When did you go back up to Winterfell? Last I heard you were down in King’s Landing with Bran.”

Brienne, to Tormund’s total delight, blushed.

“Oh ho ho,” Tormund said. “So breaking an oath’s alright then if it’s for a fine piece of ass?” Brienne’s glare turned so murderous that Tormund spine tightened. “Joking,” he dredged up some knowledge from the South. “True love can’t be blocked by walls.” He patted himself on the back. He could be respectful.

Brienne cleared her throat. “King Bran and Queen Sansa discussed it and my oath to her preceded mine to His Majesty. It was decided that I should return to the North.” Presumably to enjoy a huge amount of very athletic sex. Tormund had his own sibling and knew what they were like.

Tormund dropped the smile from his face. “And now you’re here to take Jon.” He wouldn’t let it go.

Stiffly, she nodded.

He opened his mouth to say something, threaten maybe, maybe plead, he wasn’t sure, when Jon emerged from their tent.

Tormund stood up. Brienne, looking around, did the same.

Jon looked around, almost seemed surprised to see Brienne and Tormund together. “Ser Brienne,” Jon said, voice rasping. “I require a pen and ink.” Brienne frowned and Jon continued. “I need to write a letter to Sansa.”

“You’re not coming,” she said, disapproving. Jon shook his head. Tormund felt like someone had pulled a rock off his chest. He breathed in and the air burst through his body from top to toe, almost painful in its clarity. “Sansa won’t like that,” she said, and Jon, the backwards man that he was, just smiled.

Tormund smiled back at him, helpless like Jon made him feel so often.

“That’s why I need to write a letter.”

Brienne snapped and a boy came over, bowing. Tormund saw several tribe members shudder. Tormund knew how they felt; even after so much time with the Southerners their kneeling still made him cringe.

With the stuff, Jon went back into their tent.

Brienne and Tormund both sat. Tormund hummed a little and Brienne gave him a look. Oh right, she knew that one.

Suddenly, she said, “Do you think he’d be willing to visit?”

Tormund thought about it. “Anything’s possible.” It would be difficult, especially if he travelled alone, but sometimes camp went close to the wall.

“What about children?” Brienne kept her voice casual but Tormund knew this was a bigger question than she let on.

“No.” She looked ready to protest. “No child of ours will become a slave.” And if Jon kept to his decision not to have blood-children, then they wouldn’t be the child Sansa wanted anyway.

“They would be a King, not a slave.”

Tormund grunted. “That sounds worse.”

Brienne leaned back. “I take your point.”

They lapsed into silence. Tormund thought he would have questions, if he ever saw a Southerner again, but he didn’t. Their petty arguments were so urgent when he was with them -- whose banners would join them -- but now they were meaningless. He only cared about where they were going to get food and how he was going to fuck Jon. Life here was better.

Eventually Jon came out. He handed all of his papers to Brienne. “There’s a letter for Bran here as well, if there’s a way to get it to him,” Jon said quietly.

Brienne bowed her head. “I will. I swear.”

Jon spoke loudly. “Please tell Queen Sansa that Jon Twice-Born sends her best regards from the Free Folk.”

Most of the tribe didn’t understand what he was saying, but Tormund still saw approving nods because they could tell he wasn’t leaving. But Tormund knew what he had just done. Jon was stating his allegiance for all the Starkmen to hear. No longer a Stark, never claiming Targaryen, but instead a Free Man.

And he was free to stand with Tormund, wherever Tormund was.