Chapter Text
“Gods its warm.” Tormund complained as he shed one of his many layers and hung it from an old weirwood branch in the Winterfell godswood.
Jon sat with his back to the tree and his eyes closed, content as a cool breeze kissed his warm skin. After defeating the night king, the weather had taken a dramatic turn and spring was threatening to break through the thin crust of ice that still clung to the trees.
Tormund paced back and forth, glancing at Jon every few minutes, clearly annoyed by his calm demeanor. “You don’t have to go. You’ve done enough” he whispered as a deep rumble of thunder reverberated through the sky mirroring his dark mood.
“I gave my word, and I will keep it” said Jon, eyes still closed, breathing in the scent of the coming rains.
“Then I will come with you”
“You belong in the North”
“So do you”
Jon sighed. “We’ve been discussing this for days. Your people need you. You must lead them back home safely. The free folk have been through so much. They deserve to know some peace.”
“So do ….”
“Enough” Jon interrupted. He had closed the gap between them silently as Tormund focused on a flash of lightening sprawling across the darkening sky. Jon was only inches from his face and his deep grey eyes reminded Tormund of the rolling clouds above them, dangerous but achingly beautiful. He didn’t have time to finish the thought as Jon grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down for a breathless kiss. In the same moment the skies opened up and the rain engulfed them as they clung to eachother.
Neither of them made a move for cover. They leaned into each other, foreheads pressed together gently as the water rushed over them. Gods he was gorgeous. Tormund had waited so long for this. There was always some insurmountable object in their path. But this, this was their time. And Tormund would have given anything to convince Jon to stay, to go north with him. The real north. Damn his stubborn crow and his unwavering sense of honor. But holding onto an angry thought while he breathed in the smaller man was impossible. Tormund cupped his jaw tenderly, brushing the dark curls from Jon’s face.
“Promise me crow. Promise…”
A thunderous sound jolted Tormund awake, heart still racing as the last embers of his sweet dream drifted away. He moved to the window for some fresh air and glimpsed what he thought were black wings as a bolt of lightening illuminated the night sky. Had he imagined it, was he still dreaming? Then another crack of thunder and bolt of lightning gave him confirmation. A raven struggled in the strong winds gusting over Castle Black’s front gate. Tormund squinted against the black of night to watch it land safely in the old Maester’s rookery. Tormund closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and said a small prayer to whatever gods may be listening. Please.
He dressed quickly and set off at once toward the maester’s chambers, trying all the while to clamp down the sudden flash of fear he found pressing heavy on his chest. He had sent most of his people back beyond the wall a few days prior, and Castle Black was as quiet as a tomb. One strong push and the old oak door creaked open. Tormund locked eyes with the old man and knew instantly something was very wrong.
“It’s the King…err.. well, Lord Snow”
Tormund opened his mouth but no words would come.
The Maester stuttered a bit but continued. “He has been injured. Seems he was trying to shield civilians as the city began to burn. Buildings were collapsing and he… his fate is uncertain.” “Either way” he stuttered again before letting out a whisper. “they are bringing him home.” Without a word, Tormund turned and stepped back into the cool crisp night, sucking in deep gulps of air to try and stifle the bile rising in the back of his throat. He sank to his knees as the rain poured down around him and heard a low, mournful howl rise up on the wind. He could not tell if the sound came from the great white wolf Jon left in his care, or his own soul.
The day after they had received the message explaining Jon’s injuries and Arya’s plan to bring him home, Tormund had packed the strongest horse at Castle Black and headed south. A few miles into his journey, his horse had shied and reared nearly knocking him from his saddle. The great white wolf appeared from out of the tree line, piercing red eyes locked with his own. Tormund could see his own reflection in those eyes, the sadness familiar, the fear his own. He took a deep breath and kicked his horse into motion and they resumed their headlong gallop down the kings road together.
His plan was to ride the entire distance to Jon. Meet Arya wherever he might find her on the kings road and do… what, he didn’t know. But at least he would be with his crow. But when he had stopped at Winterfell to check for news Sansa had somehow convinced him to stay and wait with her. They did not know what path Arya would choose. She was making her way back in secret. Winterfell had received word that Tyrion had murdered the Queen after she reigned fire down on Kings Landing. The Unsullied were out seeking revenge against any “traitors” who had rebelled against the her final orders to burn the city.
A few weeks passed in silence, no ravens, no riders in the night. And Tormund was deeply regretting his decision to stay. He could see he was making the inhabitants of Winterfell un-easy, but he simply couldn’t reign it in. He drank nearly every hour on the hour and sent servants running from his chambers as he hurled horns of ale into the fire and cursed the old gods and the new gods and the fire gods in kind.
He tried to work out his frustrations in the fighting yard but had lost his temper with an overly cocky Knight of the Vale and had to be pulled off by three norther soldiers before he bashed the kids skull in for good measure.
Sometimes late in the evenings, Sansa would come to sit with him. Neither of them spoke, staring into the flames in the hearth till long past the hour of the wolf when Sansa would finally retire.
He resisted sleep as best he could but into the early morning hours, when the ale finally took him, the nightmares would come. He would wake in his chair by cooling embers, gasping for air not knowing where he was until his eyes settled on the great white wolf staring silently in turn.
Sansa, at her wits end, had practically begged him to get out of the castle for night or two. So he found himself 5-6 miles north of the Winterfell gate, on the trail of an impressive stag he hadn’t seen the likes of in years. In truth, as much as the stag thrilled him, he was doing a piss poor job of tracking. The anxiety of not knowing where Jon was or how he was washed over him in waves. He sat down on a log to rest and slipped into a vivid daydream of the day they met.
A young man, prettier than both his daughters. Green as summer grass yet hard and lean. When Jon walked into the tent that day and mistakenly knelt in front of him, Tormund could not mistake the hitch in his own breath or the heat rising in his belly. Piercing grey eyes, covered in black from head to toe, Tormund had never felt such a powerful mix of hatred and intrigue, it was intoxicating.
A rustle of leaves nearby dragged Tormund back to the present. Ghost stood before him silently, ears pricked high and muzzle red from a fresh kill he had likely just made. Tormund was about to joke that the wolf was having much better luck then him when Ghost took off like shot. Seconds later a horn blasted from the south. Winterfell. Jon.
He was completely out of breath when he reached the gate but he still managed to take the stairs two at a time in the tower where Jons bed chamber resided.
Halfway up the staircase he nearly knocked Sam to the ground in his haste. He hauled the maester to his feet and breathed out Jon’s name. Sam did not speak immediately, and Tormund felt a pang in his heart when he noted Sams puffy red eyes and quivering chin. No, it can’t be. His crow is not dead. He did not leave him alone in this wretched world again. Tormund began to shake the boy wildly out of frustration.
“Tell me” he growled, inches from the Sams face.
“He… he…” Sam looked as though he would cry again at any moment.
Tormund spouted some curse in the old tongue and Sam’s eye grew big as saucers.
“He… he lives” stuttered Sam and landed with a thump on the staircase when Tormund dropped him and vaulted the rest of the way up the stairs to the chamber door.
He locked eyes with Arya and she held up her hand in an attempt to stall him.
“Tormund, please. You can’t go in. I must speak with you first” she declared standing steadfast in his way.
He looked wild, he felt unhinged. The adrenaline was coursing through him, his whole body was aflame, but he used the very last bit of control he had left to whisper to her. “I respect you little wolf, but if you don’t get out of my way…”
She took a deep breath. Her eyes bore into his, her left hand gliding across the pommel of her sword like old habit. A second later she slid aside and Tormund rammed the door open with such force that the inhabitants inside were rendered silent immediately. Everyone was staring at him but he was blind to it. He caught sight of grey eyes framed in dark curls and his heart lept into this throat. He stumbled forward, delirious with joy, mumbling thank yous and curses and gods know what else as he headed straight for man who sat on the bed wide eyed and blinking. The force of the hug punched the breath from Jons lungs, but Tormund let go immediately when he felt the crow flinch.
“My little crow. Are you injured? Did I hurt you?”
Jon opened his mouth but Sansa spoke for him. “Tormund …"
Tormund interjected, rounding on everyone in the room and ranting about not sending word, and being sick with worry, and why the fuck do you have ravens if you aren’t going to use them??
He turned his attention back to his beautiful crow. He had fresh scars across his forehead and jaw and his ribs were bandaged tightly with clean white cloth. Worse for wear yes, but he was alive. He hadn’t left him, and Tormund made a silent promise to never let him go again. He reached out to gently cup Jon’s injured jaw, but another flinch stopped him in his tracks.
“Are you alright crow” Tormund whispered, unable able to hide the confusion and hurt in his voice.
“M’sorry”, Jon whispered as he scanned all the faces in the room and finally landed back on Tormund.
“Do I know you?”