The royal chambers of the great keep rumble with a fire that burns far too low into the winter that has finally come.

The chambers are much larger than anything Jon is used to. The small room at Castle Black, and the even smaller room he'd been provided with when under the care of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, who loathed him until the moment she died. The royal chambers in the great keep - meant for nobles like his siblings - were not made for friendless bastards like him.

Jon was rigid. Just as much so when he first awoke. It still felt strange, behind here. He'd seen many things. Wildlings, giants, white walkers. He'd fought armies. He'd died. He'd come back to life. Never, had he once thought, would he lie in the King's bed. He had wanted it, of course. Dreamt of it. But he didn't think it would come true.

Jon's breaths don't come naturally. They are coarse, rough, like the skin on his hands. Jon could feel your head against his chest. Could hear your little heart beating just like it had as children. Even then he had been taller than you. Jon's hands carded through your hair. He stared up at the ceiling and its stones and counted to three. He would never tell you, but he did that often to remind himself where he was. To remind himself that not everything was war and blood. That some things were just you.

Subconsciously Jon's hand moves from the top of your head to perfect pale skin. Not preying, not pushing, simply just there. "Don't move." He says roughly. "It's perfect like this." He lets out another breath, softer this time. Your limbs are all tangled together as he speaks. Jon sighed now too. Low and quiet, just like the fire. "I didn't think we'd ever get this. Did you think we'd ever get this? Did you ever think we'd get here?"