They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a laughter freezes in throat; Jon found the other conclusion. Maybe that is because of you being Southern: face kissed by the sun, lips stretched in an always smile, hands caressed by a gentle breeze.

Sunshine slipping in your laughter, never dying in an wasteland of endless snow; your crimson-red cheeks in the setting of icy blue sky; and eyes sparkling with excitement. Pup sniffing and shaking off white flakes—Jon knew this look.

"Darling, no..." he sighs, whispering his prayers to Seven.

Maybe that was your pregnancy making you gently sensitive, the tip of your nose red from quiet tears every time you imagined someone suffering. Tender soul burning the brutal North; and he was Northern; he was melting. Denying you in one another fluff of barking and running around—death sentence.

Tears glossing in the depths of your eyes—guilt swelling him like an icy gust of wind. Jon could carry you around, pampered in warm fur, with palms on your belly, his lips on your forehead, and dithyrambs sliding through your hair. His wife, the mother of his children, his destiny.

"Fine, yeah, no problems, right?" Jon picks up this ball of chaos, squinting at it. What a tender heart you have. "We'll keep him, alright?"

Your enthusiastic nod seems like a blessing, like a forgiveness of all his sins—maybe you're a goddess hiding between perennial oaks, whispering soothing cradles. Admittedly, he was Lord Commander; with willingness, he was your back. Sharp breath of air tingles his throat. Exhaling with a cloud of warm breathing, he pulls you closer—so much closer, trying to drown you in furs.

He dips his head to leave a kiss on your forehead, and this direwolf—this damn pup—is already on his way, bumping its cold nose against your cheek. Jon could be annoyed, but you're all happy and content—what could he wish more of?

So he just adjusts his arm around your waist and says, "Let's go inside. Don't want to see your face all frosted."