The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

20.**

Chapter Twenty.

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"The bruises aren't too bad." Karsi murmured, tilting Ren's head.

"And her voice?" Jon asked nervously, his arms crossed over himself.

"Should return in the next few hours as she warms up. The Walkers hands are cold enough to freeze out fires, so I can imagine how vocal cords could suffer." Karsi stood from her chair, wiping her hands on her shirt. "You seem in decent shape, but I'd guess that you've cracked a rib or two as well. You should have your medics look at that when we reach the South."

Ren smiled weakly, nodding in thanks at the woman. Karsi turned to exit the room, stopping in the doorway.

"For the record, Ren. Next time I tell you to come with me, you should come with me."

The Westerosi woman breathed hard out of her nose, the closest she could come to a laugh. Karsi left the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Jon and Renfri alone.

Ren slid out of her chair, settling cross-legged in front of the fire. She tilted her head back, the ship rocking beneath her.

"Wish you had stayed on the ship now?" Jon asked, moving to sit beside her. She slid over, making a space for him.

She shook her head, pointing to his split lip. Jon reached up, gently touching it.

"Pointless." He murmured. "Didn't even get the glass."

He looked to her, watching how the light reflected off her face.

"This is so odd. You, not talking."

Ren opened her mouth, forcing out a breathy, creaking sound. She winced, her throat burning as she did so.

"Well I wasn't telling you to try." Jon chuckled. He reached over, tracing his fingers along her bruises. "I hate that we went in there and didn't even get what we came for."

She took his hand, flipping his palm to face upwards. He had all sorts of scratches and splinters from grappling around the ground in the hut.

"We're both pretty banged up, aren't we?" The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "I heard about your ribs. Can't feel great."

No, Ren thought. It doesn't. But I've been worse for wear before.

She shivered, sliding closer to the fire.

"You cold?"

No shit, Ren looked over to him. She tenderly grabbed his hand, pulling his arm around her waist, absorbing his warmth.

"Oh, erm," Jon startled. "You sure?"

She shot him a look.

"Right. It's just a touch."

He leaned his head on hers, his other hand coming to a rest on her knee. She pushed herself into him, feeling the heat radiating off his body.

They watched as the fire crackled in the hearth, the slow rocking of the ship lulling them.

"Were you scared?" Jon finally murmured, playing with her hair. "Of the White Walkers?"

He felt Ren hesitantly shake her head underneath his.

"I was." He answered. "I hoped I wouldn't be, but I was. They're unlike any army of men. Their sole purpose is to kill, and no matter how many of them we take out, more keep popping up in their place. I'm terrified of what will happen when they march south. My sisters, my brothers. You."