Jaime Lannister + Jon Snow One-Shots

Twice Saved

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:  Jon Snow has helped/saved you once...will he do it again?

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Reader is...ganged up on by a group of boys but it doesn't go very far, don't worry!

 𝐀/𝐍: This was a suggestion from my good friend @writergirl81and I whipped this up. I've been itching to write all day but I was so busy running errands with Mom so I pumped out this short thing, but I don't know...I like it! I just want Jon Snow to save me *sigh*

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 1158

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𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 your first meeting with the infamous Bastard of Winterfell. How young the both of you were. So sweet, so innocent. Jon Snow was trailing like a lost direwolf pup in the snow behind his legitimate half siblings, his face hidden behind his head full of black curls. You were helping carry some buckets of water into the kitchens with your mother and nearly tripped. The bucket was just too heavy for your little arms, and a wave of ice cold water sloshed onto your boots, draining right through the many holes and freezing your toes to the bone. Immediately after you shrieked, Jon Snow looked up and saw you. Your mother went on scolding you for being clumsy and told you to hurry along – but Jon...

He left his siblings and kindly took the bucket from your hands.

Once you were in the kitchen, he set it down and then ran back out into the cold without ever once speaking a word.

He was kind.

He was selfless.

You hold that memory dear to this day, ten years later.

From afar, you've watched Jon and the Starks grow up.

He's only a year or two older, and by now he's got the makings of a man.

A fine man, you reflect as you hurry through Winterfell's courtyard, trying to get back to your mother in time for supper. She's getting old, and whenever you aren't working in the kitchens, you're glued to her side, tending to her fits and fevers. Jon, Robb Stark, and the Greyjoy brat are dueling across the way, grunting and laughing as they clash swords. A ghost of a smile plays on your lips as you lift your skirts higher and pick up a faster walk. You haven't checked on your mother since the wee hours of the morning and you're anxious to see how she's holding up. Your worried heart races in your chest, flailing against your ribs as you turn a corner and run smack into something.

Or someone.

Four someones.

"Watch it!"

"Hey, it's a lass!"

"A little lass," The third scoffs, eyeing you up and down as you regain your balance.

"But a pretty one," The first drawls.

You don't like the hungry look in his fierce eyes and scurry backwards. This happens to be the only way to your mother and these four pricks are blocking your way.

They don't appear to be leaving anytime soon.

"Excuse me –" You murmur, attempting to back away, but the fourth, who hasn't spoken up just yet seizes your forearm in an iron grip and drags you forward. You stumble over your own feet, right into his grasp and slap at his hand feebly. He merely laughs and shakes you about like a rag doll as you put up your best fight, slapping and hitting and kicking at his ankles. Still, he's stronger, and there's three others who crowd around you, pushing you flush against a wall. You try to scream, but the first boy, two heads taller than you and the meanest-looking of the bunch cups a filthy hand over your mouth.

"You'll shut it if you know what's best for you," He hisses.

You take your chance.

It's now or never.

As soon as your teeth meet his palm, he howls and backs off.

The fourth boy shifts his hold on you and slaps you across the cheek.

"Bitch," He spits.

You throw your body around, trying to slip through his fingers.

He's too strong.

There's too many.

You close your eyes, begging your fight or flight instincts to subdue so you can admit defeat and just get this over with when suddenly, a booming voice comes from down the alley –

"Hey!"

The rich, northern accent slices through the crisp winter air.

You risk a peek.

Two of the three boys around you turn away and a fist breaks into your limited vision, crashing into the center of the second's face. He recoils, falling flat on his butt. The third charges at the newcomer and you follow him, watching as he runs straight into the arms of a black cloaked figure. Fists strike, hands grip and tear. There's a downright scuffle, a fistfight if you've ever seen one. The third boy is quickly brought to his knees by your savior. Once he's out of the way, the one gripping your arm lets go and takes a fighting stance.

Poor fool.

He's pummeled to nothing.

You watch in wonder as all three boys pick each other up and flee down the alley. The fourth has long since escaped. He never made it past your pathetic attack. I hope he has bark marks sewn into his palm for the rest of his days, you pray. You might've warded him off temporarily, but it's your surprise rescuer who truly saved the day. Saved you. Your fear melts away as you stumble forwards, getting your back off the frosty wall. Your savior stands with his back facing you, watching the retreat of your assailants, but you know exactly who it is.

Those ebony curls, blending into his heavy furs, tied about his broad shoulders, a sword at his hip...

"Jon Snow," You taste his name on your tongue.

It's sweet as rain, light as a feather.

Jon reacts accordingly, turning on his heel to face you with avid concern. His dark brows knit together and he inches a few steps closer, testing your mood. You were after all attacked...nearly beaten or worse. The consideration Eddard's Bastard shows you is mindblowing. Your jaw unhinges as you return Jon's heavy stare. The two of you face each other, barred only by a cool breeze and the swirl of snow at your feet. Empty space, silent words. Memories not yet tarnished replay. You can hear your girly shriek pierce the air and the sound of Jon's muffled grunts, dampened by the slish-slosh of water.

The first time Jon Snow rescued you.

And apparently, not the last.

"Thank you," You murmur, uncertain of what to say.

"I only did what was right," Jon replies humbly.

You quirk a smile. "A man of honor, just like yer father."

"I hope so."

Before you can waste a single second doubting yourself, you skip steps closer to Jon and face him head on. "You've saved me more than once, Jon Snow, don't think I've forgotten."

Confusion flashes in Jon's chocolate eyes.

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Your adrenaline rush is wearing thin. Courage is becoming scarce, and you know this may be your last chance, so you grab the front of Jon's cloak and rise onto the tips of your toes to plant a peck on his plump lips. They're cold as death and soft as snow, and you hardly get a good enough taste, but you'd guess the lovely surge of warmth you receive is the spice of malt from a recent ale. Jon's hands fall to your waist right as you rock back onto your heels and break away.

"I owe you, Jon Snow," You say.

And then you flee down the alley towards your mother's home, smiling at the tingling of your lips.