DAGGERS TO THE HEART Part 1 - GAME OF THRONES

Jon XIII

Fatigue gripped him, an unrelenting force dragging Jon Snow to the brink of exhaustion. All he yearned for was the welcoming embrace of a plush bed. Tormund's company had been a solace in the weariness, a rekindling of an old camaraderie that whispered familiarity. Initially, there lingered a hint of animosity, remnants of a past strife, but gradually they slipped into a rhythm reminiscent of days long gone. The trust, though, lingered on the edge of uncertainty.

Yet, Ygritte was a different story. Her presence had become a source of irritation, a constant stream of complaints that wore on Jon's patience. As he reflected, the very reasons he once found himself captivated by her eluded him. Was it the captivity that had sparked something, a twisted foundation for what he had mistaken as love? The uncertainty hung heavy in the air. What baffled him even more was the persistence of those emotions, lingering like shadows long after her demise.

As he galloped from Castle Black to Queenscrown, Jon Snow mulled over the intricacies of his connection with Daenerys. A prisoner, much like he had been under Ygritte's watchful gaze. The women, both harbouring their own brands of violence, left Jon grappling for explanations—lust, stupidity, and an instinct for survival were the tangled threads in his mind.

Throughout the journey from Castle Black, this mental discourse persisted. His hasty marriage to Sansa, a pact forged in the crucible of survival, echoed in his thoughts. As the distance between them closed, questions loomed about how they would feel upon their reunion. Their union, unconsummated till now, teetered on the precipice of change, a prospect fraught with uncertainties.

In the wake of shared kisses, Jon envisioned the imminent night they would spend together. Would Sansa be gripped by fear? The realization that she would have bloomed by now added another layer to the anticipation, making the prospect of their first night together a looming reality. The skies darkened as Queenscrown emerged on the horizon, a destination drawing near with each passing moment.

"You thinking about your pretty wife, little King?" Tormund's gruff voice shattered Jon's introspection.

"Aye," Jon replied, a touch of honesty colouring his words. "Haven't laid eyes on her in nigh on a year and a half. It's hard not to think about her."

"And thinking about her makes you hard," Tormund interjected with a booming laugh, his crude jest cutting through the air.

"Oh, give it a rest," Ygritte scoffed, rolling her eyes. Jon sensed a lingering desire in her, remnants of a failed attempt to seduce him. His fidelity to Sansa was unwavering, a promise he held steadfast, even as Ygritte's presence grated on his nerves.

"I'm looking forward to meeting Lady Whitestark," Tormund managed to crack a smile, injecting a lighter note into the conversation.

"I'm sure she'll make you all feel welcome," Jon assured them as the scent of the village drifted along the road, the aroma of baking bread stirring his hunger.

"I hope the ale is better than the stuff at Castle Black,"Tormund complained. "I'll have died of gut rot before the dead arrive."

"Wow, that's a huge castle," Ygritte's eyes widened as she glimpsed the keep, noticeably larger than when Jon had last seen it. The looming structure stood as a testament to the changes that had transpired since his departure.

A bridge spanned from the keep to the shore, leading to a secondary castle in the throes of construction. Surprisingly, the outer walls stood tall, roughly twenty feet high, with crenellations already etched into the stonework—a testament to the near-completion of the battlements. The keep, however, remained surrounded by unfinished walls, a work in progress. The castle, though not Winterfell's grandeur, held a substantial size, demanding a swath of felled trees that sprawled across half an acre.