RP: To Drive the Cold Winter Away Who: Jon Snow and Robb Stark/McLellan When: 8 June 2013 Where: Robb and Jon’s, Santa Ana, Ca. Dream Location: Jon’s bedchambers, Winterfell Status: Complete Word Count: 11,318
Two bottles of Bordeaux in front a crackling fire - probably the very last of the season - was all it took for Jon to begin retelling colorful tales of his time spent in Regia Anglourm. Backlit by the warm glow firelight, Robb took it all in, all but hypnotized.
Not much the storyteller as his mouthy boyfriend - who could spin a tale about paint drying and somehow have his audience perched stiff backed at the very edges of seats, gnawing anxiously at quick-bitten nails - Jon could wax poetically in his unique way about certain subjects. Music, books, history and reenactment his limited scope but full of delight, especially budged up tight against his lover.
Chilly AC done away with for the evening and replaced by licking flame, their setting reminded him all too well of one particular instance demanding retelling.
“We were at Shrewsbury for a training weekend,” he began after a bit of setup arguing over worst winters of their lives. While he talked, Jon ran calloused finger pads over the backs of Robb’s knuckles, constant surprise at scarless flesh in comparison to his own.
“Right on the border of England and Wales in a grassy meadow surrounding a solitary hill. Must have been late April because I distinctly remember having left my heavier woolen kit back at uni. Spring in London, promising forecast, what did I care about keeping warm? Just didn’t fancy hauling an extra stone’s worth of kit about the countryside.”
Never again would Jon Snow make that particular mistake. Not during his re-enactment days in England nor even here in Los Angeles, constantly covered head to toe in fleecy protection whenever the thermostat dropped below seventy.
“Anyway... there we were, the Viks- and you have to remember Robb, they’re all big blokes, lot make me look a piddling twink, I swear it. Long, nasty hair, huge muscles, constantly sweaty. Real manly men, if you can picture, all stretched out blanketless and kipping half naked because it was sodding hot out.” So warm, in fact, Jon went to sleep on a simple bed of grass, stretched like an X and cursing the sun.
“So you can imagine everyone’s surprise when in the morning we had to - literally, quite literally, mind - chisel our way out of the tent because a snow storm had blown through during the night and not only covered the meadow in powder deep as bollocks but turned the wic into an igloo.” The memory elicited dramatic shivers; though the closest visual to a Hallmark winter wonderland, mystical and earthy, recalling the morning’s icy tundra still chilled Jon to the marrow. Even warm as he was safely wrapped in Robb’s embrace and drinking wine in front of a fire.
“Twenty, full grown, hairy, grumpy, half starkers men all huddled round the morning firepit rotating like penguins. I thought I was going to die- no, shove off, I truly did. Never been so cold in all my life but fuck me, Robb, it was beautiful.”
“Never seen anything remotely like it since... just white, and... untouched. Long as I live, I won’t forget the sight.”
* * * *
"Do you think it's true, then? What the man executed today said about the White Walkers?"
Stripping off leather tunic and heavy woolen trews, chill-cramped fingers only getting caught up in the fiddly laces of his undershirt once instead of the usual half dozen or so, Robb dropped everything in a neglectful pile beside the bed. Stone less inviting than the grave greeted his feet and wriggling toes once thick hose were removed, causing goosebumps to rise up on pale, freckly skin.
Getting no immediate response, only silence that bumped against the very walls around them, Robb paused undressing and spared a glance over his shoulder. Seated at the little writing table that comprised exactly half of the furniture in the sparse living quarters was Jon Snow. Brooding again, no doubt. Like a swordmaster slicing the air with the dancing force of his swings, an archer skillfully drawing a bow or a bronzesmith sweating in front of a forge as hammer connected over and over, Jon made mental anguish a true artform.
Something Robb - himself bright and lively as Jon was dark and serious - could hardly understand.
Situated at the far end of the castle, away from the main hub of operations, Jon's chambers were seldom anything but a dim, shadowy place. The sun hardly visited this side of the world, except on the rare times at midsummer, when bright yellow striations gaily painted the floor. Oak logs burning in the hearth coupled with Robb's presence were the only things that ever truly seemed to cut the gloom. Robb didn’t mind it all that much; he cared little for the surroundings, only the person that occupied the small space. So long as Jon allowed him in, he would continue sneaking over under the cover of darkness until the fateful day finally arrived when he became lord and master. Warden of the North, many would argue his choice, but none would be able to sway him.
As far as he was concerned Jon was staying put.
Forever.
Smallclothes the very last thing to go, Robb took a moment to stretch. Barely more than a boy, his lean, coltish muscles and tendons popped with the effort of rotating neck and shoulders gone all stiff from too many hours spent in the saddle. The day had been a long, eventful one, to be sure. Hunting down and delivering swift, northern justice to a bedraggled deserter from the Night’s Watch had started it off. Then they’d come across that dead direwolf bitch and her litter. Six healthy pups in all.
Incredible, he thought as he slid under a mountain of furs, a soft grunt of contentment escaping his lips as he burrowed and snuggled his way into the exact spot on the feather tick that he always claimed as his own. Direwolves this far south of the Wall. I still can’t believe it.
Now if only Jon would join him things would be infinitely better all round.