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fallatyourfeet · 1 year ago

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Final reblog 🤗

Unbroken (Jon Snow x Reader -One shot)

Summary: Shortly after the Battle of the Bastards, Sansa discovers some unexpected news regarding YN. Jon is thrilled to hear you're alive, but unfortunately, the news is bitter sweet.

Word count: 3234 Sorry (This is a super long one shot for me, I usually try to keep them under 2000 words. But I guess this one got away form me)

Warnings: It's pretty dramatic and angsty. YN has been mistreated by Ramsay. I'm sure you know what that means!

Please feel free to send me a message/comment/ask, I would love to know what you think.

A/N: This fic was a request from @automaticpandadreamer Hope you like it. God knows you've waited long enough

Hello I love your book Northern Light so musch I'm still reading it three years after discovering it. I was was wondering if you could do like a Jon Snow x reader who is from a warrior house that the Starks have known for a long time. Her house get attacked by the Boltons and Ramsy does....Vile things to her as his plaything and she helps Sansa and Theon escape but not before Ramsay lays a huge whipp across her back giving her a scar but after that she meets Jon and she is happy to see jon .

Jon assumed you were dead. It hurt to even think it, but surely Ramsay would never have allowed you to breathe another day, once you helped Sansa and Theon escape. Never for one moment, did he believe he would return to his childhood home, after all these years and hear Sansa speak the words. “She’s alive, Jon… YN’s alive.” Standing in the middle of the courtyard, his knuckles still covered in Ramsay’s blood, Jon found himself overwhelmed by the unexpected and welcomed news, his mind racing with cherished memories.

During his childhood, you were a regular visitor to Winterfell, accompanying your parents for feasts and celebrations and usually staying long after they returned to Bear Island. And they were some of his happiest memories. Wherever you were, Jon was never far behind. The two of you were all but inseparable.

You were not like other girls. Strong, fierce and surprisingly unpretentious for a highborn. Memories flooded back. Watching you shoot bow after bow perfectly into its target, while his fell uselessly to the ground. Could still remember how quickly you could saddle a horse then tease him playfully for being so slow. How many days had he spent sparring with you in that very courtyard? Snapping and splintering countless wooden swords trying to get the better of you, but you were far too quick for him. And how vividly he could recall Catelyn’s disapproving stares. Never knowing if it was the fact that, you, a trueborn lady of House Mormont was allowed to train as a warrior. Or the fact that you were allowed to train with him, a bastard. Maybe it was both. Or maybe it bothered her to know that you enjoyed his friendship, maybe even valued it above her own children. Whatever the issue, Jon refused to acknowledge it, even as a little child. He would not allow her disapproval to spoil his time with you.

And when you returned to Bear Island the letters began. Parchments covered from back to front in your handwritten script. Sharing your stories, hopes and dreams, filling the void between your infrequent visits. Miles and miles may have separated you, but those letters brought you closer than ever. You were his best friend. No. You weren’t. You were more than that. Much, much more. And up until now he thought he had lost you.

“Where is she?” Jon barely breathed the words, his voice caught with fragile hope… hope that he was not dreaming.

Sansa answered with hesitation, “The Maesters’ Turret.” And when Jon made a move to leave, she grabbed him by the arm, her eyes filled with concern for both YN and her brother. “She’s not in a good way, Jon.”

Jon was silent a moment, unsettled by his sister’s expression, “What do you mean… is she going to be okay?” He was eager to pull away, to see your face, but Sansa didn’t loosen her grip.

Looking across the courtyard Sansa took a breath, her eyes settling on the spot where less than an hour ago Ramsay laid in an unconscious mess beneath Jon’s fists. Turning back to her brother she replied, “Yes. She is going to be okay… but Ramsay he…” Sansa struggled to find the right words, “He has left his mark on her…”

Jon didn’t quite know what she meant, but he knew it wasn’t good. Pulling away from his sister, he wasted no further time, heading straight towards the maester’s turret. He needed to see YN with his own two eyes… needed to see her alive and breathing. Moving through the courtyard his eyes caught sight of Ramsay’s blood, his lips tightening into a hard line as his feet kicked through the crimson dirt. Part of him wishing his fists had drawn Ramsay’s final breath. That man… no… monster, did not deserve to live another day. And if both Sansa and YN didn’t want to take it away themselves, he was more than willing to do it for them

Reaching the turret Maester Wolkan greeted him, but Jon had no time for pleasantries, coming across rather abruptly to the new master of Winterfell, though Jon paid it no thought at all. “Lady YN, how is she… where is she?” Jon’s eyes searched behind him, seeing nothing but a dimly lit room and a shelving unit crowded with apothecary bottles.

Stepping outside the turret doorway Maester Wolkan closed the door behind him, speaking in hushed tones, confirmation that YN was inside. “Lord Snow, Lady Mormont is currently resting. I have given her milk of the poppy. Lord Ramsay he… he left her in a bad way… this time.”

Jon’s face contorted at the maester’s words, as if the sound of them physically hurt his ears. “What do you mean, this time… what did he do to her?” Jon asked with hesitation, not sure if he was equipped to hear the answer.

Maester Wolkan was a little surprised. Sansa had not long left to find Jon and inform him. Not realising he had given her little chance to explain before leaving her standing in the middle of the courtyard. The maester shifted apprehensively on his feet, not feeling threatened by the former Lord Commander, but rather ill at ease by the intensity of his concern. “Ah… Unfortunately, Lady YN has been here far too often these past months.” Taking a deep breath he continued, “Lord Bolton did not take kindly to her aiding Lady Sansa’s escape.”

Clearing his throat, he grew even more uncomfortable… how was he going to explain the extent of the torture inflicted upon this poor woman, when it was clear the man before him cared deeply for her. “It began with a single lashing the night Sansa escaped,” (leaving out the detail of how brutal that single lashing was; it tore her back wide open), “Ramsay would send her here every day so I could treat her wound, only for him to whip her again the very day it healed.”

Jon’s stomach churned, but he could tell the maester still had more to say. Trying to prepare himself for the next onslaught he took a deep breath, before Wolkan continued, “Every time I would heal her, he would whip her again… but last night, he… he could have killed her… I’ve never seen injuries like it.”

Burning rage twisted at Jon from deep within his core. This animal of a man had repeatedly defiled his sister, murdered Rickon before his very eyes and had been torturing the woman he loved, for months. Not even daring to imagine what other unspeakable things he probably inflicted upon her. Jon could barely think, he needed to see her. Stepping forward he reached for the cast iron latch, the urgency in his features alarming Wolkan, “I’m sorry Lord Snow, she needs to rest… please… come back tomorrow.”

Shaking his head, Jon replied, his hand already opening the door, “No Maester… I’m staying with her until she wakes… I’ll be quiet.”

Entering the turret, it was difficult to see, the room kept dark by heavy drapes drawn across the windows. And yet, immediately Jon felt some relief. He could hear you breathing. It was dry and raspy, but at least it was steady; it was strong. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim candlelight tucked away in the corner. But it was the glow of the hearth flickering around the stone walls that had the air twisting in his chest. It illuminated your form, the shadows rippling across blood-soaked bandages wrapped loosely around your torso. Resting on your stomach, you were so still, eyelids heavy with induced sleep, your hair pinned to the top of your head to keep from interfering with your injuries. The table beside you was a mess of strong-smelling ointments and bandages, while the discarded ones sat overflowing in a bucket underneath, soaked red with your blood.

A wooden chair sat in the corner, but it was not close enough, he needed to be beside you. Moving to grab it, he stopped short when he reached out and noticed his hands. They were covered in dried blood and mud, remnants of the battle that took place outside the castle walls just a few hours earlier. With a deep breath, he realised he needed to clean up just as Maester Wolkan walked in, clearly thinking the same thing.

With fresh towels under his arm and a jug of hot water in his hands, he looked to Jon, “If you’re going to stay, Lord Snow, you’ll need to clean up. Lady YN can’t afford to be exposed to any contaminants.” Putting them down on a table behind a screen, he added, “Your sister is bringing you up a fresh tunic.”

Nodding his head, Jon smiled softly, “Aye. I just realised that myself.” And no sooner had Jon disappeared behind the screen, came the quiet knock at the door announcing the delivery of his tunic.

Settled in the wooden chair beside you, Jon had time to think. The milk of the poppy had given you much needed hours of rest. He could tell you were heavily sedated because you barely murmured or moved when Maester Wolkan changed your dressings. And he thanked the gods. Never had he seen injuries like it. Any previous scarring left behind by Ramsay was indistinguishable, your poor back… it was… it, it didn’t look like a back at all. In the end he had to turn his head away, unable to imagine what anybody could have done to deserve such treatment, let alone you. Jon sighed heavily, if only he had arrived a few days earlier, then maybe he could have saved you the suffering.

Jon thought about everything that brought you to this very room, forever scarred. It was your loyalty to the Starks, his family. When Robb called his banners, you marched beside him into every battle, leaving him thinking you had died along with his brother at the ‘Red Wedding.’ But in the middle of his grief came some sunshine in the form of a letter. It was sealed in the familiar wax stamp of House Mormont and addressed to him in your beautiful script. Yet, clouds quickly swallowed up the sunshine when he took a moment to breathe, his heart sinking as quickly as it had soared. What if the letter had been sent before that fateful night at The Twins? Though his concern was short lived as his shaking hands unravelled the parchment. Your words making it clear that you were alive.

Dear Jon,

I’m sorry to be writing under such dark circumstances, wishing I could fill this page as I did when I was a carefree child, to fill it with stories born of joy and hope, and memories to make us smile, but life hasn’t followed our childhood dreams. Instead, we are faced with grim reality, leaving us feeling hollow and betrayed. Losing Robb at any time was going to be painful but losing him in the manner we did is incomprehensible. The betrayal and disloyalty that took place at The Twins that treasonous evening leaves me enraged.

Somehow, I was sparred. Sheer luck saved me, after leaving the hall just moments before they locked the door, managing to find my horse amongst the slaughter and escape. Our poor men stood no chance, murdered as they sat around fires drinking the very ale offered by their killers. It was an unforgivable and cowardly act that the North will never forget.

Now that I’m home, I pray for days that begin and end with no discernible events, but I fear harder times lie ahead, much harder than I can fathom. The number of Wildings reaching Bear Island increases every week. Not to raid, but to seek refuge, and the stories they bring keep me awake at night. As a brother of the Night’s Watch, I’m sure you’re no stranger to these stories and the fear I see in their eyes troubles me deeply.

Please know that I think of you often. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been receiving the news of your father’s death and then Robb’s while sworn to the Night’s Watch. Every day, I pray for the safe return of Arya, Bran and Rickon and hope Sansa finds protection under her new Lannister name.

Take care Jon. I will write again soon, hopefully bringing more light in these uncertain times.

Yours

And your letters continued. Just as you promised. Words reliving cherished memories, furnishing his thoughts with new stories, providing much needed smiles for trying times. Until your final letter arrived. It’s content still as fresh as the day he read it, ‘At first light I will be leaving Bear Island. The Baratheon Army is marching on Winterfell, and I intend to help them take it back from the Boltons.’ And that was the last he heard of you. Leaving him with no other conclusion, than believing you died alongside Stannis’ army when Ramsay defeated them in the Wolfswood. All until Sansa showed up at Castle Black and told him all you had done for her.

Jon had held no hope for your survival, sure that Ramsay would make you pay with your life. And yet, Jon had underestimated the cruelty of the beast, could not comprehend the lengths Ramsay would reach to punish your unyielding loyalty. Realising as he stared at the blood-soaked bandages which held your back together, that the sick monster had taken pleasure in the process. He enjoyed both the physical and mental damage he wreaked.

But here you were, still alive and fighting, defying Ramsay in the most determined and tenacious way. It was almost worth letting Ramsay survive if only to see you grow healthy and strong. To see you unbroken. To see the strength in your eyes as the life disappeared from his.

Pulling Jon from his darkening thoughts, came the soft whisper of his name, “Jon?”

How long had he been sitting there? Jon had no idea. Somewhere amongst his thoughts he must have fallen asleep, noticing the first light of dawn creeping in around the edges of the drapes. Announcing the arrival of a brand-new day.

Fully alert now Jon slid to the edge of his chair, his heart pounding heavily in his chest, reaching out he gently took your hand, his thumb running back and forth across your knuckles. “Yes, YN. It’s me.”

You winced, as you made a move to sit up, though you tried to hide it.

Wincing in sympathy Jon carefully brushed the hair from your eyes, responding tenderly, “Please, don’t move. Stay there. Maester Wolkan has already tried sending me away. He’s worried I won’t let you rest. Don’t give him an excuse to try it again.” Giving your hand a comforting squeeze, he leaned over, his face just a few inches from yours, his voice barely a breath from cracking, “It’s good to see you YN… I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner, before…” Jon’s eyes betrayed him, involuntarily lingering on your back.

Cutting him short, your words were a little groggy, but clearly, your mind was not, “Hush Jon, it wouldn’t have mattered when you arrived. He was always going to react like this.”

Without thinking, Jon asked the question he never meant to ask, at least not for some time, “Why did he do it?” Upset with himself, he tried to take it back, “Sorry YN, I didn’t mean to ask, don’t answer, I don’t know why I- “.

Cutting him short again, you answered without hesitation or regret, “I provoked him when he said he was going to take pleasure watching the bastard of Winterfell die.” Anger flashed across your features as you recalled the moment, defiance rooted deeply in your voice, “I told him this battle would be his last… That you may be a bastard by name, but he is a true bastard in every other sense of the word.”

Jon thought he saw a smile touch your lips, not sure how you found amusement in your current condition, “He didn’t like it when I told him he was going to lose, that soon the flayed banners will be lying in the dirt where they belong.” You cleared your throat, the action causing you to wince again, “I can still see his rage, him waiting for an apology, for me to beg for my life… But I couldn’t… I just stared back… said, kill me if it makes you feel better… But it will not save you.”

Jon’s heart broke, his guilt intensifying. His lips started forming an apology, but you refused to let him speak the words, knowing exactly what was running through his mind. Despite your discomfort, you took your hand from his, reached for his cheek and spoke, “Stop Jon, don’t you dare apologise. It’s not your fault… he’s a monster. I don’t regret it and if I had the chance I would do it again.” Jon shook his head in disbelief, no one would willingly endure your suffering if they had the choice, but here you were speaking the words. Never had he been more in awe of you. “I would. I had control in that moment… I won the battle. He didn’t break me, Jon. He couldn’t. I wouldn’t let him. Not once… Not ever.”

Struggling to ignore the heavy lump forming in his throat, he swallowed thickly, forcing himself to remain strong, if only for you. “I don’t know how you did it, YN. You’re stronger than any woman I’ve ever known. Ramsay will pay… pay for everything he has done to you and Sansa. What you did for her, I can’t… I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

Moving your hand from his cheek, you rested your head against the bed, taking his hand your expression softened, your beautiful eyes trying to disguise their pain. Tears gathered behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. With a deep breath, you somehow found the strength to smile, “Remember the blue lake I used to talk about when I was little. The volcanic one my father would take me to?”

Jon nodded, a soft smile warming his features, “Of course, you used to talk about it all the time.” Pink touched his cheeks when he recalled, “I still have the picture you drew of it. And the letter you sent it with.”

“Yes, I remember asking if I could take you there one day.” Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, your eyes searched his, looking for something. Something to grab on to or hope for. Something to look forward too. And as you spoke again, he knew he would do everything in his power to give you what you needed. “I know defeating Ramsay Bolton is only the beginning. We have many battles left. But promise me, when we come through the other side of them, you will let me take you there.”

Moving closer, he knelt beside you. You looked so tired and drained and somehow even more beautiful than he remembered. With the greatest care he took your face between his palms, placing a feather light kiss to your forehead, his reply more sincere than any words he had ever spoken. “I promise. But for now, you must rest. Sleep… I’ll still be here when you wake.”

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fallatyourfeet · 1 year ago

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Reblog time 🤗