Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"IT'S really not that bad, Maia."
The blonde sent a threatening glare in Jon's direction. She dipped an almost-clean rag in a soapy pail next to her. He lied ever so carefully on his mattress as she sat between his legs, rinsing the rag in her hands for the fourth time. Maia tried her best to not be distracted by the Lord Commander's lean physique while lifting the cloth to his forehead. Damp black locks stuck to his forehead as he watched her with curious eyes. Strands of blonde fell so carefully in front of her vision, and he found the way she was constantly blowing them out of the way to be funny. With the situation they were in right now, Jon imagined the way he could grasp her hips and take her, but yet, his vow lingered in the back of his mind.
"You literally have one of the worst scabs I've ever seen on your face." She scoffed, patting the area with water.
Jon chuckled softly. "It's not everyday you kill a White Walker."
Maia ignored his sly remark as she slowly picked off the large scab, immediately applying pressure onto the open wound.
"Ser Davos approached me today," he muttered as his partner glanced his way. "He returned to recruit aid for Stannis. Not only ten seconds later did Melisandre ride through our gates with news that Stannis and his army had been defeated."
She cocked her head to the side. "So does that mean –?"
"Stannis Baratheon is dead, apparently." He finished as Maia continued to pat his forehead. "Now we have one less army to help against the real fight in the North. He couldn't wait to charge for Winterfell."
Her face contorted. "I never liked him."
"Personality doesn't matter to me when we have a pack of Wights on our tail."
Maia remembered Derek's words of Stannis' death, frowning in result. "I had a feeling he was going to die."
Jon chuckled, casually leaning forward to press his lips on her own. She felt her hands slip from the rag on his forehead to his face, which she held firmly in her nimble hands. His mouth always had the defined taste of leftover dinner or ale, and that wasn't always so savory. Nonetheless, she enjoyed him in any setting.
He leaned away from her, licking his lips in a way that was laughable. "You have a feeling about everything. Why is that?"
Maia tapped her fingers on his arm. "It's kind of hard to explain."
Jon raised a brow. "Is this the moment when you tell me you're some sort of witch?"
She chortled, shaking her head. "No, no." She replied, remembering Gilly's words. Maybe this was the moment. "I just ... How would you feel if I told you I wasn't ... from here?"
"I'm not from here either, Maia." He answered, moving his hands about. "I'm originally from Winterfell."
She shook her head again. "That's not what I mean."
