Deflection is best

Jon settled into the doorframe, one shoulder braced against the wood. Della stood close, close enough to blend into his outline, her presence felt more than seen. The lantern on the far wall guttered, its light stuttering across Theona’s disordered hair and the creases in the bedding, catching on her before slipping away again.

His eyes found hers and held. Power stirred under his skin, a quiet pressure he knew how to loose, but he kept it leashed. He spoke without it, letting his voice do the work.

“Don’t trouble yourself with where I’ve been,” he said, the words carried on a low, amused breath. A hint of a smile curved at the corner of his mouth. “What matters is this moment, right here.”

Theona blinked once, then again. The breath she’d been holding slipped out in a quiet huff, the edge fading from it as she hooked a finger into a teal-streaked curl and pushed it back from her eyes. Her shoulders loosened, the tight set of them easing as if the weight had finally decided to let go.

“Aye, fair enough,” she said, swallowing a yawn that thickened her Ironborn drawl. “Only ended up here because Robb had me helping track you down. We tore through the place, every room, every corridor. You vanished clean as smoke.” Her gaze returned to him, steadier now. “Seeing you back in one piece does wonders for the nerves.”

Her attention drifted to the bed. Color crept into her cheeks as she reached out, flattening a rumpled fold in the blanket with her palm, then lingering there a moment too long. “Though I might’ve overstepped,” she added, quieter. “Fell asleep waiting, and now look at it. Didn’t plan on settling in quite so… comfortably.”

She tipped her head, grey eyes catching the light with a hint of mischief. Her arms fell away from her chest, one hand flicking toward the tangled furs on the bed. “I used to sing you and Robb to sleep,” she said lightly. “Every night. Lullabies, little songs. Tucking you in like I was born to it.”

Jon blinked. The memory slid away the moment he reached for it, leaving only gaps and secondhand echoes—Old Nan’s voice by the fire, the creak of the keep settling after dark. Maybe Theona had done it once or twice, filling in when Nan was elsewhere. He folded his arms, mirroring her posture, his tone flattening as he repeated her words. “You sang Robb and me to sleep every night.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question. The edge in his voice carried its own answer. Yet beneath it, something stirred. Warmth spread through his chest, quiet and insistent, threading itself into thought before he could pull away.

The room slipped. Another took its place. Small beds set side by side. Theona, younger, leaning over them with a candle cupped in her hand. Her accent softened as she sang, the sharpness worn smooth by repetition. Night followed night—her voice, the smell of wool and smoke, the hush that came after the song ended. The memory settled in with a certainty that hadn’t been there before, written deep enough to feel old.

Theona’s face eased, the sharpness melting out of it as she closed the distance between them. Her fingers slid into his hair, tousling it with a familiarity earned long ago. It wasn’t a careless touch. It carried the weight of scraped knees cleaned at the hearth and whispered comforts after bad dreams. Her hand stayed there, warm, steady, grounding.

“You’ve let a few things slip, haven’t you?” she said gently. “All those nights I sang you quiet.” Her thumb brushed his temple, thoughtful rather than teasing. “Easy to lose track of them, with everything else rattling around in your head.”

She studied him, head tipped slightly, concern softening the corners of her eyes. “Want help sleeping tonight?” The question came without pressure, offered the way one offers a familiar routine. “For old times sake?”

Jon scowled, the reflex sharp and immediate. The familiarity of the gesture sat wrong on him, close and unguarded in a way he wasn’t used to. He shifted under it, unsettled by how natural it felt to her. The irony didn’t escape him—his own words had set this in motion, turning something distant and half-joked into a present truth he didn’t know how to carry.