He will fix her (oath version)

Jon’s thumb rested against the warped edge of her cheek, the place where smooth skin should have met him instead of the melted ridge Gregor had left behind.

When he spoke, the snow-muted world nearly swallowed his voice.

“If I could mend it,” he said, the words dragging rough in his throat, “erase what he did and give you back the face you should’ve had… would you want that?”

Sandra’s breath hitched.

The intact side of her face twitched; the ruined half stayed rigid, unmoving, as if it refused to join the conversation.

She held his gaze for a long, unguarded moment, her clouded eye catching the starlight with a dull, moonlike sheen.

Her shoulders lifted once—sharp, involuntary—like the question had struck something deep.

Then she gave a small nod, hesitant, almost guilty.

“Yes.” The sound scraped out of her, thin and raw. “Gods help me… yes.”

That was all Jon needed. His voice dropped into a steady, unyielding register. “Then speak the oath. Promise your loyalty—absolute, without escape. Promise your love, your devotion. Tell me you are mine, in body, heart, in soul and every breath you draw, until your final day and beyond.”

Jon felt Sandra tremble, the shiver running through her like a fault line under strain. The struggle inside her was almost palpable—pride pulling one direction, something far older and more wounded pulling the other, the echo of fire still lodged beneath her scars.

It was Sandra’s knees that weakened first. She sank slowly into the snow, her white cloak spreading in a wide, uneven pool around her. She bowed her head, and the ruined edge of her cheek brushed the fur lining Jon’s collar.

“I swear it,” Sandra said. The words cracked but didn’t falter. “By the old gods and the new, by steel and fire and the Stranger’s own hand—I am yours, Jon Snow. My sword, my life, my love. All of it. Forever.”

The words left her mouth and the night itself seemed to listen.

A low surge of heat pushed out from Jon’s chest and traveled down his arm, gathering in his hand where it rested against Sandra’s neck. The warmth wasn’t dramatic—no blaze, no crack of power—just a steady, sunlike pulse that soaked into her skin.

Sandra drew in a sharp breath.

The scars responded.

The stiff, glossy skin began to ease, colour rising beneath it in slow, steady waves. The warped edge of her mouth shifted back into place; the ruined ear reshaped itself, unfolding with careful precision. Ridges of old burn tissue receded, settling into pale, thin traces that caught the lantern light the way frost clings to steel.

Within moments the damage had vanished. In its place emerged a face sharpened by strength and striking in its symmetry—high cheekbones, full steady mouth, one eye dark and watchful, the other clear and storm-grey.

She touched her cheek once, fingers trembling against skin that had no right to be this smooth.

A single, ragged sound tore loose from her chest.

Jon hauled her in by the cloak, armour clanging against his chest.

The impact drove the air from both of them.

She shook once, hard, like something inside her snapped free, then froze, knuckles white in the wolf-fur at his collar.

Her breath came hot against his throat.

Then she moved.

Her mouth crashed into his, clumsy with shock and starving for it.

Lips softer than any sword-hand had earned, teeth scraping, tongue demanding. Sandra kissed Jon fiercely and clumsily, all teeth and need, lips too soft for the height and muscle that loomed over him.

One gloved hand locked around the back of his neck, fingers spanning half his skull. The other seized the front of his cloak and hauled him up, hard, until his boots scraped snow and he rose onto the balls of his feet. White enamel ground against his chest; two heartbeats slammed against each other through steel and leather, close enough to bruise.

Jon gripped her cloak harder, rose to meet her, and kissed her back like a man taking something he’d already paid for in blood.

The lantern above swung wild, spilling gold across a face no fire had ever touched.

When they broke apart, foreheads still pressed together, breath sawing in the frozen air, she looked like ruin reborn into something unstoppable.

“I am yours,” she rasped, the words scraped raw and unbreakable. “Always.”

Jon’s smirk curved slow and private as his gaze slid to Jocelyn.

She stood locked in the same breath she’d taken when he’d frozen her: arms half-raised, lips parted, eyes wide with the last flicker of alarm. Snowflakes melted untouched on her lashes.

“You may move,” he said, soft as a secret.

The spell snapped.

Jocelyn crossed the narrow space in three furious strides, boots crunching frost, cloak flaring behind her like a banner of war.

She seized the front of his tunic with both fists, yanked him down, and crushed her mouth to his.

There was nothing tentative in it.

Her lips were cold from the night air, then suddenly burning; she kissed him like she meant to brand him, teeth scraping his lower lip, tongue sliding past his guard to claim every inch she could reach.

One hand twisted tighter in the wool at his chest, anchoring him; the other speared into his hair, nails raking his scalp hard enough to spark heat down his spine.

She pressed the whole length of her body against him (steel, leather, and the soft give of curves), swallowing the small, startled sound he made.

When she finally pulled back an inch, her breath came hot against his mouth, eyes glittering like chipped flint.

“You chose to walked passed me,” she said, voice low and edged, “like some discarded cloak while you walked passed me and up to my Sworn Shield. Next time you slip away, you take me, or you damn well look at me first.”

She rose onto the balls of her feet, slow and deliberate, erasing the last sliver of night between them. Her mouth found his again, softer now, but no less claiming. Lips parted on a breath; her tongue slid along the inside of his lower lip, tasting, lingering, then pressed deeper (warm wine, steel, and the faint bite of winter air). She drew the kiss out until his pulse hammered against her palm, until the yard spun down to nothing but the slick heat of her mouth and the scrape of her teeth when she finally pulled away a fraction.

Her eyes locked on his, fierce in the half-light.

“I come first,” she whispered, the words brushing his lips like a brand. “Before anyone. Sworn shield or no. Say it.”

Jon’s hands settled at her waist, thumbs tracing the cold metal of her sword-belt buckles. The taste of her lingered (snow, spiced wine, and something sharper that belonged only to her).

Jon didn’t speak.

He answered by closing the distance again, harder this time, claiming her mouth with a kiss that left no space for questions. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, tilting her head exactly where he wanted it. He took his time, tongue stroking against hers in slow, deliberate possession, until her breath hitched and her body melted against him.

When he drew back, just far enough for the cold to rush between them, he rested his forehead against hers.

The last of the fight bled out of Jocelyn on a soft sigh. Her shoulders eased; her hands, still fisted in his tunic, loosened into something gentler, almost reverent. She stayed there, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, pacified and waiting.